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The Cope Creek-Scotts Creek trestle
Back in the late 1940s, I used to follow the old railroad tracks home in the afternoon. I remember that there were about a dozen of us who walked the crossties from Sylva High School to Cope Creek. (I got off at the bridge by Willie Painter’s machine shop). It was a long walk and I was the youngest ... a runty, tow-headed kid with a Red Ryder book satchel. I usually lagged at bit behind the others and only caught up when they stopped to shoot marbles or investigate an interesting sight ... like the parrot that used to talk to us from a window in the Carolina Hotel.
Although Rhodes Cove had finally got a bus (It was No. 18), I only rode it for a year and then decided I preferred the crosstie trek. It was a lot more exciting out there on the tracks where the older kids cussed, smoked and skimmed rocks on Scotts Creek. Besides, I was learning a lot of valuable skills, like how to strike matches with my thumbnail, smoke rabbit tobacco and play “tracers” with my cat’s eye marbles. We also discussed timely topics like: Should Superman and Wonder Woman get married? Was “Whip” Wilson superior to “Lash LaRue? How was Gene Autry going to escape from the burning miner’s shack in the “continued serial” at the Ritz?
Being the youngest and small for my age, I found myself ignored by the others (12 years old and 65 pounds). If I ventured an opinion on a hotly debated issue, they usually looked amused and said, “Shut up, runt.” It was obvious that I needed to do something to get a bit of respect. Well, my opportunity finally came at the trestle.
Every day, we stopped on the trestle at the point where Cope Creek and Scotts Creek came together. Located below the bridge at present-day Jackson Paper, it was a long, black, creosote-soaked affair that ran some 10 feet above the water. I think we were all nervous walking across the trestle because it passed over a spot that we had named “the quicksand pit” – a name we had got from the jungle movies at the Ritz. In actual fact, it was a mix of evil-smelling sludge from the Mead plant combined with mud and trash that revolved slowly around the trestle pilings like a whirlpool. Each day, we would sit on the trestle and drop rocks and bottles into our quicksand pit.
“How deep you think it is?” said Forrest Lee, who was the oldest.
“Maybe 20 feet,” said Joe Henry.
“Maybe 60,” said Charlie Kay, spitting into it.
“Could be bottomless,” I said.
“Shut up, runt,” said Tom Ed.
One afternoon, when we stopped on the trestle, I knew my time had come. “I’d jump into the quicksand pit for 50 cents,” I said. I definitely got their attention. There was some laughter and a few taunting, “Yeah, sure!” comments, but I just set my Red Ryder book satchel down and took my shoes off. Joe Henry passed his cap round and counted the pennies and nickels.
“Forty-eight cents,” he said.
“That’ll do,” I said, and jumped off the trestle.
In years to come, I had nightmares about that jump. I do remember that I didn’t hit the bottom but seemed to stop a few feet down in all of that black goo. It was dark and silent down there. I began to kick and struggle, and I didn’t exactly rise to the top but sort of crawled upwards until I found a tree root. When I pulled myself out and wiped the gunk out of my eyes, I saw the whole railroad track gang silently staring down at me. When I struggled up the bank, I felt like I was wrapped in muddy blankets. I was covered in a stinky black sludge that caused Tom Ed to say, “Pheeeew!” When I finally got back to the trestle, Forrest Lee poured the pennies and nickels into my grubby paw. Then, everybody stood and stared at me.
“You was down there for a while,” said Forrest Lee.
“I was a little worried,” I said. I was aware that all of the kids were looking at me strangely. I gave up trying to get my shoe on and just hung them around my neck.
“Why did you do that?” said Forrest Lee. “Why did you jump?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I didn’t do it for the money though.”
“No,” said Forrest Lee. You did it because you ain’t got a lick of sense.”
When we walked on up the track toward Cope Creek bridge, I noticed that I was walking out in front. When I looked around, the whole gang was walking behind me.
“You look kinda like a big, black cigar,” said Tom Ed.
“What you gonna tell your grandma?” said Charlie Kay.
“I’ll tell her I fell in the creek.”
“You better ask her to send you down to Morganton,” said Forrest Lee. “They will keep you away from trestles.”
When I turned off the Rhodes Cove road, nobody said goodbye or “See you tomorrow.” When I looked back, they were still standing on the track looking at me.
I decided that maybe I should go back to riding No. 18 the next day.
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