“If you don’t be good, that ole’ indian chief will rise from his grave on Sugarloaf Mountain an’ carry you away!” Dad’s tall tale, designed to scare a stubborn little girl into behaving, rang in my head. Now I was driving back to the rural area where I was born to climb this peak of the Cumberland Mountains. It sat practically in my back yard when I was small and still had a place in my heart, even though I had long since moved away. Six miles from Flemingsburg I arrived in Mt. Carmel, the tiny village where I lived my first seven years. A few more seconds and there was my old house, and in the back . . . the mountain. It was a living thing to me. I had never climbed it as a child, but I planned to now and perhaps, heal it, with divine help.
Dad and his brothers had also grown up in this village. He explained that the peak got its name because the summit looked like a “loaf” of sugar. The sweetener was sold in loaves before contemporary packaging. My uncles talked about climbing Sugarloaf as youths and the incredible views from the top. Dad chuckled about sitting in the loft of the family barn and watching a solitary plume of smoke rise from a still on the mountain. He loved it that no one would rat out the moonshiner to the revenue people. Most of all, Dad and my uncles told how the mountain was a sacred place to the native Americans. They had kept the land around Sugarloaf as a communal hunting area and used the peak as a burial ground for their honored chiefs.
But Sugarloaf developed a dark side. Uncle Charlie told how he had watched torches from the KKK filing up the side of the mountain as a boy. They had used it for their “trials” and even hung an African American man there. The local sheriff and deputies had staked out one of the meetings and threatened the group with swift justice in an effort to end the violence. In the 1930’s, Uncle Charlie said, archaeologists had descended on the mountain, excavated some of the graves and carted off their contents. You could still see the desecrated graves, he claimed. Such a rape of sacred space! I reasoned that if one could say prayers to cleanse a house of evil, you could do the same for a mountain. I meant to try, Lord willing.
I passed the mountain then turned down a side road that ran into the community of Pleasureville. All the country lanes were in full bloom with nodding queen anne’s lace, chicory and daisies. I intended to drive down a small road that ran parallel to the mountain, find a place to park off the road, then climb to the top. If I needed to cross any fence lines, I would, confident that I wouldn’t get caught for tresspassing. Even if I did, all I had to do was mention my family name, which was well-known in these parts, or tell the landowner that I wanted to visit the summit to get closer to God. Surely no good-hearted property owner would fault me for an honest intention to worship.
I turned down Black Diamond Lane near the Pleasureville grocery, a narrow, winding road and stared across the thick green pasture. The cedar covered hill that rose up didn’t look anything like my beloved Sugarloaf - - it seemed to rise like a mighty giant from the flat land that surrounded it. Maybe I had miscalculated the distance. I drove on down the road, staring intently at the knobby, rolling hills piled up in the distance. How did all these get here? The farther I drove, the less familiar any of these looked, and they certainly weren’t as high. I even drove through the gate of Sugarloaf Christian Camp: it was supposed to lie at the base of the mountain, but I couldn’t be sure this was the right one either. How could I lose something so big?
Then it occurred to me. I had never once seen the backside of Sugarloaf, only the side that fronted our house. Moreover, from a distance, the loaf summit was plainly visible; unlike up close, all one could see was endless undergrowth going up the slope and no distinguishing top. Perhaps the fact that Sugarloaf seemed to spring on its own from the flat land around it made it seem much taller than in reality. Frustrated, I had blown most of the day simply trying to find my way around, and I readied myself for the return trip. My pride prevented me from stopping back at the grocery to ask where the mountain began. How my brother, a seasoned mountain man, would laugh at my poor orienteering skills!
On my way back through Mt. Carmel, I looked again at Sugarloaf. I thought, "This has surely been a lesson in humility." Maybe it was God’s way of telling me to let go of my pride and ask for help when I need it. Anyhow, when I go back, and I will, I’m taking along a map, a GPS, a compass, my Bible, a prayer book and my brother, just in case all else fails.
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