PREQUEL to BLURRY MOUNTAIN: “THE UNSETTLING”
© 2026 Donald Whelpley
CHAPTER SIX. THE BEAR WENT OVER THE MOUNTAIN.
The family had never seen such glorious sunrises on the island, but in western North Carolina they were treated to them often. Nearly cloudless mornings with a light breeze and the eastern sky full of pinks, blues, and purples just as the sun rose. They would often stop and break out in song. Not just hymns, but common melodies from the homeland, too. They yearned for home, but they never saw such beauty in the sky there. They also never saw true mountains on the island. There were hillocks and rises, stream valleys, and marshes which never dried out … but nothing majestic and forceful like the Blue Ridge Mountain chain that now was ever before them.
Several farmers they had met had voiced a desire to go over those mountain passes into the frontier beyond. Grigor was kind. He often invited them to “Look for us in the mountains. Pray for us.”
When they arrived at Asheville they had the wagon wheels and brake replaced (in fact they had an extra brake built for safety as a broken brake when going down slope could be tragic). To pay for the upgrades they traded several items. They certainly would not want to have wagon trouble in the mountain passes. Grigor still had a few extra hand tools he needed to sell and he found a good home for most.
From Asheville they headed west to be base of the well worn wagon trail. From thence they would edge carefully over the mountains toward Tennessee. Along the track through the river valleys Grigor reviewed every item in the wagon to find what they could safely eliminate. Tomos had a collection of rocks. They wouldn’t make the trip. There were bound to be rocks where they were headed. They had stowed the old canvas tarp “in case” they needed some of it for a patch. Indeed, some had been used to make canvas bags. The remainder would have to go. He asked his wife to plan the food they would need until they came to settled land on the other side. They would wear their coats if necessary. Every ounce mattered. They also traded the draft horses for two pair of strong oxen. Power, not speed, was the goal.
During these gentle days he allowed the animals to move slower, and rested them often. They needed to be in top shape. He would need oats and hay for them to eat in the higher elevations, as they were told there was little forage even at the stops. The trail was deeply rutted and difficult. A couple times they had to use the abundant rope they carried with a compound pulley to winch the wagon out of the ruts or mire. Then, they found as well that there there seldom were places to pull off the trail. When there was a pull off, there was space for the wagon and oxen if they did not have a fire. On the other side of the gap there was a place or two where they used the rope and pulley to ease the pressure on the oxen and brake to keep the wagon from going too fast. You do what is best at the moment. The family wore backpacks and carried blankets and a few other items. Grigor did that, plus he carried the rifle.
Early in the climb the wagon cover was removed and stowed and the wooden supports removed so they would not get tangled in low-lying tree limbs. They took it slow and easy, choosing safety over personal comfort. In the end it was sufficient. Twice they saw the splintered wrecks of wagons in various stages of rot where they had fallen over some precipice.
Once over the peaks the camping areas were large enough to cook meals again without frightening the oxen. Then the trail straightened, grew wider and had fewer ruts. They still had to cross not a few fast-moving streams. Thankfully most were lined with larger stones and boulders to show the crossing. Most of the time everyone had to ride because the current could easily carry a man downstream and even in late-summer the water was cold.
Mr Hughes took off to hunt with his rifle, leaving his wife to drive the wagon. They were low on meat by now, so venison would be a nice addition. About an hour after she stopped for the day and a fire was going, he showed up with a couple rabbits. Ah well! At least they would have a nice meal. Two rabbits doesn’t sound like much, but Branwyn was a superb cook and with the potatoes and pan bread there was more than enough. Unfortunately, the pelts were fairly ruined. He would learn to do better.
Less than a week later they pulled into a small village called Fairgarden. The first real village they had seen in weeks. There was no place in the Old World where you could travel so far without seeing a town or city.
The village wasn’t large. 24 houses, a small store next to one of them and a log church. The church was also used for civic meetings and government (that is, where decisions were made). Behind the church was a small, but growing, cemetery with wooden memorials (some already rotting away). It was clear that there were no wealthy land barons here. The roads weren’t well kept. The main track was rutted. It didn’t look like “home” to the Hughes family. It did, however, look good enough to stay for a while…maybe until next spring if they could find a place to live. Mr Hughes was at a loss because no one there spoke Welsh, nor did he speak Tennessee English. Even his wife had a time trying to get the gist of some of the oddities of the village. It appeared that most there belonged to two or three clans. They got along.
One morning, after a couple nights in the wagon and tent, a man came to see them. He introduced himself as Johnnie Sikes. Mrs Hughes translated for her husband. “We’s no problam wid ya’ll campin here,” he began. “If’n yous are plannin on homing there’s a shack as what ken be rented o’er Peter’s hill.”
The Hughes made it clear they were tired of traveling and might want to stay until at least the following spring. They got directions and hiked over to the property. “Shack” was not even close. It was a poor excuse for a large shed. But, with a wood stove, it likely was better than living in the wagon and tent over winter, they supposed.
NOTE: PART II: “Resettling” hasn’t been written yet. I have some other projects that have been put on hold and which I must complete first. One being “The Song at Mossy Gap” (a full love story, book length, which is 2/3 finished) Mossy Gap exists in eastern Kentucky. Then there’s a short story “Thrice Triced Heist” which needs a better ending and “The House of the Man” which deserves all the attention I can give it (a wonderful theme for that one).
So, you may have to wait a bit to read “Resettling.” Keep watching.
Copyright 2026 Donald Whelpley
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