PICTURED BLUFFS ON NEW RIVER, WEST VIRGINIA.—These bluffs derive their name from their close resemblance to the Pictured Rocks of Lake Superior, and there is a very striking similarity between the general appearance and characteristics of the two localities, as all who are familiar with these famous scenic regions will admit. New River has its source in the picturesque Blue Ridge Mountains, flowing thence northwesterly to its junction with the Kanawha, and embracing in its course a wide diversity of some of the grandest and most beautiful scenery in the world.
THE OLD MAN’S FACE, NEAR ASHEVILLE.
From the pleasant vales about Galbraith the route was south to Morristown, and thence southeast along the valley of the French Broad River, through Unaka Pass of the Great Smoky Mountains, to North Carolina. Many writers have exhausted the dictionary of adjectives in describing the romantic beauties of the French Broad, but the stream, and its intervales, bedighted with marvelous cliffs, continues as nature made it, beyond the power of description. The course of this lovely stream cuts through the charming hills about Asheville and pours its crystal waters through a narrow gorge until it passes the blockade of the Smoky Mountains. In this space of forty miles the French Broad is indeed a “racing river,” to which the Cherokees applied the name Tahkecostee, which has that significance, for it is impetuous, torrential, terrific. From a gentle stream above Asheville, by the contraction of its banks below, the river becomes angry, and the roar of cataract as it rushes over opposing bowlders fills the air with noise like thunder. At Stack House the current dashes over a fall twenty feet high, and at Mountain Island it makes another leap and then becomes a noisy rapid to a point known as “Deep Water.” Here the mountains close in upon the river, forcing it through a narrow channel only one hundred and fifty feet wide and forty feet deep. The railroad to reach the opposite bank, crosses the river diagonally by an iron bridge, with a clear span of two hundred and sixty feet, squeezing itself, as it were, around the rocky face of the mountain on the right bank, to be received with the same grudging hospitality by the hard face of the left bank, and twists itself by a very short curve into line, which in a very few minutes brings it into the beautiful, smiling valley of Hot Springs.
No one has ever been able to convey a just idea of the remarkable magnificence of this wonderful cañon, with its wild and ceaseless splendor of tumultuous waters, its overhanging cliffs, its noble mountains and fairy islets. In the time of stage-coaching it was an experience never to be forgotten—the day’s journey from Asheville to the Warm Springs, along the turnpike which followed the old Indian trail and lay between the river and the cliffs, hemmed in by the whirling emerald waters of the first and overhung by the fern-draped escarpments of the last, with vistas of wild and yet wilder beauty opening at every step.
Paint Rock is six miles below Hot Springs, and directly on the line between North Carolina and Tennessee. The rock itself is massive in size and would attract attention, if not admiration, aside from the legends which make it famous. The name Paint Rock is given to perpetuate a tradition that the Cherokee Indians colored portions of it with an indelible paint, and in the form of hieroglyphics which no one has been able to decipher, though the legend represents that it is the tribe’s prayer to the Great Spirit; and being approved, ages will not suffice to efface it. Twenty miles east of Asheville is Round Knob, on the line of the Western North Carolina Railroad and nestled in the very heart of the Blue Ridge Mountains, where the scenery surpasses in wildness and sublimity that of any other section of the State. It is a basin so completely shut in by lofty peaks, that if a person were dropped into it without knowing the point of entrance, he would find difficulty in escaping. A brawling mountain stream rushes by, in whose crystal waters bask the speckled trout to tempt the angler, while near the hotel is to be seen one of the most beautiful spectacles in the world—a magnificent fountain that throws its spray two hundred and eighty-six feet high, then like a bridal veil floats off in misty fragments. It is beautiful by day, but far more beautiful in the moonlight, as it throws its sparkling vapor high in the air, giving to the scene a weird enchantment.
A VIEW OF THE FRENCH BROAD RIVER ABOVE ASHEVILLE.—Many writers have exhausted the dictionary of adjectives in describing the romantic beauties of the French Broad River, but the stream and its intervals, bedighted with marvelous cliffs, continues, as Nature made it, beyond the power of description. In its course northward this lovely stream cuts through the charming hills about Asheville, and pours its crystal waters through a narrow gorge until it passes the blockade of the Smoky Mountains. In this space of forty miles it is indeed a “racing river,” which is signified by its Cherokee name of Tahkecostee. From a gentle stream above Asheville, it becomes an angry, raging flood below that point as it dashes through mountain gorges and over opposing boulders with a roar like thunder.