A Visit to Alum Cave

Well, here we are at Alum Cave! Some five or six thousand feet up in the air. A wilder, grander spot I never saw before. It is not strictly a cave, it is what they call in mountains “a rockhouse,’—that is, a precipice so far projecting over its base, as to shelter the space beneath from rain and snow. At Alum Cave the projection is so great that it may well be called a cave. On the brow of the overhanging cliff above there are quite a number of eagle’s nests. They live there all the time, Jack told me. I saw several careering about, and heard others screaming among the rocks above.

I was reminded of Macaulay’s lines in Horatius:

“Like an eagle’s nest hangs on the crest,
Of purple Appenine!” 

I hope they may never be disturbed or driven away—’twould almost be treason to our flag to do so.

At the lower edge or end of the cave is what is called the “Devil’s Leap.” This is a cliff which, though not quite perpendicular, must be one thousand feet to the bottom. The very thought of taking such a leap almost makes one’s hair stand on end. At the upper edge of the cave, the precipice closes quite down to the side of the mountain below, so that the progress in that direction is impossible. Just to the west of the cave rises another rugged mountain peak, whose sides are so steep that no one has yet been able to climb to the top of it. This precipice seems within a stone’s throw of the mouth of the cave, but as my friend J.C.R. was not along, I can’t say whether one could throw so far or not. Had R. gone with me as he promised, his passion for stone-throwing would certainly have led him to test the matter. Through the sides of this beetling cliff are great holes. They look from where I stood as large as a hogshead, and give the cliff a very peculiar and grand appearance.

The cave is called Alum, because the water exuding from the side of the cave is strongly impregnated with alum. At the lower edge of the cave there are immense beds of almost pure alum. I got several large blocks of it loose with Jack’s axe, and brought them home with me; they are very beautiful. At the upper part of this extraordinary cave are large beds of sulphate of magnesia, or Epsom salts. Beautiful pieces of this, too, I brought off with me.

The reader who wishes to refer to a scientific account of this cave, can so so by turning to pages 118 and 119 of Professor Stafford’s “Geological Reconnaissance of Tennessee.” By the way, I see by a note of the Professor at that place, that Jack Bradley accompanied him to the cave, and he thanks Jack for his kindness to him. Jack, however, is ignorant that the Professor has thus spoken of him. He told me of the Professor’s visit and seemed to think his passion for knocking off bits of rock and looking at them, indicated that the gentleman was slightly demented—which impression I fear I only partially succeeded in removing from Jack’s untutored mind.

The peaks just above the Alum Cave, are called by the hunters “Bull’s Head.” Their altitudes have recently been taken and one of them has been found to be 6,670 feet high. This one has been called Mt. Le Conte, in honour of Professor Le Conte of South Carolina. The other peak is 6,559 feet high, and has been called Mt. Stafford for the State Geologist of Tennessee. Mt. Washington, it will be recollected, is 6,226 feet high—so the peak on the side of which Alum Cave is, is 444 feet higher than Mt. Washington. Another peak near the Alum Cave has been named Mt. Guyot, in honour of Professor Guyot of New Jersey. It is 6,734 feet high.

Having wandered about for an hour or two in the cave, I left, with regret, just before sun-down, to find some water at which to camp for the night. We had intended to stop in the cave, but could not do without water till morning. We found water in about half a mile, and making up a large log-heap fire, we cooked our evening meal—that is, we cooked our meat by frying it stuck on the end of a stick. Reader, nothing can be so delicious as a piece of middling and corn bread after climbing all day in the mountains. I said something about honey awhile back, but not having eaten it under such circumstances, I cannot say whether it would be equal to middling or not. I am disposed to doubt it, however. We had some fresh pig along, but Jack and I both determined in favour of the middling—though roast pig is not to be sneezed at.

It is Lamb, I believe, who says roast pig is a Chinese discovery. A fire having burned down a Chinaman’s hut, among the ruins was a pig roasted alive—or rather, dead. The Chinaman touching it to ascertain what it was, burnt his fingers, and naturally sticking them in his mouth to cool, made the discovery that roast pig is the sweetest of meat. Lamb says, to this day whenever a man in China wishes to eat roast pig, he places one in his house and burns it over the pig’s head—that being the way his ancestor’s did, and John Chinaman never innovates. 

Supper over, we wrapped our blankets around us, and threw ourselves on the ground before the fire to sleep.

“How clear and beautiful the stars look to night,” said I.

“Yes,” answered Jack, “but how cold and distant!”

After gazing at them a moment, I turned to pour out to Jack the thoughts his words had called up, and—will you believe it?—he was snoring! Sound asleep in half a minute! Astonishing facility that some people have of courting the embraces of “tired nature’s sweet restorer—balmy sleep.” How I envy them the gift. Good night!

This piece was first published at the Southern Literary Messenger in 1860 as an excerpt from “A Week in the Great Smoky Mountains”.