I’ve already written a good bit about my camping trips with my uncle Don Hale, his dad Henry (my grandfather) and my brother David and other members of the Hale gang. This song is my personal favorite about those times at Sandstone Falls on the New River.
This video features Alan singing this song from a recording made in 1965. The photos were all taken by Alan’s brother David in the 1950s and 1960s, all of them of Sandstone Falls; the exception is the cover photo, which features David’s Chevy on Indian Creek Road.
It was the early Spring of ’56, and Don (my uncle Don Hale, three years my senior) and I talked about going fishing sometime. He lived in Pittsburgh, where he worked for U.S. Steel. Back then it was one phone call and one short letter to set it up. I told him New River was my choice; he agreed. We talked about possible camp spots, and I said, “Guy told me there are places to sleep out downstream from Hinton, across the river from the railroad. Let’s give it a try.”
We met at a small grocery store, bought a little food and set out. Friday night, as usual. Found a spot right on the water about 7 miles down the river, and made camp. Very rough. No shelter, no stove, no lantern. I had an army blanket; Don had a worn-out sleeping bag. Anyway, we made do and stayed until Sunday morning — Don had to get back to Pittsburg.
Based on that weekend, he and I worked up a trip the following spring. We rounded up Granddad Hale and Pat Hale — Don’s older brother, and set out down the same dirt road below Hinton. This time we found another campsite a little farther down. With a little more camp gear this time, including a tarp for shelter, we fished a while, had supper and turned in.
Willis Farley, Patrick Farley – baiting hooks – Sandstone Falls, WV
The next morning after breakfast, Don and I decided to scout downstream for good fishing spots, so off we went. We walked easily for about a half hour without seeing anything better than the site we were using. And then, well, let me do an “aside” here just to help you understand this story.
Flashback: It was Christmas time; I was about five. And we had a tree. I was in a trance with that tree. Every evening after supper I would go to the living room, lie on my back under the tree and just look up at the lights. I went through the same process each time: what is my favorite color light? Red? Orange? Blue? Green? And then it was Christmas morning. The lights on the tree. Gifts!!! Dad, getting ready to go to work at 7:00 a.m. David and Alice and I, open-mouthed, speechless, in a momentary wonderworld. Eyes popping. Mouths open. Hearts pumping. Breathless.
One of the best-remembered moments of my life, then or now. The feeling is not to be described, though most if not all little kids know it, but beyond words, though many real writers have come close.
So . . . that’s my “aside.”
Sandstone Falls – October 1960 – Photo by David Farley
Don and I walked around a slight bend in the road, and there, on our right the river. But what we saw hit me like that Christmas morning: awe. I was speechless. We both were. We had come upon, with no knowledge of its existence, that incredible sight on New River known as Sandstone Falls. Look at the photo; there’s no other way to describe it. Don and I were in a trance. Finally, he said, “Oh My God.” I agreed. So, on the spot, we decided that the campsite had to be moved. We practically ran back up the dirt road to our camp, and announced that we were moving down to the falls. Now remember, this was a two-night campout. When we got back to camp and made the announcement, Granddad and Pat were noncommittal, and we made the move. On the face of it, it was a dumb thing to do. But Pat and Granddad just had to see what we had seen: those roaring falls, with areas below to wade and fish; a perfect campsite, nature at its best.
Sandstone Falls became an annual destination, and along with the original four, our gang included brother Dave and my special buddies, Kenny, Louie and Lloyd. Every October we’d go to “Sandstone.” The days and nights there were unspoken magic to us all, and remain so in memory. While we continued to camp on Indian Creek — another kind of magic — Sandstone Falls was that place where upon discovery, at age 26, I was a little boy again, in my own wonderworld, just like being on my back under the Christmas tree.
Recently, Patrick and I were camping on Indian Creek (this is 2014), and we decided to take a drive down to Sandstone. I’d heard the story, and we saw it was true: the road from Hinton was no longer a dirt road; several years before it had been decided to pave that road, and to make Sandstone Falls a State Park. No more campers, no more fishermen, except for the family picnic guy, who occasionally walks across the State Park walkway across the river beneath the falls, and drop a line for a few minutes. We learned that few people go there; it’s just too far to see some waterfalls. So there’s a kept parking lot smack on top of our original campsite; a “park” up and down and across the area below the Falls, and that’s about it.
Paving that road put an end to an era: a place where it was free to camp, to fish, to watch the wonder of the Falls, and be bothered by no one save an occasional squirrel hunter. No surprise here: that’s been happening since the days of the early settlers, so I suppose I shouldn’t fuss. It’s just that when you’re the one with the Christmas Morning memory of that beautiful scene, it all seems kind of a magic-killer.
During those Sandstone years, I was having fun writing country songs about camping and fishing. There were several, the first entitled “Indian Creek,” which I sang to my infant children as I rocked them to sleep.
The song that became my personal favorite is entitled “When the Hales Take Over the New.” This is specifically about those times at Sandstone Falls. Here are the lyrics.
Note: “The Hales” is a reference to the entire gang, with Granddad Henry Hale being the patriarch, along with Pat and Don Hale, two of his sons, and David and me (half Hale, half Farley). The other guys were considered Hales by adoption, you might say.
When the Hales Take Over the New
Come October and we’ll all go ‘cross the river from the C&O The leaves are falling and the water’s low When the Hales take over the New, the New When the Hales take over the New
Down the road to Sandstone Falls It’s the time of year when the river calls The fish are jumpin’ and you know it’s true That you gotta be on the New, the New Well, you gotta be on the New Build a fire from an old crosstie
Build a fire from an old crosstie Set your pole for a big red eye That’s the very first thing you do When the Hales take over the New, the New When the Hales take over the New
Late in the evening when the fire burns low You can hear Big Henry on the old banjo Pickin’ out “Cripple Creek” and “Shady Grove” And you know you’re on the New, the New Well you know you’re on the New
The fog’s on the river and it’s late at night When you’re on the trot and the line pulls tight You got a cat and he’s a nice one too And you got him on the New, the New Well you got him on the New.
Come October and we’ll all go ‘cross the river from the C&O The leaves are falling and the water’s low When the Hales take over the New, the New When the Hales take over the New
If you’ve read the entry on “Joplin Hollow,” you’ll find that this piece on fishing and camping is a hand-in-glove continuation about woods and waters.
Having been introduced to the woods as a young boy, I was ecstatic when my Dad took me on my first camping-fishing trip. I was about eleven. He and a friend took me for two nights to shallow cave on a steep hill above Elk River. They had a 12 ft. boat and 3 hp motor. We got there at about dark; too late to fish. So we dragged our stuff to the “cave.”
Rain. Relentless, non-stop, heavy downpour. We somehow got a small fire going, and Dad heated something on the Coleman stove. The rain just kept coming. It was then that Dad said, “Fred, why don’t we go set the trot. With this muddy water the catfish are going to really hit.” In his South Carolina drawl (he was an interloper), Fred said, “No, Willis, I’m not going out in that rain. You’re crazy.”
I, the young Daniel Boone, said, “Dad, I’ll go with you to set the trot.” Trot?
I had no real idea what the “trot” was. But Dad, like any good catfish, took the bait.
So we slid down the hill to the boat, and pushed off. Somehow — without much help from young Daniel, we got the line in the water, with weights and all like that. We baited the hooks with worms and doughballs. Then we slid and scrambled and climbed back up to the cave. Dad went on to Fred about how much I had helped. I have to admit, I felt pretty proud. We dried off, I climbed into my blanket and was gone.
Next morning, Dad and I went to run the trot. And yes, the river was high and muddy, and Dad was certain that we’d get several catfish. I was really excited, knowing that the hard work from last night would pay off.
Not one fish. Back to camp. Breakfast of some sort, and then the three of us went back to the boat to fish. The sun was blazing hot, and I was worn out. Sitting in that boat, with the sun beating on my back, I was drowsy. Dad and Fred kept fishing; I think I just dozed off. By that afternoon we — they — had caught one small mudcat. Camp that evening was a little subdued — no fish, muddy river, rocky, cramped camp. But we made it through till the next morning, when Dad and Fred decided it just wasn’t worth trying to catch anything in that muddy river. So we went home.
And I was as happy and proud as I had been in my whole life. And hooked on fishing and camping. From then on it was just a matter of when and how and with whom.
Willis, Fred Keilor, and Alan on Bluestone Lake, WV
I went camping with Dad three or four times after that, on Bluestone Lake. The campsites were much nicer than the cave, and being a little older I started to catch on to the business of fishing. And camping. By the time I was out of high school I was ready for the real deal.
I had — still have — a buddy named Kenny Pulliam. He was two years older, and we had been in the high school band together, as well as the church choir. Kenny had never camped — or fished. So we decided on a five-day trip to Bluestone Lake.
Borrowed Dad’s Coleman stove and lantern, as well as his rod, reel, tackle box, and 12’x16’ canvas tarp for a lean-to shelter. Borrowed Fred’s 3 hp motor. Off to Bluestone, and man, what a trip.
We rented a 12’ wood boat at the dock — WWII surplus. We caught fish, cooked, talked, played some music — guitar and uke, sang a lot, and got caught up in the wonder of being in a remote forest on a large lake. Kenny and I became really close buddies on that trip — the first of many together. Over time, we learned by doing, and became efficient campers and fair fishermen. And always with some kind of music. We could catch nightcrawlers, seine minnows, turn over rocks for hellgrammites, bait a trot, clean and eat fish, talk trade with guys in bait shops, and all the rest. Things I had no idea about that rainy night on Elk River.
At some point, at Kenny’s suggestion, we built our own boat. From what was a new material then — fiberglass. The boat was a beauty: Black body, 14 ft. runabout. Fitted out for fishing by Kenny, who was — and is to this day — a real “outside the box” thinker. We kept the boat in a slip at Bluestone for a couple of years — that way, we could simply pack our stuff and leave Charleston on Friday after work (I was working at Union Carbide in the summer months during college) and go to the lake.
We would get to the lake at dark on Friday, go to a predetermined campsite, set up camp, cook a good supper, set the trot, crawl in our sleeping bags and go from there.
Occasionally we caught good fish. Most often it was a few catfish and several big bluegills on rod and reel. But behind all that was the trip itself: Kenny and me, music, campfire, gear, food, woods, sounds of the night, exploring the area, and all around again: campfire, gear, food, woods, etc. etc. I can’t tell you how many times we did this, nor how it bled into my inner self to the point that woods and waters became an even deeper part of me.
Don Hale, David Farley, Alan Farley, Jeff Hale, Pat Hale. New River, downstream from the mouth of Indian Creek, late 1950s
During those same times, I continued to camp and fish with Granddad Hale on Indian Creek, along with my uncle Don, and brother Dave. Indian Creek was and is a very special place for all the Farleys and Hales (see other written pieces), put to music by me in the song “Indian Creek.” There are many tales to be told about our trips to Indian Creek. Suffice to say here that Indian Creek was the absolute favorite camping and fishing spot for all of us: Granddad, my uncle Pat Hale, my brother Dave, uncle Don, Kenny, fishing buddies Louie Husson and Lloyd Parsell, and others.
It is an idyllic spot: a fairly wide creek flowing downstream from the mountains to New River, in Summers County, West Virginia. Woods and Waters in the raw.
We camped and fished there countless times, and catching fish was the least of our worries. In warm weather and cool, in fair weather and storm, we explored, encountered the marvels of wildlife, and simply lived our dreams on that creek.
Later on, after moving to Salem, Virginia, I learned about the South Fork of the Shenandoah River, flowing north through the Valley of Virginia. For several years, beginning in 1971, I camped and fished with family and friends: my dad, brother Dave, friends — Lloyd Parsell, Louie Husson, my son Patrick (an avid outdoorsman), Don Ranson, along with others, for several years. The South Fork is a gentle, clear stream full of bass and catfish. Our preferred campsite was on an island with a shallow back channel, which made it possible to carry our gear across, or float it in a jon boat. This island home was at Hazard Mill, Virginia.
Alan and Patrick, August 1967
That all started about forty years ago, and the camping has simply gotten better with each outing. I had by that time caught a lot of fish, so it was time to pay more attention to the water, the rocks, the woods, the wild life, the flowers . . . the environment. During these later years, the camping has become primary; fishing is just an excuse to roll out the sleeping bag, fire up the lantern, and listen to the sounds of water and forest. To watch the moon pass over the trees on a chilly night, while listening to the water’s flow; to see your breath as that moon goes down and the birds wake up — to smell the remains of last night’s campfire, and to contemplate getting up before dawn to poke the fire and put the coffee on — that’s the stuff.
It’s been a while. As I write this, I’ve been camping and fishing for nearly seventy years. From Henry Hale, born in 1883, to Patrick, born in 1961, my time with all these good people — relatives and friends alike — has been enriched by their presence, and their companionship in the outdoors.
I’m still at it. As I write this, I’m working on menus for our next trip — a five night exploration of Cripple Creek, Virginia. I’m in touch with my guys: Lloyd, Louie, Jerry, and Patrick. Can’t wait. But as has been the case for many years, Kenny can’t make it.
Nowadays, long after Kenny came down with Parkinson’s Disease, he and I talk from time to time about those times. It occurs to me that most people — men and women alike — go through a similar stage, where ideas and values develop, along with special friendships. If you’re lucky, there’s someone there to go through it with you. Kenny was the guy who was there, when we wordlessly figured things out; laughed and sang together, camped together under trees that would barely let starlight through, splashed together in lake and creek, and all that goes with the outdoors. Long live Kenny. And long live the days of woods and waters.
Indian Creek
Grab your rod and a bucket of bait Meet you at the creek on Friday night Down in the meadow by the big elm tree We’ll go fishin’ just you and me
Indian Creek is the place for me
I’m going there today Goodbye world I ain’t coming back
I’m going there to stay
‘Cross the creek and over the hill To the Old Mill pond where the water runs still A big catfish I’ll catch tonight Skin ‘im on a tree and fry him right
Indian Creek is the place for me
I’m going there today Goodbye world I ain’t coming back
I’m going there to stay
Up the road there’s a big rock ledge Hanging over the water’s edge Drop your line in the creek below Wait for a bass to say hello
Indian Creek is the place for me
I’m going there today Goodbye world I ain’t coming back
I’m going there to stay
Coffee pot and fryin’ pan Bacon a pound and beans a can Jug of likker and the old banjo C’mon boys it’s time to go
Indian Creek is the place for me
I’m going there today Goodbye world I ain’t coming back I’m going there to stay
Henry Hale, my mother’s father, was born in Greenup County, KY in 1883, and died in 1966. Like Nanny Hale, he was a product of the Appalachian mountain culture: a tough person for tough times. He was a coal miner and farmer who, until his late sixties, never knew anything other than hard work.
He told me this story: at age 18, living in Kentucky, he hopped freight trains that brought him to Kanawha County, West Virginia. He jumped off the train and paid a man with a boat ten cents to take him across the river to the coal mining town of Diamond. He worked in the mines there for a year; then went back across the (Kanawha) river, hopped trains back to Kentucky, and married Effie — on Christmas Eve of 1903. They moved to West Virginia and their lives became a story of that day and place: coal mining, living in rural areas, and the rest. My descriptions of Nanny Hale are adequate to depict what life was like for Granddad. The rest of this entry I’ll devote to him.
Henry was what they called a “swarper.” That meant a man who wouldn’t back down; who was tough, rough, and ready to take on anyone who didn’t believe that. In addition to being a devoted husband and father, and a friend to hard labor and long hours, he was in every way a swarper. Although he didn’t spend time in the pool halls and bars, nor ever look for a confrontation, he was known as a man who wouldn’t back down. The story from my mother goes that his brother, Jim, who was also a swarper but less contained, had gotten too much to drink at the local tavern (very much like the western saloons of old), and had pulled his pistol and gone out onto the wooden sidewalk, just a roarin.’ They sent someone for Granddad and told him the problem. Granddad just walked out of the house, down to town — about two miles.
Then he walked up onto the wooden walkway where his brother Jim was shooting off his pistol in drunken joy, and simply poled him in the jaw. Jim went down like a dropped bear. That was the end of that. Henry didn’t look around for support or anger; he simply walked back home.
Knowing Granddad, I have every reason to believe that that is a true story. He was just that kind of man. Quiet, noncommittal, no nonsense. But that was just one side of the man.
Henry Hale was a father of six strapping boys. As in most families, they were all different. Prune, whose real name was Frank Curtis, was the eldest and destined to become a mine superintendent — the top of the line in that level of work. Pat, whose real name was Leslie Allen, the coal miner who was content to spend his time underground, digging out coal with pick and shovel, along with his brother Joe (Henry Joseph), the gentle giant, who, along with being a miner, loved animals above all else — and was likewise loved by his animals. Joe went on to become the master farrier in Raleigh County, shoeing horses for shows in Lexington, Kentucky and elsewhere.
Don, Christy, Joe, Prune, and Pat Hale – 1953 – Sons of Henry and Effie
Christy (his middle name was Mathewson, named for the famed baseball player), who was athletic, went to Beckley Junior College where he played basketball, and then moved to the Charleston area like the other relatives. He went to work at Carbide Carbon Chemicals, then at the beginning of World War ll, joined the Army Air Corps and was stationed in England until the end of the war. He went on to college in Oregon, and had a fine career as a professor of education at Eastern Montana University.
James Orville Hale (1904-1923)
The eldest son, Orville, had drowned in a local pond while swimming with friends in 1923. He had just finished his junior year in high school, where we has a catcher for the baseball team. His death at 18 was a horrific blow to the family; they never got over it nor talked of it to later relatives.
Don, the youngest son and “baby” of the family: he was probably unexpected, and therefore the baby. You can imagine the attention he got from Nanny, the siblings and others. (Don was only three years older than I, and we became brothers under the skin in later years — we were truly brothers in the Indian sense. Although we never slashed our arms and joined ourselves in blood, Don and I became as fast — if not faster — than brothers in blood. We camped and fished together, shared stories and news of our families, listened to favorite country music, and the rest. While we were always separated by distance in miles, we stayed close until Don’s death in 2004.)
There were four daughters: Shelma “Littlely,” who died a toddler. Edith, who was an academic star, and who began teaching in the classroom at age 16 — upon her graduation from high school. And Frances — or “Rook,” as she was known to all — her name “Rook” being derived from her learning the “numbers” from a deck of cards of a game called “Rook.” And there was Audrey, my mother, about whom you will hopefully learn from her grandchildren. She was truly special.
Edie, Rook, and Audrey Hale – mid-1950s
But back to Henry: he loved to fish, and on occasion took his boys to camp on Indian Creek, an easy stream which flowed through Summers County into the great New River, a few miles upstream from Hinton, West Virginia. (At this point I direct the reader to my song, sung by me, called “Indian Creek.”)
Henry would take his boys — those who were around — and camp for a few days on the banks of Indian Creek. On one occasion, he took his son Don and my brother Dave, both of whom were much, much younger than the other Hale boys.
My brother Dave told me this story: Older Hale brothers Christy and Prune were very competitive. They had a bet on who could catch the largest bass. They were both in the creek, fishing. and Christy yelled, “I’ve hooked a big one. I need help!” And Prune said, “Hold on, I’ll be right there!” So Prune came to where Christy was holding a really large bass on a taut line, and said, “I’ve got him. Just keep the line tight!” Christy did, whereupon Prune came up on the stretched line, pulled his knife, and cut it. “Damn!” said Christy. “I just lost the biggest bass!”
“Well, I guess you did,” said Prune. “So, I guess I win.” That was the nature of the relationship among the Hale boys.
If it seems that I have more to report on Henry than other relatives, you’re right. That’s because I spent a lot more time with him. And I knew him better. Remember, my Granddad Farley died in 1945. Henry was around until 1966, a period which included many camping/ fishing trips, numerous visits to his new house. So my memories of him are much deeper.
Here’s more:
In 1956, I bought an MGA roadster. Look it up: 1956 MGA. It was a two-seat roadster from Britain, a true sports car. I would pick Granddad — Henry — up and we’d go somewhere to fish for the evening. At 6’5”, he would barely fit in the car. But no matter, if we were going fishing, that was fine. We did that fairly often — I’d guess that I took him fishing on local streams 30 or more times. Once, I took him to Winston-Salem to visit his son Don. That was a difficult trip. Henry could barely get into that MG, and his legs were too long for the area under the dash. But he never complained, and the trip was memorable for me if not for him.
Having known life at its most challenging, Henry Hale was wise in many ways. He had a sharp mind for ‘figures,’ and could do quick math calculations as they applied to everyday life. Somewhere, he acquired other knowledge — about general physics as it applied to leverage, weights, balance, and measurement. I never ceased to be amazed at his practical knowledge. How he came by it I never learned.
From the period 1956 until his death, Granddad and I were inseparable campers and fishermen. He would take time to give me old-time wisdom about fishing, camping and the woods and streams. Most of it was absolutely accurate. His son Don — my uncle — and I became true brothers. The three of us went camping in impossible situations. Granddad would direct us to campsites unknown to anyone else, mainly on Indian Creek. He would show us his woodsmanship, telling us how to look for bait, set up camp, the rest. His woods knowledge was deep. More importantly, he would regale us with stories about his childhood, about the Kentucky woods, and the rest. What an education that was.
On occasion, he would slip in a few words about life itself — in ways that didn’t impress until much later. He was a mostly-silent, easy-speaking Kentucky mountaineer who somehow knew about life and how to live it. His sense of humor encompassed all that he encountered: he could find humor in the simplest of situations — humor that bypassed most people. That dry, droll humor of the Kentucky-Tennessee mountains is unique in all the world. If you get a chance, find it.
Effie and Henry Hale in their backyard, with by their 8 children who survived to adulthood, 1953 in South Charleston, WV. Left to right: Christy, Prune, Rook, Don, Audrey, Joe, Edie, and Pat.
I could tell you many stories about Henry Hale. But that is not the purpose of these writings. Perhaps, time permitting, I will write more completely about him. I hope I can. Henry Hale, more than any other relative, was the major joy of my life. He taught me in ways I’m still discovering. And he had a joy of living that anyone would envy. He worked hard as a coal miner and farmer. He worked hard at raising his family. He was absolutely devoted to Effie. He found humor where others would pass it by. He never gave up. He was physically a strong, strapping man, but more than that, he was a strong man among men who knew what to believe and how to stick to it. Among all the men I’ve known, he is the most admired. I was devastated when he died. Mostly because it never occurred to me what a powerful influence he had on my life. Perhaps even more than my own father, who had enormous influence on my life, and is not be discounted at all: in some instances, the bond between grandfathers and their grandsons reaches beyond the immediate family — even fathers, for grandfathers are not bound by parental obligation or expectations. That relationship can lead to a unique, relaxed freedom, and that was the case with Granddad Hale and me.
