Mark Millican: Up on Greasy Creek

Published 10:04 am Tuesday, May 1, 2018

It was time to go to work. As I stepped onto the porch Friday there was thick fog in the woods, residue of the night’s gentle rainfall. It fit our mood, since Teresa and I learned earlier that morning one of the dear ladies at church had passed into eternity.

It had been a week of evening meetings and functions. Yet still, instead of resting at home, it felt like time to get away for awhile. My wife picked me up in downtown Ellijay after work and we headed north for Tennessee and the Polk County Ramp Tramp Festival — celebrating “60 stinkin’ good years” for those who are unfamiliar with this member of the onion family that grows high in the mountains come spring. Our route took us through Blue Ridge, McCaysville, Copperhill, Ducktown and the “river road” (Highway 64) that hugs the rambunctious Ocoee.

As we headed into the gorge of the watercourse, I began to regale Teresa with stories about my escapades in the deep recesses of the forest on the “wild side” of Parksville Lake. As a senior Boy Scout at the old Camp Cherokee, I took a squad of Tenderfoots on a trek to help them earn their hiking merit badge. We walked into a cove and found ourselves amid some wild boar piglets rooting up the ground. Quickly we backed away, watching for their mother.

Then the trail just ran out, so we pulled out a topo map and compass, clambered up a ridge and found a logging road on the lake side of the slope that led back to camp. In a little while we heard a crashing noise — something was coming at us through the woods — and we froze in our tracks. Suddenly, a multi-antlered buck on the run appeared above us. He leapt off the bank above the road, cleared it flying through the air and landed down the bank on the other side and kept going. Open mouthed, we stared at each other for a moment. Wow!

At age 19, I worked as a youth counselor at YMCA Camp Ocoee. Every two weeks I had a cabin of boys of similar age, and from about 11 on up we got to take an adventure trip. One time the camp director — with whom I had a distinct personality conflict — sent us onto the Ocoee at flood stage with inner tubes, which is no longer allowed.

There was an African-American in my cabin that fortnight, and when we stopped our flatbed truck at a store en route to the river to get drinks and snacks, three redneck guys on the front porch announced, “Ya better not let that black ’un off the truck.” I stayed in the back with him, and sent the other boys to get our lunch. I spent all day pulling terrified kids off rocks in this river with Class IV and V rapids that was utilized decades later for the whitewater competition of the 1996 Summer Olympics.

And how could I forget the night we were canoe camping and the panther, or lynx, came calling on the wild side of the lake and let loose with a blood-curdling scream since we had invaded its patrol space? It resulted in yours truly staying up all night keeping a fire going.

Back in those days, the only handheld “devices” a boy had at camp were a stick in one hand and a rock in the other. Or a paddle. And the lake and woods were our playground.

Exiting the river canyon, we saw the sign denoting Greasy Creek was dumping into the lake. We crossed the bridge, took a right on the back road to Reliance and followed the rollicking stream a few winding miles till we got to the 4-H camp, the beneficiary of all this ramping business.

We walked into the dining hall and the smell hit us strong — ramps were definitely on the menu! A bluegrass band was playing and had everyone bouncing and tapping to some old standards, even a Buck Owens tune. As we waited in a long line to get our plates of white beans, cornbread, fried potatoes and a couple of raw ramps, I spotted an old friend from many years ago.

Judy had dated my brother, Max, and jumped up for a hug and some conversation with us. Since she hails from Michigan, I had to ask her if she’d ever heard of ramps.

“No,” she exclaimed. “When my husband first mentioned a Ramp Tramp, I thought it was about some dirty girls.” We had a laugh about that.

We got our plates and found seats at a long table with other aficionados of this succulent mountain delicacy. After opening the Styrofoam carry-out plate, the aroma — I use that word loosely — hit us. Digging into the beans and cornbread first, I held out till I couldn’t wait any longer. The uncooked ramp exploded in my mouth with a taste like no other. How many readers can testify to that? The plateful was consumed in no time and I got back in line.

This year, as Polk County Extension Agent Greg Paukert was telling me, they had to buy the ramps instead of going into the mountains a few days ahead of time to dig them up. However, he found out later the area that was the speculative digging site had not yet been logged like they thought, and there was a chance they could return next year. It brought back memories of a few spry 70-year-olds gingerly scaling the mountain slopes to get to a ramp patch, and oh, the stories about unforgettable characters they could tell!

We exited the dining hall for the ride back home and the coolness wafting off the creek refreshed us. I thought back on the day, remembering how the sunshine had cut through the early-morning fog. Then I thought of our dear friend Quinette, and how she was now surrounded by a glory even brighter.

And I hope one day when my time comes to leave this place of earthly delights, culinary and otherwise, someone who understands ramps and loves me enough to endure their smell will first take me up on Greasy Creek one more time.

Mark Millican is a former Daily Citizen-News staff writer and is news editor of the Times-Courier in Ellijay. He can be reached by phone, (706) 635-4313; email, tceditor@timescourier.com; or via Twitter, @extrabymark.