at the head of the Sugarlands

 

The Stone House

the stone house has pulled at me

since I first heard of it a decade ago,

up at the head of the Sugarlands

in the area where Big Branch

drops to the West Prong of the Little Pigeon River,

no Park Service trail leads to it,

we find specific directions through the magic of Google,

the first two and a half miles we follow established roads,

the last half mile we follow the trace of a lightly-used trail

which calls us up the valley,

sometimes the way only clear when we are adjacent to it,

finally we cross Big Branch,

a minimal stream this time of year,

and there the stone house asserts itself at the top of the ridge,

mortar-glued native river rock

holds shape of walls, doors, windows, chimney

for over 90 of the last years,

on the way to it various rock walls

speak of farmers clearing rocks out of the fields,

sometimes with gratuitous sharp edges of line and corner,

here at the stone house,

the workers defied entropy

and asserted will with stone,

most in this valley built walls with wood,

and even chestnut logs cannot endure for near a century,

elsewhere a few hearths and chimneys, mortar-less, endure,

at the stone house much of the owner's vision is still there,

here it's easier to reach back

and appreciate the humanity of they who built here,

enough metal of stove and tool is still there,

lovingly rescued from the forgetting

that leaves and downed trees rework upon the land,

stone and iron are like the artist's first sketch

that hints at the fullness a painting can achieve,

I love our time here at the stone house,

I love that I am still capable of the effort it took to get here,

I love even more how much it helps me 

make the empathic leap toward the past

when others appreciated these mountains

enough to build here, to live here,

to see and appreciate the fullness of their humanity

within the fullness that flora, fauna, and geology can create.

by Henry H. Walker

November 20, ‘23