We were somewhere along the Blue Ridge Parkway last week, the windows down and the mountains rolling past us, when Belle pointed out the window and asked me a question I never expected to hear from one of my own young’uns.
“Mama, what’s a knob?”
I laughed.
Of course I laughed. The word has always come out of my mouth so naturally that I hadn’t even thought about it. Knob. Just like y’all or fixin’ to or any of the other words that have been part of my vocabulary for as long as I can remember.
But once I finished laughing, sadness sank in.
Here was my own daughter, born in Waynesville, raised in North Carolina, riding through the mountains of Western North Carolina with her mama, and she didn’t know what a knob was.
And that got me thinking about how much hillbilly language we are losing simply because nobody is teaching it anymore.
Because if Belle didn’t know what a knob was, how many people are driving the Blue Ridge Parkway right now, looking out at a bald or a cove or a gap, without knowing what they’re actually looking at?
These aren’t just funny old mountain words.
They’re pieces of a language that grew out of necessity.
The people who settled Southern Appalachia didn’t have overlooks and interpretive signs and wooden Parkway signs telling them what they were seeing. They needed words that made sense of the land around them. If somebody said, “I’ll meet you at the gap,” everybody knew which gap they meant. If somebody said they lived up in the holler, you knew exactly the kind of place they were talking about.
The mountains have their own vocabulary because the people need it.
So, consider this your little field guide for the next time you’re winding your way through Western North Carolina.
Because once you know these words, you’ll start seeing the mountains a little differently.
The Mountains Themselves
Bald — A mountaintop where trees don’t grow, leaving the summit covered in grass, low brush or other vegetation instead. Nobody has one simple answer for why some Southern Appalachian peaks are bald while the mountains around them are forested, which is part of the fun. Andrews Bald and Gregory Bald in the Smokies are two of the best-known examples.
Rocky bald — Pretty much what it sounds like: a bald where exposed rock, rather than grass, dominates the summit.
Knob — A rounded mountain or mountaintop, usually more dome-shaped than flat or sharply peaked. This was the word that started the whole conversation with Belle. Once you know what you’re looking for, you’ll find knobs all over the mountains.
Rocky Top — A mountain with a rocky knob or rocky summit. And yes, that Rocky Top. The next time you hear the song, you’ll know exactly what they’re talking about.
Dome — A rounded mass or summit, often made prominent by exposed rock or a relatively smooth, rounded profile.
Chimney — A tall, narrow rock formation that rises dramatically from the surrounding landscape. The Chimney Tops in the Great Smoky Mountains are probably the most recognizable example in WNC, and once you’ve seen them, the name makes perfect sense.
Craggy — Rough, rocky and broken, with jagged edges and exposed rock rather than smooth, gentle slopes. Craggy Dome and Craggy Gardens near Asheville aren’t exactly hiding what they are.
The Land Between
Ridge — A long, narrow crest of high ground running between peaks or hills. Think of it as the spine of the mountain. A knob is round; a ridge stretches.
Gap — A low place in a ridge between two higher points. Gaps have historically provided natural routes through the mountains, which is why so many roads and trails follow them. Newfound Gap is one I’ve spent the most time in, but there are countless smaller gaps scattered throughout the Appalachians.
Holler — The Southern Appalachian pronunciation of hollow, a narrow valley tucked between mountains. A creek will often run through the bottom, with homes scattered wherever somebody managed to find a little patch of level ground. When somebody tells you they grew up “up in the holler,” they’re not just telling you where they lived. They’re giving you a picture of the place.
Cove — A sheltered valley surrounded by mountains on several sides, generally broader and more open than what we’d call a holler. Cades Cove is probably the most famous example, but the Southern Appalachians are full of them.
Branch — A small stream, often feeding into a larger creek or river. And if somebody tells you there’s a branch running behind their house, don’t go looking for a tree branch. They’re talking about water.
A Few More Mountain Words Worth Knowing
Fork — Where streams come together or divide. That’s why you’ll find names like Left Fork and Right Fork all over mountain maps.
Laurel hell — Also called a rhododendron hell or slick, depending on where you are. It’s a dense, tangled thicket of mountain laurel or rhododendron that can turn a perfectly innocent hike into a full-blown wrestling match with the vegetation. If you’ve ever tried to bushwhack through one, you don’t need me to explain the name.
Bench — A relatively flat shelf or gently sloping section of a mountainside. In a landscape where level ground is hard to come by, a bench could make a pretty good place for a house, garden or pasture.
Saddle — A low point between two peaks along a ridge, shaped, more or less, like a saddle. It’s closely related to a gap, although saddle generally describes the shape or terrain rather than necessarily referring to a route through the mountains.
Isn’t it something that we needed all these words in the first place?
You don’t need nearly this much vocabulary to describe flat country. A hill is a hill. A valley is a valley.
But Appalachia isn’t simple.
It’s folded and layered and stacked upon itself, with ridges running into coves, gaps cutting through mountains, branches feeding creeks, and houses tucked into hollers wherever somebody could find a piece of land that would hold one.
People needed different words because there were different kinds of places.
And those words became part of the culture.
I told Belle all of this as we drove along the Parkway, the wind coming through the windows and the mountains stretching out in every direction. She asked questions. I answered them. And somewhere along the way, my daughter learned what a knob was.
And a gap.
And a holler.
That may sound like a small thing.
To me, it isn’t.
Because these words aren’t dead. They aren’t relics sitting behind glass in a museum. They’re still in the mountains. They’re still being spoken. They’re still describing the very ground that raised me.
They just need somebody to teach them.
And by the time we got back to the flat land, Belle knew what a knob was.
Which means I can officially say that my work here is done.
Well.
At least until she asks me what y’uns means.
Because apparently I’m raising children who need remedial hillbilly.
