Chattanooga, Wednesday, June 21. Griff, D. Evans and myself have contracted for a two days’ pass from Captain Simpson. I was excused from guard last night, and this morning 7 A. M., after morning drill, we started out on a bold pedestrian excursion to Lookout Mountain and Lula Lake. Two days’ rations of hard-tack and sugar and cup in haversack was all equipage taken along. The “King of Day” came down upon us in full force, but nothing daunted we scaled the point in its precipitous and direct route. Pantingly we reached the photograph gallery and rested. Seized with a sudden desire to carry off some memento of our excursion, we seated ourselves on the cliff and had ourselves taken, by the sun. Carried off our plate picture for $6.50, and on to Lula through Summer Town, and camp of the “Butterfly Brigade” who were all out drilling in their white gloves.
Our tramp along the summit of the mountain was a pleasant walk of about eight miles, slightly undulated and timbered with a stunted growth of oaks, with an occasional house and patch of corn. Here as everywhere, enterprising Uncle Sam has his saw mills, shingle machines, etc. But here abruptly amid rocky scenes, craggy cliffs, we came to a precipice, and beneath us was Lula Lake. A wooden flight of stairs led us down about forty-five feet and on a level with this lake, which was certainly a diminutive thing, but a thing of great loveliness in its wild beauty. My pen is altogether too tame to give an adequate description of this romantic mountain scenery. The lake consists of a circular basin about thirty yards in diameter hollowed out of the solid rock which rises forty to eighty feet around the wall carved by the skillful hand of nature. The water rushes in at the top, down in a cascade at an angle of forty-five degrees. The margin is solid rock. There lay a frail raft by the shore on which we each in our turn circumnavigated the lake, causing the swallows in the rocks to fly away in consternation at this abrupt entrance on their solitude. This spot seemed to have a sweet solitude, and I almost wished myself an Indian to live and die amidst such scenery.
Climbing the rocks on the south of the stream we worked our way down to the Lula Falls, several hundred yards below. We found the declivity thickly covered with a rich growth of laurel, and fine specimens of huckleberries, which were ripe and nice. We picked our cans full as we went. After climbing down a great many breakneck places we reached the foot of the falls which in beauty is equal, if not superior, to the Lake. It consists of a tiny stream falling from a shelf eighty feet high, perpendicularly dropping over solid rock. In its descent it is broken into a white sheet of spray. We slaked our thirst and mashed our berries in sugar, and ate our dinner with a keen relish. Before leaving, desiring to experience the sensation, we stripped and took a huge shower bath by placing ourselves under the spout. Found the sensation more romantic than pleasant. It fell too hard, but made us clean.
The water continued in an eastward direction, and we reasoned that by following it we would come out into Chattanooga Valley and off Lookout Mountain. For a distance of about two miles, we followed this rocky chasm. On either side towering cliffs reared their heads a hundred feet above us, while we clambered over massive piles of stone, jumping across crevices, crawled and slid, etc., making our locomotion in a very odd way, the creek half the time whirling unseen beneath the rocks. This was hard work, and our shirts were wringing with sweat, yet all enjoyed it, at least I did.
But by climbing a little raise we at last found ourselves in quiet Chattanooga Valley, ten miles from town, and about 4 P. M., seated ‘neath the trees, we picked blackberries. Made sauce for supper again, then walked leisurely toward camp. This valley is good land and well settled. We saw good fields of corn, etc. but little signs of war. The people are the same ignorant, illiterate class. These people seem to have no idea as to distances whatever, showing their general ignorance forcibly. A woman told us “it was a heap o’ distance” to Chattanooga; “A right smart ways” to dry valley; “A good chance” to the next house; “Only a bit” to the spring. As night drew on we felt our fatigue and we sought shelter. Asked one man for the privilege of lying down on his porch out of the dew, but he said he “never made a practice of keeping no one”, so we concluded to bivouac with a small squad of negro soldiers who were out logging. Having traveled at least fifteen miles we could rest anywhere.
