‘THE FINEST PEOPLE YOU’LL EVER MEET’

'Granite Mountain Hotshots'

Yesterday, nineteen of the elite 20-member Prescott, Arizona’s ‘Granite Mountain Hotshots’ firefighting crew were killed in an Arizona wildfire. Known for battling the region’s worst fires, they had recently spent weeks fighting fires in New Mexico and Prescott.

So, as a heat wave across the Southwest sent temperatures into the triple digits, they hiked into the smoky wilderness over the weekend with chainsaws and backpacks stuffed with heavy gear to remove brush and trees as they fought the lightning-sparked fire, that encompassed more than 8,000-acres, destroyed at least 50-structures, and threatened 500-people in the small town of Yarnell.

'Granite Mountain Hotshots' demonstration

It was the most firefighters killed battling a wildfire in the United States since 1933. The average age of the men in the crew was only 22-years-old.

          Of the firefighters who all were part of his city’s fire department, an emotional Fire Chief Dan Fraijo said it plainly, “We just lost 19 of the finest people you'll ever meet."

My heart goes out to the Prescott Fire Department and its families. The have suffered a devastating loss. One that I hope our own community never has to experience.

Whether it’s a structure, a vehicle, or woodlands, fighting fires is dangerous work, and the risk is well-known to the brave men and women who don their gear daily, 24/7, and battle the flames. And I, for one, am very proud of the men and women that protect us here locally.

The next time you see a fire truck headed down the road, lights flashing and siren wailing… say a simple prayer for these wonderful men and women. For each and everyone is truly a hero; highly-skilled professionals who selflessly put themselves in harm's way to protect the lives and property of their neighbors and fellow citizens, many of which they have never so much as met. These guys and gals are MY heroes, for sure, and without a doubt... some of the finest people you'll ever meet.

"When a tragedy like this strikes, all we can do is offer our eternal gratitude to the fallen, and prayers for the families and friends left behind. God bless them all." - Arizona Governor Jan Brewer

‘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.

‘HANGIN’ WITH UNCLE-BURR-PAW’

Gene & Jonathon @ Tellico

           

            To my son, I’m ‘Burr’. To my grand-boy, I’m ‘Paw’. And to my nephews, I’m either Uncle Burry or Uncle Barry. Regardless of what they may call me, though, to me, they’re just simply ‘my boys’. And, as such, I do my darnedest to spoil ‘em rotten. At Christmas, I’m the one that always buys the ‘cool’ gifts. You know, the gifts that all young boys love to get and the ones that make most mothers and grandmothers nervous… like pocketknives, tomahawks, swords, and once even a crossbow pistol. I think boys should be allowed to be boys.

          As often as possible, I try to spend time doin’ somethin’ fun in the outdoors with ‘my boys’. It gives me time with them, and gives their parents a much-needed break. Sometimes, it’s simply goin’ over to a nearby pond and wettin’ a hook. Other times, it’s a backwoods camping trip away from parents and other ‘responsible’ adults. Every time, though, it is a learnin’ experience… sometimes for us all.

Gene with squirrels taken while floatin' the Conasauga River

          This all started back years ago when I first started takin’ my son Gene and my nephew Jonathon campin’ and fishin’ in Tellico, floatin’ the Conasauga in canoes, and huntin’ for squirrels and doves every fall. Now that they’re grown and off on their own, my grandson Trevor and younger nephews Matt and Will have stepped up to take their places. And once again, I’m teachin’ the basics all over again.

Will with a Bluegill he caught

For fishin’, it’s how to rig their own rod, bait their own hook, how to catch a fish, and how to take it off the hook by themselves. Should they catch really good fish, then a picture is taken of them proudly displayin’ it, which is later sent to the newspaper for hopeful publication. For huntin’, it’s responsible gun handling, expert marksmanship, fair chase, and how to clean their kill. For the water, I drill into ‘em that a life vest is always a must, then how to paddle and handle a canoe or kayak. And they learn how to camp by goin’ with the ol’ master himself.

Trevor with his BB gun

            Every boy gets to carry his own pocketknife, for whittlin’ and such, and each carries a whistle, as well… just in case. Everyone has their own fishin’ rod and tackle box, and Red Ryder BB guns are always welcome in camp, as are flips (or slingshots, as some of you call 'em) and the ever present football. If the boys want to swing on an old grape vine, well then… have at it. If they want to stay up late tellin’ ghost stories, fine by me. And if they get in the mood to sing silly ditties at the top of their lungs… sooner or later, I send ‘em to the far end of the lake.

I don’t nursemaid ‘my boys’, either. I believe that, for the most part, boys learn best on their own, through trial and error. So, once at our destination, I turn ‘em loose to be boys. If they want to take the canoe out by themselves and fish, I let ‘em go. They’ll end up learnin’ more and gainin’ more confidence in doin’ so for themselves. Should they want to take their BB guns and go ‘explorin’ out in the woods, so be it. They know my rules, and rarely have they ever disobeyed more’n once’t.

Jonathon & Gene @ Joyce Kilmer Memorial Forest

         Best of all, though, is the enjoyment I get back from hangin’ out with ‘my boys’. When they’re with me, I rarely get to fish, but that’s okay. I enjoy watchin’ and coachin’ them. On our long tramps through the mountains, I get all caught-up on what’s goin’ on in the wonderful world of 9 through 12-year-olds. One minute, I’m teachin’ 'em how to tell the difference ‘tween turkey and bear scat, and the next, we’re talkin’ over the difficulties of musterin' up courage enough to tell a pretty girl that she’s really, really liked. (Give me bear scat, any day.) And you’ll never really appreciate a popular TV jingle until you’ve heard the ‘corrupted’ version made up by 10-year-old boys… and, yes, it can get kinda gross. Oh, and I’ve never laughed so hard as when the older boys finally succeed in talkin’ the youngest, who is a self-proclaimed scaredy-cat, into tryin’ out some crazy stunt and seein’ the huge grin on his face after havin’ accomplished it and realizin’ it wasn’t THAT scary, after all.

Matt with a fish on!

          I try to remember how it was to be their age and let that guide me in how I treat ‘em. It’s the little things that matter… like simply listenin’ to what the have to say. Kids they may be, but their thoughts are still important. And another thing… keep your temper. Getting’ angry never helps any situation, especially when you’re tryin’ to live by example to a bunch of impressionable boys.

Recently, while on one of our hangout days, Trev let me know that one of the best things about me is that I "don't get mad too easy... even when one of us breaks out the truck window with a rock." Both his cousins, of which Will the Rock Chucker was one, immediately agreed. Now, folks, to me, that was a compliment like none I’ve ever received… ‘specially seein’ how a lot of kids get treated by grown-ups when they ‘mess up’. Made me feel kinda good inside.

'My Boys'

          Most importantly, though, I try to make sure ‘my boys’ enjoy every minute spent with Uncle-Burr-Paw, whether it’s campin’ in the Smoky Mountains, floatin’ across Lake Conasauga in a canoe, fishin’ for trout on the Hiwassee, or hikin’ the trails on Grassy. And, it must be workin’… ‘cause come time to head home, one of ‘em nearly always says he wishes that our days were longer, that we didn’t have to go home yet, and then another starts up askin’ when we’re gonna do this again.

          Yep… makes a fella feel pretty doggone good… hangin’ out with ‘my boys’, that is.  J 

‘THOSE AWESOME LI’L BLUE LINES’

Want to fish where you’re likely to not see another person for hours? Like the idea of reelin’ in fish after fish after fish that hit your lure with total and reckless abandon? Want to put the excitement you used to feel as a youngster back into your fishin’ trips? Well, then… forget the lakes, the rivers, and the big reservoirs… the fishin’ you’re wantin’ is the home-grown kind, right here in our own backyards… the small yet fishy streams and creeks all around us.

Take you a good look at a map of the local countryside. See all those squiggly blue lines on the map? No, not the big ‘uns, but them thin little blue ones that cross under the two-lane backroads and head off into big areas of nothingness on the map. Yep… you know the ones I mean. Now, ain’t you ever wondered about some of them cricks an’ branches just a wee bit, as you drove over ‘em time and time again? Wondered if any of ‘em was even worth fishin’? Or maybe what might lie just around the next bend? Well, let me tell you… if you ain’t been creek fishin’ lately, then you’re missin’ out on some of the best fishin’ holes around these here parts.

          How to get started: First off, pick yourself a bridge crossin’ to put-in at, drag you a canoe or kayak or even a small johnboat down the embankment, and simply cast off. I suggest you take at least two spinnin’ rods and reels, and nothin’ fancy or very dear to your heart, in case it should get smashed to bits against a downed Sycamore tree. You might want to take a saw and a hatchet, and about three times as many in-line spinners as you think you could possibly lose. Oh, and don’t forget to bring a good friend with you. He’ll enjoy the fishin’ and you’re gonna appreciate havin’ him along come time to drag your boat over blow downs and through shoals, and you’ll likely end up doin’ both about as much as you float.

         That’s okay, though, ‘cause you’ll cast each time you get out of the boat. You’ll catch Bluegill and Bass and even the odd Catfish, ‘cause even a Catfish in a small creek can’t afford to turn down an easy meal. If your spinners are small enough and your casting deft enough, you’ll catch so many fish that you’ll keep castin’ and castin’, again and again, ‘til suddenly you realize that the sun is goin’ down and you’re still quite a ways from your intended take-out point. As you paddle hard to make the next bridge before dark, it suddenly dawns on you… all of the water you don’t have time to fish. But that’s okay… there’s always Next Saturday!

After a day havin’ the kind of fun you had forgotten all about, you’ll go home, scratched and bleeding, and think about selling your sparkle boat and using the proceeds to buy more Mepps and Panther Martins. Don’t you do it, though… don’t you dare do it! A bass boat is a mighty fine thing… as are them thin li’l blue lines on a map.

'PEACH BASKET ROMANCE'

The year was 1905, and cotton was ‘King’ across the South. Although, in the little village of Cohutta, Georgia, located just below the Tennessee state line, peaches ran a close 2^nd, providing area farmers with another much needed source of income.

One such peach producer was William L. Waterhouse, whose two teenage daughters handled the sorting and packing of the peaches, from their family’s orchard, while he tended to his prosperous mercantile business.

The monotonous job of packing peaches was made even more so, by the summer heat and humidity, and it wasn’t long before 16-year-old Leila came up with a game to make her work a bit more tolerable.

On small pieces of paper, she began writing her name and address, along with the words ‘write me’. She then placed one of the notes into each of the baskets of peaches they packed. To both girls, this was exciting, for who knew where the peaches might end up. The game helped pass the time.

That evening, their father took the baskets of peaches to the railroad depot, where they were placed in refrigerated cars for transportation to nearby Chattanooga, Tennessee, and from there to different parts of the country.

Days later, in a grocery store, 350-miles away, in Anderson, Indiana, 19-year-old Ernest Abel, on an errand for his mother, happened to find one of Leila’s ‘write me’ notes in a basket of peaches. Undoubtedly, he’d never heard of Cohutta, Georgia, but his interest was piqued by Leila’s note, and he decided to respond. Imagine the Waterhouse girls’ surprise when their father arrived home one afternoon with mail for Leila, and from of all places…Indiana.

Leila & Ernest Abel on their Wedding Day

Regular correspondence between Leila and Earnest ensued, and their interest in one another grew. A year or so later, a most remarkable thing happened. Young Mr. Abel arrived in Cohutta to meet Miss Leila Waterhouse, and, despite her father’s misgivings, a romance developed between the two young people.

More such visits occurred, until it became evident that Earnest and Leila intended to marry. Leila’s father, a staunch Presbyterian, disapproved of his daughter marrying young Mr. Abel, who was of the Catholic faith. Even though Mr. Waterhouse refused to give his consent, the couple was not deterred, and their long-distance relationship continued.

Then, in August of 1907, Leila’s father suddenly and unexpectedly took sick and, within days, died. Respectful of her husband’s wishes, Leila’s stepmother still refused to consent to the marriage, but despite this, the young couple remained devoted to one another. Enough so, that two years later, Earnest traveled one last time to Cohutta. Only this time, it wasn’t to visit Leila, but to finally take her for his wife.

At high noon on Saturday, the 14^th day of August 1909, the priest at Fort Oglethorpe, in neighboring Catoosa County, Georgia, performed the marriage ceremony that united 21-year-old Leila and 23-year-old Ernest in holy matrimony.

Ernest & Leila Abel
on their 50th Wedding Anniversary

            Afterwards, they took the 3:50 train back to Cohutta, where a 6 o’clock dinner was graciously given in their honor by Leila’s step-mother Ida Waterhouse. It was noted in the North Georgia Citizen newspaper, that Mrs. Abel received many beautiful presents, consisting of cut glass, hand-painted china, and silver. The happy couple left Cohutta that evening on the 7:40 train bound for Indiana. At Anderson, Earnest’s own family welcomed Leila with open arms, immediately making her feel right at home.

The years of their life together passed steadily for Leila and Earnest, as they nurtured their growing family, through both good times and bad. Throughout all, though, one thing was constant; their deep affection and love for one another. That never changed.

On Friday the 14^th of August 1959, Leila and Ernest celebrated their 50^th wedding anniversary with their children in Sylmar, California. 47–year-old Herman, their eldest son, and 34-year-old Fred, their youngest son, acted as the ‘alter boys’ for the Mass. It was a very special time for all.

           A year and a half later, in January of 1961, Leila Townes Waterhouse Abel passed away and was interred in the East Maplewood Cemetery, in Anderson, Indiana. In April of 1967, her beloved husband Ernest Paul was laid to rest at her side.