‘THEY FOUND GOLD, WHERE?’

          Back in the spring of 1898, Mr. John D. Johns, a Whitfield County cotton farmer, had just taken a break from his plowing to tighten the heel screw on his plow, when he noticed something shiny on the plow point. Taking a closer look, he found what looked like…

Naw, it couldn’t be! But after a closer look, surely the thought must have crossed his mind, ‘what if it is though?' Of course, his next reaction was probably the same as yours or mine would have been… GOLD! Sudden and abundant wealth, no more want, no more worry, and, for dang sure, no more following along behind a contrary, stubborn old mule anymore. But then, just as quickly, common sense took hold of him again.

Naw, it can’t be, he told himself. More than likely, it’s just some of that there iron pyrite, what folks called ‘Fool’s Gold’. The 47-year-old bachelor then got back to the task at hand, and resumed his plowing, promising himself that one of these days, when he had more time; he’d look into it a mite further. Right now, though, he had work to get done, and daylight was a-wastin'.

Over the next several years, somethin’ always seemed to divert Mr. John’s attention from the find, until in the latter part of 1903, a Mr. Higgins, a former Lumpkin and White County miner, happened by the Johns’ farm and became ‘greatly excited’ by the ore he found lying around the field edges. Mr. John was persuaded to have some of the ore tested, and reportedly, the results found a richness that seemed incredulous, predicting that the value of the ore would run $2,000 per ton. That figure would be something like $85,000 per ton, in today’s market.

Mineral mining experts in nearby Chattanooga unhesitantly declared that Mr. John’s find was by far the richest that their eyes had ever beheld. They also believed the ore to be almost unlimited in quantity.

In no time, Mr. John had a trench opened up measuring some thirty-feet long, six-feet wide, and eight-feet deep. The ore from Mr. John’s mine was described as ‘simply dazzling’. Reports were that the ore got even richer the farther down into the vein was dug.

Then, just east of the gold lead, another vein was discovered, only this time it was of anthracite or ‘stone coal’. The coal found on Mr. Johns’ property was considered, at the time, to be as good quality as that which was being obtained from the mines, at Coal Creek, Tennessee, where the majority of the area’s coal was being shipped from at that time.



John D. Johns with his great-nephew George C. Wilson


           Not long after that, a third find was realized on the Johns’ place, this time of a superior quality of lead ore. John was hailed in area newspapers as being ‘veritably the possessor of a vast bonanza’.
           Mr. John’s finds had some of his neighbors lookin’ at their own properties in a whole new light, as well. Within two weeks, his close neighbor Bill Chambers was blasting on his place in search of a gold mine, and shortly after that, a second mine was operating a couple of miles to the west.

The total amount of gold taken from Mr. Johns’ trench mine is not known, nor is how long mining operations were actually conducted in the area. However, by April of 1904, there was open speculation in the North Georgia Citizen newspaper (precursor to today’s Daily Citizen News) on just how long the area’s gold boom would last. After that last reference, though, no further mention of the gold mines can be found in the local newspapers.

Now, a century later, what was once Mr. Johns’ cotton farm is now a mix of pastureland and residential housing with all traces of past mining operations having been effectively erased by the passage of time, and the incident has become just another piece of Cohutta, Georgia’s forgotten history.

‘JEWELS OF THE CONASAUGA’

A Redeye Coosa Bass

It’s a beautiful June day, mid-way in the week; sunny and warm, the temp in the mid-nineties. The river is up; the water gin clear. We’ve yet to even shove off in the canoe, its stern still sittin’ fast on the pebble beach. Keith wades into the strong flow, the water reachin’ waist-deep on him before he’s got within castin’ reach of the pocket of slack water on the far side of the river. To the left of the pocket, the river tumbles over a drop-off, and on the right, an eddy pulls back into it.

Keith tosses a black and chartreuse curly tail tube jig to the back of the pocket where it drops into the water, just this side of a submerged log. Immediately it’s taken. The hook-set, a short fight, and a 10-inch bass is brought to-hand; bright blue belly, blood-red eyes, it’s one of the ‘Jewels of the Conasauga’… a Redeye Coosa Bass!”

Keith with a nice Spotted Bass

Minutes later, we’re headed downstream. I steer as Keith prospects likely-lookin’ spots with an ultralight spinnin’ rod. Time and again a jig is danced at the base of exposed tree roots along the riverbank, the line tightens, a plunge for the depths, the rod checks it, and a shimmerin’ rainbow of color, a stunningly beautiful Bluegill is soon in-hand; with a twist, the little ‘gem’ falls free of the hook and back into the water; the canoe glides along.

Just below a partially submerged grass bed, I put the bow over, turnin’ back upstream. With a plop, the jig hits on the far side of the grass, and a fish slams it as it swims past. The rod bows deep, the drag sings as line peels off the reel. Its run checked, the fish leaps from the water, vigorously shakin’ its head, attemptin’ to throw the hook. Near the boat, the fish makes one last bid to escape, but he’s tired and is soon bein’ lifted from the water; it’s the second of the ‘Jewels of the Conasauga’… a hard-fightin’ Spotted Bass!

That’s a recount of just the first fifteen minutes on the river, last week, and it set the tone for the next six-plus hours, which resulted in a day of fantastic fishin’. With a combined total of over 100 fish caught, each a wonderful experience regardless of the species or its size; couple that with the privilege of floatin’ 7-miles of one of the most scenic rivers in this area, plus the enjoyable company of an old fishin’ buddy, and you’ve certainly found yourself a true ‘treasure’. The Conasauga River is undoubtably a 'jewel' itself.

‘STRESS-FREE RIVER-FISHIN’ FUN’

          No pagers or radios, lawnmowers or ball schedules… no keepin' the peace or ridin' the fire truck… just pure stress-free river-fishin’ fun.

Keith reels in a good Bluegill

          The best cure for the stress of everyday life that I know of is a day spent float-fishin’ the river, and on our days off durin’ the summer, my friend Keith (a professional Firefighter/First Responder, Rec League ball coach, umpire, and Daddy to two very active young boys) and I do exactly that every chance we can get. The river we fish is typical of the myriad of small rivers and creeks all across America. Clear and clean, it flows unrestricted through woods and farmlands; chock full of freshwater fish just waitin’ to be fished for.

Now, river-fishin’ ain’t one of them get-up-at-the-crack-of-dawn affairs. No... you can sleep-in a bit, ‘cause river fish are always feedin’, and midday generally brings some of the best action, unlike lake fishin’ where the fishin' is best early and late in the day. So, we usually get on the water sometime aroun’ 10:30 or 11 of a mornin’.

A nice 'Spot'

After castin’ off, it only takes a few minutes to get everything squared away, spare rods tucked safely away, tackle boxes within easy reach, and gettin’ our ‘balance’ back since the last trip. And then the ‘float’ begins…

We don’t go no more’n a few canoe lengths before I put us close-in on the first good fishy-lookin’ spot, and Keith drops a lure tight into the structure. Tap. Tap. Uhhh! He sets the hook on a nice pound and a half Spot (Spotted Bass) that jumps once in its futile fight to get away. Once brought to hand, he’s admired, maybe a quick pic taken, and then tossed back into the water to be caught another day. And that, my friends… is how most every trip of ours down the river starts.

          Our boat is a 1970’s model aluminum canoe, sportin’ a worn paint scheme of brown camouflage, a plastic cup holder in the bow, and a COLEMAN seatback laid-claim-to early on by Keith. This ol’ boat’s been down this stretch of river so many times over the past decade and a half, it could almost navigate it all on its own. Fairly quiet, easy-handlin’, and a whole lot faster than your ordinary johnboat, when it comes to the ‘perfect’ riverboat… this is about the closest we’ve found.

We float the long pools, some deep and some not-so-much, and we wade through the shoals too shallow or dangerous to navigate, all the while tossin’ lures at every piece of fishy-lookin’ structure we come to, pullin’ fish after fish after fish from their watery lairs.

A dandy Redeye Coosa Bass taken on a fly

We use ultralight spinning outfits to bounce lead-head tube jigs along the rock-strewn river bottom and swim soft plastic shad baits along the seams of fast water for coveted Redeyes and hard-fightin’ Spots. With our fly rods, we toss poppin’ bugs with wet fly droppers close under the tree roots along the river bank for panfish and strip small white streamers along the edge of grass beds, which almost always results in a feisty little bass puttin’ a bow in your rod.

'Our' river

We’re in and out of the canoe all day long, wadin’ the shallows, sometimes draggin’ the boat past obstacles; other times paddlin’ long, almost current-less, stretches of water; part of the day in the cool shade, the rest in full sun, and almost always shirtless.

'Lunch of Champions'

When we get hungry, we pull the canoe up on a sandbar and break out the grub. Lunches vary. They’re generally light… a pack of crackers, a can of potted meat or Viennas, maybe some Beanie Weenies or a sandwich and some chips. Snacks range from apples and trail mix to jerky and Little Debbies. And we wash it down with water kept cold in the beat-up IGLOO water jugs we keep tied to the thwarts of the canoe.

          The fishin’ after lunch takes on a different character, as the river itself changes. Now, the river turns into a twistin’, turnin’ watercourse with deep holes scoured on the outside of each bend and full of logjams, downed timber, and undercut riverbanks, where the bigger fish of this river live. The number of fish caught through here decreases somewhat, but the quality definitely improves.

A Largemouth taken on the lower section

Now, we work Beetle Spins through downed timber, toss soft plastic creature baits in amongst the logjams, and twitch floatin’ RAPALAS next to submerged stumps in search of dark-colored, river Largemouths and bigger-than-normal Bluegills and Shellcrackers.

After 5 or 6-hours on the river, we reach the planned take-out point and beach the canoe, wearily haul armloads of gear and then the canoe up the grassy hill to the gravel parking lot, where it’s loaded onto a waiting truck and trailer.

Then stiff and tired and sunburned, still drippin’ water from our shorts, we tromp into the li’l store there at the takeout to buy our celebratory glass bottles of ice-cold rootbeer for the ride home. We don't spend much, but still it's our way of thankin' the store owner for lettin' us park a truck there. We've done this simple gesture for so long that my 10-year-old grandson swears that ‘IBC Rootbeer’ stands for ‘I Been Canoein’ Rootbeer’.

          Once home and the canoe is on its rack and our rods and gear are put away; after we’ve all showered, sprayed ourselves down with SOLARCAINE, and changed into dry shorts and t-shirts; we throw some burgers on the grill, pop the tops on some adult beverages, and settle into loungers out under the shade trees in my front yard and just chill. Pleasantly tired and utterly relaxed.