By Benjamin Jones, Vandalia, Ohio, originally from Wallins Creek in Harlan County
Exploring the Appalachian Mountains and playing along the cool streams was my favorite pastime as a boy. There was Wallins Creek, which also was the name of a town. Little Creek and Jones Creek were in the same valley. No matter which mountain we went up—and we had them all around us—you had to cross a creek, and there were favorite places to cross. My favorite was the swinging bridge that took me up to Joe Love Mountain. If you go far enough toward the source of the creeks, you can find spots to easily jump across.
The creek that ran through Wallins held so many treasures. I loved the creek because it was always such an adventure, but it was beginning to become polluted when I was young. There were a few sewer lines, and several outdoor toilets dumped into the creek.
The creek was cleaner closer to its source, which is where I spent most of my time. There were times of the year when it got nasty, such as in the dog days of summer in late August, when it gets so hot.
The water level went down, and you could see various pools. There was a lot of movement in the creek. Upstream, we dammed certain parts to make swimming holes deep enough to swim.
There were plenty of bass, sunfish, hog suckers and lots of minnows, plus crawdads and grampuses. And then there were a few catfish. The creek also had its share of frogs and snakes. I caught a lot of fish from the creek and always took them home to clean. Mom fixed the bass and sunfish but would not let us eat the catfish or hog suckers. She called them bottom feeders.
I loved going up on what was called Daniel Mountain because it was one of those mountains you climb up and then it flattened out at the top. You could go on and on and just discover all kinds of Appalachian wonders.
I found places that I don’t think anybody else really ever bothered to check out, or if they ever did, they never really explored them with any great energy the way I did.
I knew where all the best nut trees were. I knew where you could go get beechnuts, where you could gather worm-free shag hickory nuts and good black walnuts—all those types of nuts that you could take home, trade for marbles or comic books, or give to neighbors.
I sat out on the steps for hours with a hammer and cracked the nuts and “outen” the meats with a hair pin. I enjoyed that process because I knew Mom would make the most wonderful cakes, pies and candy with the nuts.
They say my mother was the only woman in Wallins Creek who sprinkled nuts on top of her fruit pies and cakes. She put nuts in the cake batter and then sprinkled them on top of delicious icings that she made from scratch.
Mom also made special candy with the nuts. My favorite was peanut butter roll. The best was when she sprinkled hickory or walnut crumbles on the outside. Her fudge also was a special treat. Whether it was chocolate or peanut butter fudge, she always sprinkled in hickory nuts, walnuts or beechnuts.
She always appreciated the nuts I brought home because that was something she did not need to tend to. Lord knows she had enough on her hands. I knew the best times of year to go into the mountains to gather the nuts. This is something I learned on my own. And my gathering was not limited to nuts.
I knew the best times and places to gather wild berries, pawpaws, persimmons, mushrooms, poke salad, sassafras root and a few other choice wild edibles. Aside from knowing where and when to pick these mountain treasures, the real secret to getting the best was to go inside the bush, tree or grove. I had to lift up the branches and leaves and push away the brush to reveal the best because they were often hidden from the naked eye.
There are a couple of mountain experiences of which I have vivid memories. I always liked being up there alone because I rarely followed the trails. I liked going into the out-of-the-way places and followed my instincts. Once, I followed a game path I had never taken before and found a small hidden cave. It turned out to be an interesting cave that was very cool inside. About 20 feet back from the entrance was a small pool of water. I tried finding the water source, because it was standing and not draining off anyplace. After some poking around and digging, I discovered a trickle coming from between two layers of rock and a pebble patch that drained it. Each time I visited this cave, the water was crystal clear and so cold and refreshing.
Rarely did I ever see anything in the cave but a few small animal tracks, so the cave became my main water source. There were no signs that people had been in it before. I found no artifacts or any such thing, but it was quite exciting to be in the cave. The entrance was well hidden off to the side of an overhanging rock that wasn’t easily noticeable because it was hidden by lots of brush and brambles.
I ended up storing stuff there, such as a cache of wood for small fires, a jar of peanut butter and a couple other jars filled with beechnuts, along with a few packs of grape Kool-Aid. It was one of my “secret” places I never told anyone about.
Mom knew I was always looking for jars with lids, so she saved the ones she did not need for me. Somehow, I am sure she knew what I used them for.
You might say I was a collector. I built five or six grass huts up on James L. Howard Mountain. I stashed jars of carbide, nuts, flints, marbles, berries, water, Kool-Aid and various other “stuff” in those huts. I made them just big enough that I could crawl in through a small opening in the front. They sort of looked like igloos. Sometimes, I just crawled in one and took a nap.
It was always fun to spend time in those mountains. I did not mind taking someone with me. Occasionally, I invited a cousin or somebody who might be visiting us to go along.
I was 12 when mother decided to move us to Ohio. We moved in July 1955, and I had my 13th birthday the next month. I became a teenager in Ohio.
I will never forget the day I learned we were leaving Wallins Creek and the Appalachian Mountains. I thought about running away and becoming one of those boys who are raised by animals and discovered by explorers.
I was memorizing the smell of damp laurel and the way the creek sounded like low laughter over the sandstone rocks. To me, the mountains weren’t just scenery; they were more like a cathedral.
Instead of running away, I decided to take one last trip up to my secret cave and retrieve some of my trinkets—particularly the brightly colored sandstone that I always held in both hands when praying and wishing for something.
Mother knew I spent the morning saying goodbye to the mountains and the ancient, moss-covered shores of Wallins and Little creeks. It was worse than leaving my friends.
“It’s better in Ohio,” she said and then listed the reasons on her worn fingers. “We’ll have a house with indoor plumbing and running water. No more chopping kindling and carrying coal. You’ll get a better education. You’ll still play sports and make new friends.”
“I don’t want any of that stuff,” I said. “I prefer the mountains. I want the wind. I want the smells. If I leave, the mountains won’t know me if I ever come back”.
“The mountains don’t forget their own,” she promised, though her eyes were wet.
Mom, my kid brother, two sisters and I gathered up our stuff and crammed it in my older brother’s new Chevrolet van, then we started the long trip to Kettering, Ohio.
I watched out the window as we left the protective canopy of the Appalachian Mountains. Within seven hours, we crossed the Ohio River, and Kentucky gave way to the flat, gray horizons of industrialized Ohio. When we reached Kettering, the air smelled of grease, oil and burning rubber instead of the pine and woodsmoke that permeated Wallins Creek.
That night, lying on a thin mattress in a small crowded room of my brother’s large house, I closed my eyes, reached into my bag, and pulled out a smooth, creek-worn stone I had found in the creek I spent so much time exploring.
I squeezed it tightly, feeling the warm heart of the Appalachian Mountains in my palm, and dreamed about the day I could follow the birds back home to Appalachia.
I dreamed about the great mountains and how they gave us so many opportunities to explore and experience nature. We all have an innate need to commune with the earth, the skies and the water. The place we left in the Appalachian Mountains was the best there ever was.
This year, I will be 84, living proof that people born in the Appalachia, Mountains never ever forget who they are or where they come from.
I have traveled all over the world, lived in New York City, served three tours in Southeast Asia, went to college, played basketball and baseball, started and sold three businesses, written several books, married a wonderful Northern farm girl, have two great children and five incredible grandchildren. Every day, as much as I missed living in the great Appalachia Mountains, I am thankful and grateful for my mother’s wisdom.
So, wherever you live and whatever your age, it is always a good time to visit a mountain. I thank God for letting me spend as much time as I did in the mountains of Southeastern Kentucky.