‘IT IS THE JOURNEY THAT MATTERS’



Glacier National Park, Montana

            I’ve dreamed about goin’ ‘out west’ most all my life, and recently I was invited to fly out to Montana next summer and spend a week explorin’ Glacier National Park with my daughter and some friends. I’ve yet to decide for sure whether I’ll go, or not. You see, I’ve always dreamed of seein’ the West… but, at ground level, not from a jet airplane 30,000-feet up.

Maybe it’s the historian in me or better yet, the fact that I’m a hopeless romantic, but experiencin' the journey itself is almost as important to me as is reachin' the final destination.

I’d like to cross the mighty Mississipp’ there at St. Louie, the jumpin'-off-place for 19^th Century adventurers and pioneers headin' out into the western lands. I want to travel mile-upon-mile across the prairies of Nebraska, through the arid sagebrush-covered flats of Wyoming, and over the rollin' plains of Montana, to see what the hardy pioneers and the grizzled ol’ mountain men saw, be awed as they most surely were, as well as, to travel along at my own leisurely pace so as to stop and see the much heralded points of interest along the way. Things such as the World’s Largest Ball of Twine and Carhenge to name just a couple.

'The Waterfall Room', Glacier NP



And, as much as I want to pull a fine Cutthroat Trout from one of Glacier Park’s many pristine streams, feel the spray on my skin from inside The Waterfall Room, and walk within mere yards of a mountain goat along the Continental Divide, I equally wanna smell the musty, earthiness of a prairie ‘sod house’, watch a shaggy ol’ buffalo bull wallow in the dust, and see pronghorn antelope bound effortlessly across the short-grass prairie. I want to follow the steel ribbons across Nebraska that was once the ‘Transcontinental Railroad’, stop and wade the amazingly shallow Platte River, and walk the still visible ruts of the old Oregon Trail.

Ulm Pishkun Buffalo Jump, near Great Falls, Montana



I’d like to sit in the warm sunshine, on a grassy bank of the Missouri River, reading from Ambrose’s UNDAUNTED COURAGE, imaginin’ Lewis and Clark paddlin’ past that very spot some 200-years ago, or stand at the edge of the Ulm Pishkun with the wind in my face, imagining the yells of Indian braves, the thunderin' hoof beats of a herd of bison as they are stampeded off the bluff, and the awful carnage at the base of the cliff where the animals lay broken and dyin' as the squaws set to work butcherin’ their mass kill.

'Carhenge'



And after a week of burnin' muscles and callused and sore feet from hikin' the high mountain trails of Glacier, instead of takin' a rental car back to the airport, I’d rather take the backroads home, stoppin' to explore the Blackfoot and Cheyenne Indian Reservations and watch gaily dressed tribal members perform elaborate fancy dances. I’d choose to walk along the hillside above the Little Bighorn, reflectin' on what a sight it must’ve been to behold the largest Indian encampment ever gathered in one place, any day, over a quick trip home via American Airways.

I want to look straight up from the foot of the Devil’s Tower and feel incredibly insignificant, and stand at the Medicine Wheel, high up in the Bighorn Mountains, hopin' for a vision much like the Indian medicine men of old came here to get. I’d swing through South Dakota to see Teddy Roosevelt’s beloved Badlands, then cross the infamous Black Hills to see his likeness on the side of Mount Rushmore.

          No, the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that experiencin’ every aspect; every mile of the trip in real time, much like those who opened up the West did (sans the whole covered wagon, hostile Indians, and months of hardship-thing), would definitely be much more enjoyable than seein' the West for the first time from high up in the sky.

Nebraska prairie



Ernest Hemingway once said that “It is good to have an end to journey toward; but it is the journey that matters, in the end.”  I do believe I’ll have to agree with the ol’ rum-swillin’ bastard on this one.  J

‘TO READ IS TO LIVE’

“It is often said that one has but one life to live, but that is nonsense. For one who reads, there is no limit to the number of lives that may be lived, for fiction, biography and history offer an inexhaustible number of lives in many parts of the world, in all periods of time.” - Louis L'Amour, Education of a Wandering Man

           Anyone that knows Ol’ Burr can tell you that I'm never without a book, and with good reason, too. For each book that I delve into, takes me somewhere I’ve never been, allows me to experience different cultures and life in other time periods, and to witness daring adventures, by characters far more exciting than this over-40 divorcé what lives up behind his parents’ barn will ever hope to become.

I’ve ridden the highline trails of the Rockies with the likes of mountain men Titus Bass, Smoke Jensen, and the Sacketts, I’ve slipped through the old growth forests of Colonial New England with Natty Bumpo and Chingachgook as we made war on the hated Mingos, and I’ve ridden night herd on Mr. John Chisholm’s Longhorns on the trail to Abilene. I’ve hunted buffalo and fought the Cheyenne alongside Bill Cody, and thanks to Apikuni, I’ve hung on every word of the stories told by the Blackfeet elders as they sat around their fires during the dead of winter.

          I’ve sat across from young Aristotle, at the Academy, in Athens, as Plato himself lectured us on philosophy and science. I traveled as an ‘observer’, of sorts, with Captains Meriwether Lewis and William Clark’s Corps of Discovery expedition, and I was there as Prince Madoc oversaw the construction of a series of stone fortifications near the headwaters of the Coosa River in present-day Georgia. I’ve fly fished for trophy trout with Joe Brooks, and stoodby in awe as ‘Teddy’ Roosevelt fired round after round into a charging bull elephant before it finally collapsed, very literally, at our feet. I vividly recall the day that Dirk Pitt found the lost city of Atlantis in Antarctica, and just as fresh in my memory is that harrowing day in June of ’44 when ‘Easy’ Company of the 101^st jumped in behind the German lines at Normandy.

Photo of bear hunt from 'Our Southern Highlanders'

I’ve also endured the hardships of a Smoky Mountains’ winter bear hunt with Horace Kephart and his beloved Southern Highlanders, sat for hours at Sloppy Joe’s Bar in the Keys sippin’ Mojitos and listenin’ to Hemingway boast of the Marlins he’s caught, and I’ve traveled across Europe and Asia in the company of the Hansgraf’s merchant caravan, plodding along to the methodical beat of the Walking Drum. I also saw the look in Todd Beamer’s eyes when he gave the signal of “Let’s Roll!” as he and his fellow passengers revolted against their terrorist hijackers, causing United Airlines Flight 193 to crash in a Pennsylvania field instead of into the White House, and I was there amid the smoke, the dust, and the acrid smell of burnt gunpowder, watching in horror as Lt. Mike Murphy and his SEAL team were surrounded by the Taliban in the mountains of Afghanistan and cut down in the prime of their lives. These are only a small sampling of the myriad of lives I’ve lived.

Books not only engage and entertain one’s mind, but they teach and instruct, as well, opening new horizons and constantly increasing the reader’s wealth of knowledge. I have been fortunate, for I had Stephen Ambrose as my American history professor, and I learned oceanography from Captain Jacques Cousteau. I cut my teeth on modern political science with Beck, Levin, and Limbaugh, while Lee and Grant gave me the fundamentals of military leadership, and Washington and Adams, a primer on civic responsibility. Yes, I have been very fortunate, in-deed.

I can’t even begin to imagine how boring, how lackluster my life might have turned out had it not been for my love of reading. Thank goodness for my having enjoyed spending my elementary school days with Dick and Jane, and for having had such a wonderful person as Dr. Seuss to hang out with later on.

'THE WATERHOUSE TREASURE'

            It all started, back before the turn of the last century, when a weekend hunting trip, into the North Georgia Mountains, proved to be much more of an adventure for young Will Waterhouse and his friends than they had originally planned. Although the seven friends went in search of meat, what the men found, that weekend, would become legendary.

Somewhere along the hardwood-covered mountainside, one of the dogs suddenly sounded off. A second or two later, the rest of the pack joined in, as they too struck the trail, their short choppy barks echoing through the woods. After a bit of a chase, the dogs ran their quarry into a hole in the side of the ridge, and the treed cry went up.

Immediately upon catching up to their hounds, Will Waterhouse and his hunting companions began trying to dig out what they supposed was game. They figured it was probably an old ‘coon or maybe a fat ‘possum, but it didn’t make much difference which; either would taste good slow cooked in a stew pot. Within ten minutes, though, the thrill of the chase changed to intense curiosity, as the ‘hole’ they were digging into suddenly opened up, revealing a large underground cave.

Upon realizing the vastness of the cave, and after a bit of discussion, they agreed to forego the day’s hunt and explore the winding passage further, just to see where it might lead. As in most things, Will took the lead and sent a couple of the guys back outside to gather branches and pine knots to make enough torches to ‘last all day and all night’.

As the torches were made ready, the dogs were gathered up and tied fast to nearby trees. Once everything was ready, the seven men headed single file back into the cave, with each man carrying a torch plus several extras. They worked their way deeper into the cave, until they reached a junction, about a thousand feet in, where they took the passage leading off to the right.

Another thousand feet, and the passage suddenly opened up into a large cavern, where they found a small bellows-type pump with the leather rotted off. According to the men, it resembled the type that had once been used while melting gold and silver back at the turn of the 19^th century. Further exploration revealed a large amount of metal bars piled up against one wall of the cave. The hunters estimated that there were about a thousand bars, in all, of which were described as ‘being of a uniform size’ and appearing to be made of copper.

Some of the men tried to move a few of the larger ones, but, due to the weight of the bars, they couldn't be moved. However, the seven men were able to bring eight of the smallest bars out, as proof that they had actually found something, leaving the larger and much heavier bars where they lay. It’s unknown how long it took the men to make their way back out into the open, but the tunnel back out was described as ‘meandering’.

Hours later, while sitting around camp, a legend of gold in the mountains was recalled. About how, in the early 1800’s, just before the Federal government had ordered their removal to the West, the Cherokee Indians had sealed up and hidden the entrances to their valuable gold and silver mines throughout North Georgia, in hopes of keeping the whites from locating them.

Their curiosity aroused, one of the hunting party pulled a 'copper' bar from the haversack he carried, and, using a hunting knife, ‘skinned’ the copper off of it, revealing the gold underneath. Much to their astonishment, each of the bars ended up being solid gold encased in about a ¼ inch thick coating of copper.

The next day, Will and the six others attempted to return to the cave, but once back in the area an argument ensued about its exact location. The hunting party ended up dividing and going in different directions, yet neither group was able to find their way back to the cavern. Supposedly, the last ½ mile or so back to the cave’s entrance was the greatest point of contention among the members of the hunting party, with each remembering something different.

In August of 1890, Will Waterhouse experienced instant and lasting fame when the hunting party’s adventure was reported in the Chattanooga Herald newspaper. In the article, “William (Bill) Waterhouse from Keith, Georgia,” referred to a legend about “an old rich Indian gold mine, near a certain place in Georgia”, as well as, expressed his belief that the cave had been “a storehouse of the Indians, and their principal workshop”. It concluded with the announcement that Will was “raising funds for an exploration”.

Of the further exploration we know nothing, but legend has it that the ‘find’ haunted Will to the point of frustration. One account, popular with many treasure hunters, has him losing his and his parents’ fortunes, as well as, his wife and children, over the next twenty years, searching for his lost treasure, to no avail.

Then, in 1968, nearly eighty years after the ‘cave full of gold’ was reported being found, the legend of the ‘Waterhouse Treasure’ was revived, when, author Ernest Andrews wrote about it, in his book Georgia’s Fabulous Treasure Hoards. Acknowledging that he had located a Waterhouse family who had operated a hotel in the small town of Cohutta, Georgia, a few miles east of Keith, Mr. Andrews goes on to speculate that the hunting party made their infamous find on Rocky Face Mountain, located in Whitfield County, Georgia, just north of Dalton, in the heart of what he referred to as “the old Dalton Cherokee Indian gold fields”.

Rocky Face Mountain, at Dalton, Whitfield Co. GA 

Mr. Andrews admits that this speculation is based on the mountain’s close proximity to those small communities, as no references to a definite location have yet been found. Since then, generations of treasure seekers, as well as Civil War relic hunters, have scoured both sides of Rocky Face Mountain, and although caves have been found and explored with an assorted collection of relics found, no discovery of a ‘cave full of gold’ has yet been announced.

Although the find was originally reported in August of 1890, no one knows for sure when it actually occurred, but it probably hadn't just happened. For one thing, summertime in North Georgia is certainly not the best time to be traipsing around in the woods, for days at a time, hunting anything, especially ‘meat’. Warm weather was when you ate a lot of fish or chicken, not wild game.

Secondly, consider exploring such a cave, of crawling back up in a dark hole in the ground, where you’d be apt to find a big ol’ timber rattler curled up in the cool shade trying to escape the late summer heat. Just the thought of it sends shivers up and down my spine. So more than likely, the hunting trip took place during the fall or winter of 1889, instead.

In 1890, 24-year-old Will Waterhouse was relatively new to the Catoosa County community of Keith, having just moved there early that year. Up until then, he had lived practically all of his life at Cohutta Springs, in northern Murray County, where just a few miles to the east rise the majestic Cohutta Mountains.

The Cohutta Mountains of Murray Co. GA

Newspaper accounts of that day place the find as being “in the fastness of the mountains”, which aptly describes the Cohutta Mountain Range, where numerous stories of cached or lost gold still abound. Waterhouse himself admitted to having remembered hearing a legend about an old rich Indian gold mine near a certain place in Georgia, which lead him to believe that they might have found a kind of storehouse for the fabled mine.

In his book, Mr. Andrews revealed several such stories, all of which closely surround the area in which young Waterhouse grew up. There’s also a Rocky Face Mountain located just upstream from Hassler’s Mill, which is at the center of Mr. Andrews’ Lost Cohutta Mountain Gold Mines story, lending even more credence to the idea that maybe what Will and his hunting partners found was in the Cohutta Mountains, not in Whitfield County, as has been assumed up to this point.

If they had been in the Cohutta Mountain Range, though, then the extensive logging operations in and around them by the Conasauga Lumber Company during the early part of the 20^th Century, most likely sealed the hunting party’s original opening back up, whether it was by design or by accident. Nowadays, the majority of the Cohutta Mountains is national forest land, as well as, a federal wilderness area, and remains as wild and untamed as ever. As rugged a place as there ever was.

Whether Will Waterhouse’s ‘cave full of gold’ was found on Rocky Face, just north of Dalton, or somewhere deep in the Cohutta Mountains though, is still yet to be determined. Even today, more than 100+ years since eyes were last laid on it, folks still seek Mr. Waterhouse’s ‘treasure’.

Chances are though that it’ll continue to stay “hidden” for nigh on to eternity, or at least ‘til another hunter’s dog runs a critter into a certain burrow, and once again the hunters get curious and decide to explore the hole a bit more thoroughly.

                                                                                                       - Barry D. Jennings

W.L. Waterhouse & family in front of their
                     'boarding house' home in  Cohutta, GA (Ca. 1907)

THE ORIGINS OF THIS ARTICLE -The author and his family have lived, for the past 22-years, in the house that W.L. Waterhouse had built, in 1906. While researching the history of the house, he became interested in Mr. Waterhouse and his family, and in the process turned up several references to a report of his finding a ‘cave full of gold’ in 1890, now known simply as the 'Waterhouse Treasure'. The more he investigated the story, the more enthralled he became with it. Through this research, not only has he met several very interesting relatives of Mr. Waterhouse’s, but has also become acquainted, through old newspaper articles and such, with quite a bit of the forgotten history of early Cohutta, Georgia. He is currently researching several different leads concerning the early days of this small North Georgia community.

W.L. Waterhouse Place (Ca. Present-day)

Source Reference:

1.        Chattanooga Herald newspaper, Chattanooga, Tennessee: August 8, 1890

2.       North Georgia Citizen newspaper, Dalton, Georgia: September 8, 1892; January 14, 1904; January 21, 1904; January 28, 1904; September 28, 1904; October 26, 1905; November 2, 1905; December 6, 1905; January 11, 1906; March 5, 1906; April 5, 1906, September 6, 1906; September 20, 1906; August 15, 1907

3.       Georgia’s Fabulous Treasure Hoards, by Edward Andrews (1968)

4.       Cohutta Town, His Memories of Cohutta Growing Up, by Rev. John Clarke Williamson (1970)

5.       Cave of Treasure, by Michael Paul Henson (Page 44 of the November 1993 issue of Lost Treasure magazine)

6.       USGS 1:24,000 topographical maps, Tennga & Crandall quadrangles (Georgia), Tunnel Hill & Dalton North quadrangles (Georgia)

7.       Correspondence with Fred Lawrence Abel, William Lea Waterhouse’s last surviving grandson, 2006.

'OUR GHOST'

Now, I grew up down in Lower Alabama, where ghost stories are a dime-a-dozen; what with every other house or building or place you come to havin’ some kind of ghost tale attached to it. When I was ‘bout 12-years-old, my Papaw, who was a book salesman, gave me what became one of my most favorite books, a signed-copy of “13 ALABAMA GHOSTS & JEFFERY” by Ms. Kathryn Tucker Windham.

Now, seein’ how one of the stories in her book was about the Face in the Courthouse Window, over to Carrollton, in Pickens County, and my Daddy had taken me to see it plenty of times; I just knew that EVERYTHING in that book was nothin’ but the God’s-honest-truth. So, to say I was a 'believer' would prob'ly be a bit of an understatement.

Pickens County, Alabama Courthouse

At that time, we lived down in Sumter County, not far from the Alabama-Mississippi state line. My Daddy was the Minister of Music and Youth at the First Baptist Church there in the li’l town of York. The preacher there had gone and built himself a house of his own, so the church allowed us to live in the pastorium; a nice 3-bedroom house, located off Highway 17 just north of town. Now, the pastorium wasn’t too old, but it tweren’t that new, neither. It’d been home to several of the past preachers and their families, but was still a very nice place.

Now, not long after we’d moved in, my Daddy and Momma were awaken in the middle of the night to the unmistakable sound of footsteps goin’ up the hall, stoppin’ at their bedroom doorway, and then goin’ back down the hall towards the kitchen and livingroom. My Daddy immediately got out of bed to check on us boys. All three of us were in our beds where we were supposed to be, sound asleep. He searched the house from top-to-bottom, looked under beds, in closets, and made sure all of the doors and windows were still locked tight. He found no one else in the house, and finally returned to bed. This same scenario repeated itself, not every night, but often enough still. Sometimes the footsteps were heard only once a night, other times they were heard off and on throughout the night.



First Baptist Church, York, Alabama

During one of the annual Homecoming celebrations at church, several of the former pastors’ wives were sittin’ ‘round a table at lunch, when one of ‘em asked my Momma if our family had experienced anything strange since movin’ into the pastorium. To her affirmative reply, they all began recounting their experiences while livin’ there. Besides the footsteps that all had experienced, there was also the sudden, strong smell of pipe smoke inside the house, even though no one in their households smoked; as well as, a host of other unexplainable things. Everybody just kind of laughed it all off, but it was obvious that everyone at the table seemed a bit relieved to know that they hadn’t been the only ones to experience the strange happenings.

Not long after that, I ‘met’ what our whole family now referred to as our ‘ghost’, happenin’ while my grandparents were visitin’. Mamaw and Papaw always got my younger brother Terry’s and my bedroom, so I slept on the livingroom couch and Terry got the one in the den. The livingroom was on the front of the house, and the den was on the backside, with both couches against the wall between the two rooms.

Sometime in the middle of the night, I awoke to the sound of footsteps. Footsteps that traveled the length of the hall, paused for a minute or two, then came back down the hallway. I heard the footsteps cross the kitchen linoleum, enter the den, and then the groan of springs and the methodical squeak of the swivel base as someone/something sat down in the easy chair beside the couch, where my bother lay sleepin’.



601 Oswalt Avenue, York, Alabama

I lay in my ‘bed’ frozen with fear, listenin’ to the old chair squeak as someone/something continued to rock in it. After what seemed like an eternity, there finally came the groan of the springs as the someone/something rose from the chair; the footsteps crossed the kitchen floor, and then continued back up the hallway.

Scared near to death, I craned my neck to look through the doorway goin’ from the livingroom to the kitchen and hallway, and what did I see? Nothin’! Absolutely nothin’! I could see down the entire length of the hallway as it was vaguely lit by a small night-light, yet there was no one there! Nothin’ to see that is. A momentary pause, and the footsteps descended back down the hall, crossed the kitchen, and then again came the groan of springs as someone/something sat down and the methodical squeak of the old easy chair in the den began once more. This scenario played itself out a third time, as I lay in bed, terrified, my heart poundin’.



Suddenly, I made my decision. It was time to GO! The footsteps made their way back down the hall the last time; they crossed the kitchen, and then came the groan of the chair springs. With the first squeaks of the chair rockin’, I leapt from my bed and flew down the hallway. At the doorway to my Momma and Daddy’s bedroom, I left the floor in a dive, landin’ in the middle of their bed, terrified and gasping for breath. Surprisingly, my parents believed me, especially after Daddy did his usual check of the house, findin’ that no one was up or in the house. I spent the remainder of the night on a pallet beside their bed.

Unknown man with old timey string-type necktie

My Momma was next as far as ‘ghostly’ encounters went; only she actually got to see our ‘ghost’, and to this day, she still gets goose bumps thinking about it. It was in the wee hours of the mornin’, some while after my encounter, when she suddenly woke, an overpowering feelin’ of bein’ watched had come over her. She opened her eyes to find a bewhiskered older gentleman wearing an old string-type necktie, leanin’ over her lookin’ at her. She immediately screamed, at which point, he vanished. Again, Daddy did a thorough search of the house, to no avail. Needless to say, Momma didn’t go back to sleep that night.

The next mornin’, at the Sumter County Nursing Home, where Momma worked in the office, she informed one of her coworkers of what had happened during the previous night, leavin’ out the description of the man she saw. Momma had just about convinced herself that it just a very vivid nightmare.

Later that day, though, three elderly residents of the nursin’ home came to see ‘Miss Charlotte’ (my Momma). They informed her that they’d heard about her ‘visitor’. Momma tried to laugh it off, callin’ it just a bad dream, but the three ladies wouldn’t hear of it. They went on to describe, in great detail, the man that my Momma had seen. Their description was perfect, and they could tell by the shock on my Momma’s face.

Accordin’ to the ladies, my momma had seen the ghost of ‘Mr. Huggins’, a man who had once owned the property where the church pastorium now sits. Supposedly, it was one of his favorite places. Every Saturday evenin’, Mr. Huggins, dressed in a suit coat and a string necktie, would walk to town, and accordin’ to them, Mr. Huggins had died on one such Saturday evenin’. Also, they added…he enjoyed smokin’ his pipe.

The colored lady of the three then informed ‘Miss Charlotte’ that if we’d get and keep a black cat around the house, that we’d hear no more from Mr. Huggins’ ghost. Before the week was out, we had a black kitten, and that dear old lady was right. We never heard from Mr. Huggins again...THANK GOODNESS!