We parked the car where the road ended and strapped on our backpacks.  Curt had brought along his banjo and I had my fiddle with me.  As Curt struggled with his awkward instrument and his oversized pack, he accused me of taking up fiddling simply because mine was easier to carry.

    "I bet you don't have a thing in that pack but a map and an apple," he kidded. 

He was right that I had packed lightly for the two-day trip.  “I'll eat what I find in the woods," I shot back. 

We started down the narrow, unmarked trail, which ran along the far upper reaches of War Creek in Hancock County.  As we hiked along the path, we talked about the legend of the mysterious hermit fiddler who lives on a mountain in this vicinity. 

“Local folks say that he plays the sweetest notes and purest melodies ever heard.  But they hear him only when the wind is still on very dark nights,” I said.

I began noticing tiny amethyst-colored mushrooms beside the trail.  After examining them closely, I decided they weren't poisonous and popped a few into my mouth.

    "Are they good?" asked Curt.

    "They taste a bit like grapes, and I really like the spongy texture," I said, holding out a handful of the dime-sized purple caps for him to try.

    "No, thanks," he answered.  "I've never seen any quite like those, and some mushrooms can have powerful effects." 

About this time, I started feeling a little dizzy, and time seemed to be passing very slowly.  As I shook my head to clear the fog, we noticed movement in a clump of honeysuckle ahead.  I poked my fiddle bow into the thick honeysuckle to investigate.  We jumped back as a strange-looking fellow with pink eyes and bright red hair emerged from the bush.  Wiry tufts of auburn whiskers stuck out here and there on his pocked chin, and he looked for all the world like he'd been sleeping in a bird's nest.  Sticks and vines covered his shabby clothes.  Bright blue-green and red feathers clung to his beard, but his ears were easily his most striking characteristic – they looked exactly liked the pointed ears of a pig!

    "What the…!" he snorted. 

Curt and I stood there staring, afraid to speak.  The tall, lanky pig-man spat out a long, brown stream of tobacco juice and raised his hand over his eyes.  As he stood there squinting, I mustered the nerve to break the uncomfortable silence. 

"I'm Shawn, and this is Curt," I stuttered.

    "Well, you could at least apologize for sticking me in the ribs with that thing," he replied, reaching toward me.  I thought he wanted to shake hands, but he grabbed my bow instead.  "My name's Jerdon, you know, like the river in the Bible?"  He examined the bow, still holding one hand over his eyes.  "What’s this thing?" he asked.

    "It's a fiddle bow," I responded.  "We're looking for the old fiddler who's supposed to live near here."

    "Figures," he grunted.  "You'll never find him on your own, but I'll help you for a price."  

I wanted to ask how much, but before I could ask, he turned and stomped away, still carrying my bow.   Jerdon walked fast, taking great lumbering strides down the creek-side path.  Once we caught up, we peppered him with questions about the fiddler. 

“That fiddler’s real all right.  He stays outdoors all year round.  The only time he ever goes inside is when he visits his brother, who lives in a hollow tree trunk.  The fiddler sleeps in a forest alcove, where moss-covered rocks surround the water tree.”

    "Water tree? What's that?" I asked. 

A fly buzzed around Jerdon's head, then landed on one of his ears.  He neatly flicked it off with my bow as he told us, “The water tree is a hollow American chestnut tree.  It grows over an artesian spring that bubbles up from the earth so strong that the water pushes up inside the tree's trunk and squirts out all along its limbs. The way it flows, it makes the tree look like a crystal clear weeping willow in the summer and a sparklin’ ice castle in the winter.  That water is the clearest and coldest in the mountains, but you boys best be careful because it has mysterious and magical powers.”

    We listened, fascinated, as we followed him up the trail for about five miles.  We reached an intersection where an infrequently used path disappeared into a deep hollow. Jerdon pointed down the narrow path and said, “I’ve got some kinfolk who lived in a trailer up that way.  I need to take ‘em some copper I’ve been collecting. 

“Y’all keep going along the main trail here for another mile-and-a-half.  Then you cross the creek and look for a smaller stream flowin’ down from high, white rocks.  Follow that stream, and it’ll lead you to the water tree.  I’ll catch up with y’all later,” he said as he walked away.

    As Jerdon disappeared into the dark hollow, I noticed a large red-headed woodpecker swooping from one tree to the next.  I nodded my head in acknowledgment of the good omen.  About that time, Curt and I started noticing that the dirt alongside the trail was turned up as neatly as with plow and harrow. 

"Hogs," Curt said. "Wild hogs. They're rooting for acorns.  They aren't native to these woods.  They're very destructive but seldom dangerous."

    We hiked another fifty yards when I saw something in the trail.  I reached down and picked up a curved ivory tusk which was every bit the size of a small banana.  "Those are some big hogs!" I exclaimed.

    Not far from where I picked up the tusk, we spotted a nearly hidden path leading to a notched sycamore foot-log lying across a narrow section of War Creek. When we reached the improvised bridge, we noticed two muddy sets of bare footprints along and some cloven hoof tracks leading to the other side. 

Curt asked, “Did you notice Jerdon's feet?”

“No,” I replied and wondered aloud, “Do you remember if he was wearing boots?” 

Beside the creek we found two limbs as big around and twice as long as tobacco sticks that we used for balance as we crossed the slippery log.  The creek was clear, and we could see a school of finger-size horny-head minnows lined up in the shadow of the log.

    When we reached the east side of the creek, I spotted the branch Jerdon had described.  The stream was nearly a waterfall, flowing over steep, mossy quartz into War Creek.  We started up the trail, and had to climb hand-over-hand at first to follow its course over the slippery, white stones.  I was out in front as Curt struggled under the weight of his heavy pack and banjo.  I sat down to wait for him on a ledge, and started munching on the apple I packed for lunch.  Curt was sweating and cursing as he caught up to me.  I pointed out some tracks in the dark soil on the ledge.  "More hoof prints," I said through bites of apple.

    After resting, we continued up the creek, through a dark and twisted laurel hell.  The low, tangled branches made the course nearly impassable, and we had to move slowly on our hands and knees.  As the laurel subsided, we were gradually able to walk upright again.  The forest here had never been logged, and huge hardwood trees, mostly oaks and tulips, reached skyward as far as the eye could see. 

Some of the trees were as big around as the rolling wheel at the grist-mill on the more populated lower section of War Creek near where it entered the Clinch River.  The trees grew far apart, and there was not much undergrowth between their giant trunks. There were surprisingly few dead branches on the ground.  Curt told me as he looked around, “This looks like the managed forests in Germany.  Over there, the people go out every day and pick up the sticks that fell from the trees the day before.”

Just as he was about to launch into a lecture about the plant species native to that kind of ancient forest, we caught a glimpse of something darting between the trees.   I thought it might be the big red-headed woodpecker I’d noticed earlier.  More movement and a flutter of wings convinced me I was right.  As the bird dove behind a big hollow tulip tree, I expected to hear its loud staccato knocking echo through the forest.  Instead, to our surprise, Jerdon stepped out from behind the tree with the big bird perched on his shoulder.  His bright red hair matched the feathers on woodpecker’s head perfectly.  He told us, “My trailer kin’ve gone to Big Stone Gap to get sugar.  I took a short-cut to catch up with y’all.” 

As I wondered why he hadn't told us about the short-cut, but began asking questions about the bird.

    “I found him when he was a little bitty thing,” he told us.  I was tryin’ to steal some honey from a bee hive high up in this here tree, when I found the bird – Tamm’s his name -- lying between the branches.  He was a pitiful creature, but I took care of him, feeding him termites, wasp larvae, and honey. He lives here in this tree most of the time, and don’t come to me but only before it starts to rain. 

“You ever hear of Tamm?” Jerdon asked.  “He’s from the book of Exodus.  Exodus, yes, that’s my favorite book in the Bible.”  

The brightly-colored bird sat high upon Jerdon's shoulder and cocked its red head sideways and eyed us suspiciously.  I wasn’t sure what to think of this odd pair when my thoughts were interrupted by the sight of clouds beginning to thicken far below us in War Creek Valley. 

We decided to move on and headed up the trail as thunder rumbled in the distance. As we climbed, the dark clouds of the thunderstorm rolled swiftly up the steep mountain behind us.  Before long, the rain started falling in sheets, and Jerdon led us to take shelter in a hidden cave. 

The cave's entrance was shaped like a keyhole.  Its walls and ceiling were lined with stalactites made of clear rock crystal and fossilized white coral.  Thunder boomed as flashes of lightning danced off the quartz prisms in the dark cave like reflections from a mirror ball.  I noticed Jerdon break off a piece of crystal and munch it like rock candy.  I decided to do the same, and nearly broke my tooth crunching on the sweet rock.  I put the piece of crystal in the side pocket of my hiking pants, figuring I would be able to study it better when I got back home.

    Since it was nearly dark, we decided to spend the night in the cave. Curt and I made our beds near the entrance, while Jerdon and Tamm bunked down in a much deeper, darker part of the cave.  Some time after drifting off to sleep, I was awakened by a loud thunder clap.  I shook Curt and called softly to Jerdon.  "Listen," I whispered in an excited voice. "Do you hear it?" 

The sound was faint, fading beneath the rumble of thunder and the pouring rain, but there was no mistaking the far-away minor drone of a hand-carved mountain fiddle.  I lay listening, trying to memorize the distant tunes, as they lulled me into deep, dreamless sleep.

    When I awoke, I was still excited about the fiddler's midnight melodies.  I crawled out of my sleeping bag and walked toward the back of the cave in search of Jerdon and Tamm.  "They were gone when I got up," Curt called out. 

He had been up for a while, and had time to start a fire and begin cooking breakfast.  He took a sip of steaming coffee and remarked,  “Strange fellow. You'd think he would've come out to hear the fiddler last night, but I didn't even hear him move when you called to him."

    "I guess he's heard him enough," I replied. "Still, he might have at least said good-bye this morning."

    "Maybe we'll see him again," Curt said as he laid out our breakfast of instant grits and boiled eggs flavored with wild ramps he found outside the cave.  After we ate, we packed our gear and left the cave in search of the water tree. 

The air at this altitude was thin, and a cool breeze prompted me to break out the jacket I carried in my backpack.  As I zipped up, Curt laughed, “So I see you did have something in there besides a map and an apple! I'd buy a tent if you'd get a bigger backpack to help carry things.  Then we wouldn't have to sleep in dirty old caves."

    "You still have plenty of room in your overstuffed pack," I replied, slipping easily into the familiar banter of our years of hiking together. 

    We found our way back to the creek and continued up its steadily ascending course.  After three hours of gradual climbing, we reached a steep cliff.  I leaned against a rock and looked up, hoping to see the summit of the mountain.  I only saw the dark, foggy woods looming overhead.  “It’s strange to see so many hardwood trees at this elevation,” Curt remarked as we stared into the woods.

 After a short rest, we took a deep breath and started what was sure to be a challenging climb. Strangely though, the ascent wasn’t that difficult.  Even though the ridge was nearly vertical, we climbed with very little effort.  It seemed almost as if some magical force was lifting our feet and guiding our hands toward the right rock and root-holds.  Despite the weight of the instruments and our packs, we covered as much ground in ten minutes as we had in the whole morning.

    The fog had burned away, and bright sunshine filtered through the leafy canopy as we looked around the plateau at the top of the cliff.  Pawpaws and umbrella trees were scattered among the hardwoods.  Even though it was early May, the pawpaws were fully ripe.  I picked one and tasted it.  It wasn't nearly as mushy and much more flavorful than the ones that grow at lower elevations.  The water in the creek was so cold that a thin ribbon of fog lay close over its surface. The fog boiled from every rill and ripple as if from dry ice.  Curt waved the mist away and picked a few of the bright green watercress leaves that were growing along the banks.  He popped them into his mouth without rinsing them.  I followed suit after I saw the look of pleasure that came over his face.  We removed our packs and instruments and sat down to a satisfying meal of cress and pawpaws.  I took a big sip from my canteen, and said, “That's a salad you'll never find in even the finest restaurants.”

    We heard the sounds of a waterfall ahead, so we packed up and continued following the creek.  Soon the icy stream took a sharp bend and disappeared behind some huge boulders.  Curt was in the lead about twenty yards ahead when he stopped suddenly.  He was standing very still and peering around one of the boulders.  When I caught up, I  leaned over his shoulder and looked around the mossy rock.  "The water tree!" I gasped.

  It was much bigger than I had anticipated, based on the size of the creek we were following.  I saw that most of the water flowed back into little holes and trenches around the base of the tree and was recycled to surge again up the big brown trunk.  Water streamed from the lower branches and fell in thin sheets, causing the base of the tree to look like a giant bubble.  Higher up, the water fell in individual droplets.  The lower ones were about the size of shooter marbles, and the highest ones were so small that they danced and swirled on the wind in little spirals as they fell back toward the base of the tree. Bright sunlight illuminated the water, and the colors of the forest were reflected in each droplet.

    As the water splashed against the smooth, flat rocks at the base of the tree, it created a constant bass drone.  There was also a rhythmic "splat, splat" as the smaller droplets splashed with less volume than the big drops.  The various sizes and textures of the stones created variations in tone and pitch.  A melody would seem to spring up of its own accord, ring out as a thing unto itself, then fade as another pleasing tune took its place.  The songs were familiar in style and form but not recognizable.  Some were slow and yearning with dissonant harmonic effects, but others were quick and clean with demanding rhythms that defied stillness in the listener.  Curt and I fell back against the cool, damp rocks to watch and listen.

    After what seemed like a only a few minutes, Curt decided he was hungry again.  He reached into his pocket and came out with a great handful of trail mix intermingled with pocket-lint.  He offered me some, but I declined.  After devouring it in one quick gulp, he headed toward the stream.  "It's time to see if this water tastes as pretty as it looks.”

    I got out my now empty canteen and joined him at the creek's edge.  Curt reached into the stream with cupped hands, but just as he was about to bring the cold water to his lips, a gruff voice called out from somewhere above, "I wouldn't drink that." 

We looked up to see Jerdon on the rocks above us.  There was a look of determination in his pink eyes.  "I said, you boys best leave that water alone."

    Curt let the water fall back into the stream and wiped his hands on his pants.  I stopped filling my canteen and stared at our unusual guide.  Tamm flew from somewhere above and lit on Jerdon’s shoulder.  "I'll explain,” he said as he jumped down from the ledge.

I noticed he was not wearing boots.  Mud covered his cloven hooves.  He paused for a few seconds and breathed deeply. "You've found the water tree," he sighed.  "I guess anyone damn-fool enough to hike with instruments ought to. Since you're here, I might as well tell you my story."

    Curt and I moved away from the water's edge and leaned against a rotting tree trunk as Jerdon began his tale.  Tamm cocked his head, blinked twice, and shrugged his wings.

    "My family lived near the grist-mill at the mouth of War Creek.  Me and my younger brother grew up playing music.  My brother played banjo in this unusual two-finger style, and I played fiddle.  We was real young, but the music came easy to us, so lotsa folks aksed us to play at their dances and cakewalks throughout the whole War Creek Valley.  We became pretty well known, and folks in those parts spoke of us simply as ‘the red-headed boys.”

    “One day, my brother decided to go exploring in the woods.  He liked to take his banjo into the forest to hear it echo inside them big hollow trees.  I didn’t go with him that day because it looked like rain.  I was sorry I stayed behind when it got dark and stormy and he didn’t come home. 

“When morning came, I decided to go look for my brother.  I was sure I’d find him curled up and asleep inside some tree, so I took my fiddle along.  After hours of searching, I reached a section of woods I didn't recognize.  Well, you can believe me that I got lost pretty quick.  I spent the night in a cave.  When I got up the next morning, I began looking for food.  I saw a bee swarm in a high tulip tree….”

    "That's when you found Tamm?" I interrupted.

    "That's right," he sighed.  “Tamm here was near death.  After several days, I nursed him back to health.  One day, that durn bird surprised me by sayin’ my name.”

    "Well, you'd think he'd have recognized his own brother!" squawked Tamm. 

Curt and I fell back in amazement as the shrill-speaking bird took up the story where Jerdon left off.   Tamm said, “I stumbled upon the water tree and found a wild boar what could speak.  The boar was stompin’ and snortin’ and angry.  But he encouraged me to drink from the stream.  Just as I'd taken a big swaller, a woodpecker called out overhead.  Well, I looked up, just in time to find myself turned into that red-headed bird!  Just like that, the bird became a man and ran away through the woods.

    “The wild hog stamped his feet and shouted ‘No, no, no!  You were supposed to look at me first!’  That boar told me that a mysterious power in the water caused anyone who drank it to change into the form of the first creature it looked at.”

    "Same thing nearly happened to me," Jerdon interrupted.  "That boar told me to drink, but Tamm stopped me.  It was one morning before Tamm had recovered enough to speak real good.  I wandered up the creek lookin’ for the source and found the water tree.  Just as I was about to drink, Tamm found me and cried out loudly so only a little bitty trickle of water passed through my lips. 

“I glanced at the wild hog, but because I'd only barely tasted the water, I didn’t become that wild hog.  I reckon I made out better than that ole’ boar.  He got the eyes, ears, and feet of a human, all inside the mind and body of a pig.  Last time I saw him, he ran off squealing into the woods.  That boar's still around here somewhere, but I'll be derned if I'm gonna let this happen to anyone else," he finished. 

Curt leaned toward Jerdon and Tamm to ask the question foremost on both our minds.  "What about the fiddler?" 

Jerdon gave us a long, silent stare, then reached down and began to push aside a large, flat rock.  "Here's where I name my price," replied the lanky pig-man.

    "We'll pay," I shot back.

    "You boys have to promise never to reveal the location of the water tree."

    Curt and I nodded inagreement, and Jerdon slid the rock away.  A hollow compartment lay beneath the stone.  We looked in and saw a rusted, rotting banjo; and a well-polished, hand-carved fiddle; and a fraying horse-tail bow.

    "Oh, and I need a new bow," he winked as he pulled the one he had taken from me from his shirt.

    "It's yours," I responded.

    The guardian of the water tree took up the fiddle as Tamm flew to a nearby tree and began a rhythmic knocking.  As Jerdon raised the fiddle to his chest, the water tree began to gurgle and bubble more than before.  He drew the bow expertly across the strings and began playing a mournful minor-key tune with a sound as ancient as the hills around us. His plaintive notes matched the song of the water tree exactly.  The melody soared toward the treetops and echoed from the rocks and across the ridges before fading as it wafted toward the valley below.

    Sometimes Jerdon and the tree played in unison, at other times they seemed to work against each other in strange, syncopated rhythms.  Tamm's percussion added subtle texture to the tune.  At one point the bird threw back his red head and shouted out a single line to the song.  The line seemed sincere, but neither of us understood the language.  We stared in awe as the song closed.  We had found the fiddler.

   "Are they good?" asked Curt.  “That’s the tenth time I’ve asked you.  C’mon, pay attention!”

    I shook my head again to clear the fog.  "I thought I told you they taste a bit like grapes, and I really like the spongy texture," I grinned, offering him a handful of the dime-sized purple mushrooms.

    "Nah," he replied.  "I'll stick with morels.  I've never seen any quite like that, and some of those things can have powerful effects."

    "I'm sure these are harmless," I scoffed as we started off down the trail.  Just then we noticed movement in a clump of honeysuckle beside the trail.  I poked my fiddle-bow into the bush, and out ran a wild hog.

    "Wow, that's a surprise," Curt exclaimed, as the pig ran squealing into the woods.  "They aren't native to these woods.  They're very destructive but seldom dangerous."