Secrets of the Great Thicket Spur Many people reared in the hills the first half of the twentieth century were forced to move from their home environment and the people they loved so dearly and trusted so deeply. They were required to go find jobs and employment in surrounding states with big cities and industry. Their dreams were continuous and ever present. Yet, they all wanted to go back home. I left as a young man and as the others I know I longed and dreamed of living back home. So, when I got the opportunity to retire I went home. I had accumulated a nest egg big enough to buy property. The home that I purchased and paid for over the forty some odd years had become worth a goodly sum. I came back to my home community for a couple of weeks, visiting, with intentions of buying property and living out the rest of my life in the old home area for which I had yearned so long. The community had changed so much that it was hard to recognize many of the places I had remembered from my youth. New roads, new and different homes, yet, the people were folks that were children and young when I left. One of my younger cousins had a fine home and invited me to spend some time with him and his family. He had worked in the coal business and was very successful. That afternoon he asked me to ride with him to look at some of his real estate and his herd of cattle. I was pleased to have the opportunity to get out and look around. We rode in his pick-up truck for a mile or two. We finally went up a hollow after looking at some of his rental properties. He told me to pick out a place if I found one of interest. I had not recognized the hollow that he was driving through until once we reached the top of the hill he looked at me and laughed. “Do you recognize where you are?” he asked. I looked around. The top of the hill had been removed and was level. I answered, “No, I have no idea”. All I could focus on was the fact that I could see for at least a mile or two. “This is what is left of what we knew as the Great Thicket Spur” he explained, “and that is what they called the Hog Woller” as he pointed ahead. “Sure looks a lot different than the last time I was here” “We’ll drive on out and look at the cattle” “How big of an area is this?” I asked. “A little over eleven hundred acres; flat as a pancake and I own it all” he smiled. “How many cattle do you have in here?” “Three hundred and a few more” By then the cattle had come and gathered around the pick-up truck. They were used to getting fed from the truck. After driving farther and looking the place over recalling how it had been in the past, we started back to the gate as the cattle were following and bellowing while they ran to keep up with the truck. There was a horrendous sound that kept coming over the sound of the herd. I recalled the last time I had been there and hearing that same sound. “That old bull makes a hellish sound,” remarked my cousin. “It certainly does,” I answered. When we left the pasture area and headed back down the hollow, I recalled the last time I was there in detail. My memory went back to my teenage years. It was the summer I turned sixteen years old. The months July and August were the time of the year that the gardens were harvested and berries were picked all in preparation for the coming winter. When we had time from regular chores, we would fish, hunt and dig herbs. Ginseng was the herb that brought the most money; therefore, was the most sought after plant. In those times, a day’s labor or ten to twelve hours work was one or two dollars. Ginseng would sell for around sixteen dollars a pound. So with good luck you could make more money digging herbs than you could make working in the fields. While digging ginseng I had crossed the hill from the creek where I lived toward the river. The first day I had dug and filled nearly all my pockets full of ginseng roots worth probably ten dollars. So the next day I went back where I had turned back. The second day I filled all of my pockets, pulled off my shirt and tied it up full of “seng”. The second day’s take was probably worth twenty to thirty dollars. As a result I planned for the third day and left early the next morning to continue the bonanza. The third day continued my bounty but led to my rude awakening. In mid afternoon the third day I discovered that I had crossed the ridge and had emerged on the river as I could hear people talking, laughing and enjoying the day. When I got to the location of where the people were, I recognized the country store which was four to five miles from my home. Being very thirsty I decided to get a soda pop. So I went across the river to the country store. There were twenty or thirty people standing and sitting around outside the store and I knew all of them. Uncle John, an old fellow from up a creek that flowed into the river but headed up just across the hill from where I lived, engaged me in conversation. “Whose boy are you?” he asked. When I told him he wanted to know how I got there. I pointed up at the long high point and ridge line. “Do you know where that is?” he inquired. “Not really” I replied. “Son, that is The Great Thicket Spur. If I were you I would find another way to cross the hill.” “I will” I appeased him. The fellow operating the store nodded for me to come to him. When I went over he told me, “Don’t pay any attention to Uncle John. That old man is crazy as hell.” I told the fellow that I would go down the railroad tracks a couple of miles to the next hollow that crossed to where I lived which was the way most people in the area traveled and that I would do this to satisfy Uncle John. The truth of the matter was I was afraid to go back the same way I had come. As I walked the four to five miles home, I recalled what my mother and grandmother had told me over the years. My grandmother told me that the devil, Satan himself, lived in the area from time to time. While I walked up the hollow and across the hill, I remembered how many times when we hunted we would “blow” the dogs back if they went into the area of the Great Thicket Spur. As a child, I really never knew any of the reasons why. My father told me later that there was a passage way between the river and the creek, that the creek lay north of the river and that the folks on the river had fought with the U.S. Army while the folks in the next two valleys had fought for the Confederacy. He explained to me that the whole area was settled in the 1770’s by the same families, that they were then and are now “kin folks”, then that, after the war, though, they continued the disagreements with wide spread feuds. I had also heard some folks claim that it had been an Indian trail between the valleys. The next morning at dawn Burl from across the hill where Uncle John had raised his family and still lived wanted to speak to my father. “What is it Burl?” asked Dad. “Daddy wants to see you.” “What about?” Dad further inquired. “It’s Uncle John. He’s getting’ out day and night, walkin’ the road a-preachin’ and a-pointin’ at places where he says people ‘re buried. He’s ‘fessing ever’thang ‘n’ tellin’ ‘bout ever’body else. Daddy said t’ tell you all t’ come ‘n’ help wit’ ‘im t’day ‘n’ tonight.” Dad assigned all us boys chores to carry out for the day and left for a trip across the hill to help his neighbors. When every chore dad assigned us was completed he had not returned. My brothers, my cousins and I got together and headed across the hill to do whatever was needed to help with the situation. After a three mile hike, we arrived at Uncle John’s house. Most of the community folk, especially the men, were gathered there. Thirty to forty men were congregated together going in and out an out building or shed one at a time. “Yeah Uncle John is real sick and going to get worse,” cousin Gran remarked. As darkness neared the other boys and I were instructed to return home and take care of things back at home until the next morning. When the next morning came word spread that Uncle John had died during the night. Uncle John had raised his family the same place he lived then but had lived by himself for several years. He would not agree to leave his home and stay with any of his family or kin. Everyone seemed to agree that no one knew where any of his family lived. He had one son. All anyone knew about him was that he taught college at some university in Texas and nobody knew how to get in contact with him. With all the chores done for another day all the young people began congregating to cross the hill and go to Uncle John’s wake. When we arrived at his home place there were hundreds of people gathered. The preachers had begun services already, remembering Uncle John’s goodness and kindness as a friend and neighbor. There was food prepared and brought in and unbelievable abundance and it was spread out to eat as wanted. The wake lasted all night. Uncle John was buried in the family cemetery atop the point around one hundred and fifty yards above and behind his house. The funeral lasted way into the afternoon hours as there were more than a dozen preachers that spoke during the services. It was close to time for the shade to come over when we left to return home and not many folk had left. The next morning we completed our chores before breakfast. The milking of the cows and feeding of the farm animals were usually done before breakfast and breakfast was always served by daybreak. As we got seated around the table to eat, someone began calling for Dad from the path in front of our house. As Dad and a couple of us boys went to see who was calling, Mom and the girls watched from the house through the kitchen window. The caller was Burl, the same fellow who had told us about Uncle John. “What’s going on?” Dad asked. “It’s Uncle John’s boy. He came in from Texas and say’s he?’s gonna have Uncle John x-oomed.” “What the hell are you talkin’ about?” “He said ‘at he’s goin’ t’ town an’ getting’ papres so’s t’ have Uncle John dug up ‘n’ find out what caused ‘im t’ die. Says he’ll be back wt’ ‘e papers tomorr’. Daddy wants you all t’ send some fellors ‘n’ meet at the hog woller t’night ‘bout de edge o’ dark.” “What’s he need wit’ us?” “He says none of ‘em knows where de hell hole is and he ain’t able to go himself.” “Alright then,” answered Dad, “tell him we’ll be there just after dark.” The “Hog Woller” was an ever-flowing spring where hogs went when all the crops were gathered and stock were allowed to roam free and eat the mast that fell from the trees. They would both drink from the spring and cool off by wallowing in the mud. As it got well into the evening and dark began to fall, Uncle Saul and Cousin Gran came by the house and that is when they advised me I was to go with them and help. We went through the woods to the “hog woller” where we met up with three other fellows. The three had a large bundle wrapped in an old quilt. At this point I was clueless, totally unaware of what we were doing. “What is that?” I asked Cousin Gran. “That’s’ Uncle Saul and he’s headed fer the Hell Hole” he answered. “Who knows where we’re goin’?” one of the fellows inquired. “I do” responded Uncle Saul. The climb from the “Hog Woller” to the top of the ridge was probably seventy-five to one hundred feet nearly straight up and down and moving the bundle became a tremendous job requiring two men at a time and sometimes more. After reaching the top of the ridge line the task became much easier as the trail was level and clear. One man at a time could handle the bundle. After another hour or so Uncle Saul turned to the left and down a point just a short distance. “Stop right here,” he directed. “Move this brush and be careful.” Once the brush and large limbs were pulled back there appeared this huge hole in the earth. “Take a look at the hell hole,” Gran said. The “Hell Hole” was about ten or twelve feet long and three to four feet wide. Uncle Saul then directed, “Drop ‘im in there”. The clan became quiet. There was complete silence and a sudden pause when the two fellows carrying the bundle dropped it in the hole. I listened for the body to hit the bottom but I never heard a sound. “How deep is that hole?’” I asked. “Don’t know. Nobody’s ever come back out,” snickered Gran. Needless to say that by then I was completely scared. The night birds were calling from far to near. They were doing everything from screaming to moaning or so it sounded. Over the sounds of all others came this horrendous noise which seemed to emanate from everywhere. “There he is,” said Gran, “I was startin’ to wonder where he was.” The whole group became more compact as we got closer to each other walking back to the “Hog Woller” while that weird sound continued getting louder. When we left the ridge line back down to the bench below it appeared the sound was coming from up atop the ridge. Everyone was still grouped in a tight pack and it was time to split up and go our different directions when Uncle Saul spoke up, “Don’t worry he won’t come any farther.” I asked on the way back home how many bodies were in the “Hell Hole”. Gran said that he knew of four and Uncle Saul said that made nine that he knew of so far. Once we returned from looking over my cousin’s herd of cattle, I was glad and have not wished to nor do I ever want to return to “The Great Thicket Spur”.
Posted on: Sat, 27 Sep 2014 01:17:42 +0000
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