Introduction: My grandmother, Leona Green, loved sharing stories, tall tales, history, and folklore from the Mountains of Tennessee, where she grew up. Whenever we visited her, she would captivate us with her storytelling. She was a master at spinning tales. Below is one of my favorites, based on a true story. –JC Bowman
Starr Mountain was the kind of place etched in the memory of a family like an old scar. It loomed above them, a great silent witness to their lives.
There was an old story, as old as the mountain itself, about a woman named Cecilia. Her hair was white as the snow that sometimes graced the peak, and her skin bore the marks of years spent in the sun and wind. She had wandered into the mountain’s embrace and was never seen alive again.
One autumn morning, crisp and bright, a group of friends set out to climb. They laughed and joked, the sound of their voices mingling with the rustle of leaves. The path was steep, and the colors of the forest were vivid, alive. But as they ascended, the air turned cool, and the laughter faded into whispers. The forest closed around them, its presence palpable.
Julia, sharp-eyed and restless, spotted her — a figure draped in rags, a silhouette against the trees. She moved as if part of the mountain itself, her form blending with the shadows.
“Look!” Julia called, her heart quickening, but when her friends turned, the woman was gone.
“Did you see her?” Julia pressed, a tremor in her voice. The others exchanged glances, skepticism etched on their faces, but Julia felt something stir within her, an urgent pull.
They continued, but the vision haunted Julia, a whisper in her mind. Soon, they came upon an old signpost. One path led to a view, the other deeper into the woods. John, the self-appointed leader, pointed toward the overlook, but Julia felt a magnetic draw to the other trail.
“Something is calling me,” she insisted, her pulse quickening. Intrigued, her friends followed her into the thickening fog, the air heavy with silence, broken only of their footsteps.
Then they saw her again — Cecilia, standing at the edge of a clearing. She gazed into the distance, a sorrowful look etched upon her face.
The wind caught her hair, and for a brief moment, Julia believed she saw tears glimmering in her eyes. An instinct to reach out surged within her, but the moment shattered as Cecilia turned and melted into the mist.
“Wait!” Julia cried, rushing forward, but the old woman was lost once more.
Breathless, they entered the clearing, a weight of unspoken sorrow pressing down on them. “Maybe she’s searching for something,” Julia pondered aloud, her voice laced with uncertainty. “Someone. What if she’s lost forever?”
Her friends nodded, the shared gravity of the moment settling in their hearts. They felt a kinship with the lost woman—an understanding of the beauty and danger that lay within the wild, and of life’s transient nature.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting elongated shadows, they retraced their steps to safety, hearts heavy with the burden of what they had witnessed. The legend of the lost woman became part of their story, a reminder that the mountains harbored secrets far beyond their grasp.
Years passed, yet Julia found herself drawn back to Starr Mountain, the echo of Cecilia’s silent quest ever-present in her heart. She never encountered the old woman again, but often sensed her lingering spirit—a gentle nudge to cherish every fleeting moment and to honor those who had wandered before.
Walking the trails, a smile crept onto her lips, knowing that the lost are not truly gone; they remain, waiting patiently for their way home.
JC Bowman is the Executive Director of Professional Educators of Tennessee and the Contributing Editor of TriStar Daily.
