Billy Long, one of my best friends in high school, and I decided to spend a weekend camping in Tallulah Gorge, the deepest one east of the Mississippi River. We grew up in Rabun County, Georgia, I on a farm in Germany Valley, and Billy, a town boy in Clayton. He and I were somewhat like Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. While they floated down the Mississippi River, Billy and I chose as our adventures to camp on lakes. We explored the Tallulah Gorge from the town of Tallulah Falls to the lake in Stephens County.
We got into a bit of trouble hitchhiking with an old man in an old pickup below Clayton. On an impulse Billy pulled out a US Army 45 1903 Model pistol to show the fellow and the fellow almost ran out of the road. He started to throw us out but we sweet talked him and rode on to camp that weekend in the gorge.
To supplement our eggs, bacon and some hotdogs we caught some fish in the pools and had a good supper that evening. We laid out our Army surplus sleeping bags on flat rocks out from the walls since rocks would sometimes fall off the cliffs. At night, we found rocks were warm going to bed but turned cold by three A.M. in the morning. We had read that Cherokees believed little people lived in caves in the gorge and threw rocks at people who dared to go down there. Oddly enough, years later I was with men camping and fishing near Dubois, Wyoming. We were eating supper in a motel restaurant when a waitress told customers at the nearby table that she was half Cherokee and told the story of little people living in caves!
At Tallulah Gorge we met an old man who had a cabin nearby who told the story of the little people and thought there were caves beneath the rocks. Bill and I had found a pot hole that we dropped rocks in to hear them rumble going down. That night sleeping beside the river we heard underground noises like bowling balls rolling down an alley!
Many years later, after I retired from the Air Force and moved back home, in the 1970/1980 period, an excellent restaurant in Tallulah Falls drew customers and I met some amazing people, including a local moonshiner, tourists and artists. One lady had a small hut secretly built of plywood with a tin roof, which she and her sister had erected on Hickory Mountain. It had two bunks and a cast iron heater. A fire ring of rocks was in front of the porch and a spring rose nearby. Her and her sister were squatters. I felt honored to be trusted to see the layout.
One other middle aged lady I met was from Florida who had bought the cabin which Margaret Mitchell’s husband had owned in the Georgia Power Village. She had the table where Margaret typed some of the book “Gone with the Wind.” This lady also spent a winter living with a Seminole family in the Florida Everglades and showed me photos. Sadly, this mystery lady suddenly got sick and died. Besides the ladies mentioned I got to meet an artist couple from Florida and visited their cabin to see some of the paintings. The husband painted nude women and the wife painted undersea scenes.
