In the Shadow of Clinch Mountain

Carter Fold. May 10th. 2008. With Flo Wolfe. (The eldest living grandchild of the original Carter Family. John Carter Cash is the youngest).

Okay. I'm new at this blogging. The following entry is meant to be earlier in the chronology of my trip. It takes place right after 'The Gravel Road to Nashville' and right before 'Country Darkness'. The original entry was accidentally erased, and this one, in its stead is as close as I can remember. Sorry for the non sequiter.

Day I. May 10th, 2008. The Carter Fold.



"Music can change the world because it can change people."-Bono


"When the springtime comes on the mountain
And the wildflowers scattered o'er the plain
I shall watch for the leaves to return to their trees
And I'll be waiting when the springtime comes again


Yodel-ay-ee, ah-lee-oh-lay-ee
Ah-lee-oh-lay-ee-hee-oh-lay-ee"
'Little Annie'
(When the Springtime Comes Again)-Carter Family


Check the oil, kick the tires, fresh batteries for the cd player....and I'm off.
I left my home in South Philadelphia around 1pm, today.
Highway 95 South...pass Baltimore....pass DC....to route 68....to route 81....
the sky turns bluer...grass greener...and the hills begin to roll...
Soon, I was in the heart of the Shenandoah Mountains, passing the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. This is the Wilderness Road. The route Daniel Boone forged on his way to Virginia. Once a great trade route where furs and tobacco came carried by Indians and settlers. The songs in these hills, and their melodic lilts survived the tumult of generations upon generations. Irish and Scots-Irish, crossed the Atlantic...then crossed Appalachia...to become moonshiners and mountain men. Ministers and tobacco farmers in the wide blue-green expanse between Pennsylvania and Tennessee. I'm headed to Carter Country. And on this mountain highway lined with Pines, I can hear the songs of settlers in my mind...'Oh, Shenandoah, I long to see you...' I know why the writer of that old folk ballad 'longed to see' her. I take off my sunglasses and its green so green it almost hurts the eyes. I haven't seen hills this color since I was on the West Coast of County Kerry, Ireland.


Fireworks stands and truck stops are advertised every twenty or thirty miles. Why is the North so mamby-pamby when it comes to illegal fireworks?, I think to myself, and make subconscious plans to stock up by the garbage-bag full on my way back home.
The shadows cast by the mountains stretch longer until the ancient cliffs swallow the sun altogether. I am now in the shadow of Clinch Mountain; the land of the Carter Family.


John Carter told me I oughta stop in on his family at the Carter Family Fold, in Maces Springs, VA. Just a few miles from Hiltons, VA. Its about 20 miles, I reckon, from Bristol, VA/TN. Bristol has a history all unto itself...involving the Carter Family, Jimmie Rodgers, and the birth of country music. We're a long long way from Shania Twain and Toby Kieth, here in Clinch Mountain. And that is fine by me.
I find the road I was told leads to the Carter Fold in Maces Springs. Its a thin serpentine mountain pass, traversing and winding all through the thickly forested hills leading to Clinch Mountain. Its dark now, but through the misted woods I see ranch houses and log cabins...road signs reading, "Boozy Creek Road" and "Church Road". Its getting jet black dark out here...and I love it. Every several miles the soft glow of headlights come fuzzily through the mist around a bend, reminding me that I might be going the right way...or at least that some one lives somewhere up this road, shrouded by clefts. There's the sign: "The Crooked Road", it reads. I know that this is the term for the "road" that AP Carter traveled, collecting the folk songs of this region. I don't think it was a physical 'road', but more of a life's path. We can thank AP Carter for the dawn of recorded music, for the over 300 Appalachian folk songs that he, his wife Sarah, and her cousin Maybelle recorded / wrote, and adapted. We can thank them for that famous picking style that you'd recognize if you hear it. The Carter family looms large, some would say 'the largest' in the great landscape of American music. And here I am, on pilgrimage to their backyard.


"The Carter Fold" the little green sign says, with a tiny white arrow pointing right. Its almost as if they want their visitors to really, really, want to find them...cause you wouldn't know its back here. AP Carter Highway stretches out in front of me. When I say highway, I mean barely two lanes with no white lines down the center, surrounded by lush vegetation and a ranch house or cabin every couple miles.
Feel like I've been driving for hours since I got off the main highway (81), but really its more like I've driven about a century back in time.


Lights flicker up over the ridge. Coming into sight now, I see pick-up trucks and cars lined up for well over half-a mile. The glow of a large wooden construction. My windows are down, and on the wind, I hear the unmistakable sound of blue grass music. The banjo twang signifies to me, that I am here. Clinch Mountain...the Carter Family...This is where it all began!


I'm greeted by a large old black dog at the driver's side of my car. Before I can get out the vehicle, his huge brown eyes meet mine. I hear the slap sound of the upright bass coming from inside the building, and feel my face stretch into a smile.
John Carter told me to look for a woman named Flo Wolfe. The oldest living grandchild of the original Carter Family. Walking into this room full of mountain folk dancing, talking, and eating, I get the mystifying feeling that I've walked into something sacred. I'd take off my boots if I didn't think I'd get glares from the locals. Walking up to the t-shirt vending stand, I ask the kind-faced elderly woman behind the counter if her name is Flo. "Yes, I'm Flo, and who are you?" she invitingly smiles. "My name is John Francis" as we shake hands. "John Carter sent me." She is still holding onto my hand...and holds on tight to it for the duration of our conversation. I tell her that I'm headed to Hendersonville to make a record with Mr.Cash, and he told me to stop in and say, 'Hi'. And see, with my own eyes, Clinch Mountain and the Carter traditions. Scanning the room, I see relics of old Carter Family heirlooms, a piano and Bible, a letter from Janette Carter, photos of Maybelle and Helen, Johnny and June. Folks in these parts do a traditional dance. I've heard it called 'flat-footing' and 'Appalachian Mountain dancing'. I don't ask what its called, but lots of people here are doing it. There are taps on the bottoms of their dancing boots, making a rhythmic sound on the hard wood floor. This place seats about 300, and Flo tells me that it used to be an old General Store, owned by AP. When he was dying, he told Janette, his daughter, to keep the Carter music alive. And Alive it is. Flo welcomed me with open arms. I stay until the old-time blue grass band's finale and the place clears out. I'm not through with Clinch Mountain yet, or maybe, its the other way around. Clinch Mountain ain't through with me.