By Brent Martin • Guest Columnist

In an article in Blue Ridge Country magazine, author and professor Steve Nash provided a bleak overview of what climate change means here in the mountains of Western North Carolina. Most significant are current predictedions for increasing temperatures, including a boost in the number of days over 90 degrees (75 a year predicted by 2080), and record drought (coupled with record intensity storms).

Changes such as these will alter the face of this ancient landscape in ways that we can hardly imagine. Iconic Appalachian creatures such as brook trout are expected to lose 50 to 90 percent of their habitat by 2080, and woodland salamanders dependent upon soil moisture could be wiped out altogether. High-elevation spruce-fir forest would also suffer. And these are but a handful of the projected impacts.

Given that climate change is now considered indisputable by every leading science organization in the world, one would think that as citizens we would be more alarmed and thus determined to make every change we can in order to reverse the momentum of this seemingly irreversible trend. Yet, according to some polls, almost half of all Americans are unsure that climate change is occurring. I suppose this is not surprising given the Bush administration’s denial of the issue for eight years, along with the limited media attention and public understanding. However, with the advent of the Obama administration, not only do we have immediate recognition of the issue but prompt action.

One of the administration’s first actions was the creation of an Office of Ecosystem Services and Markets. This office will be part of the U.S. Department of Agriculture, which includes the U.S. Forest Service and its 193 million acres of public land. The mission of this office will be to connect industrial emitters of carbon dioxide (CO2) with private landowners to plant new forests or crops to absorb their CO2 emissions. This could be a good thing for us here in Western North Carolina, where national forests make up over a million acres and private forest land totals another two million. Such incentives for forest and farmland conservation could be part of a broader agenda for our region to become agriculturally independent, to conserve our remaining working forests, and to mitigate the projected impacts of climate change.

With this “new climate” in Washington, and in anticipation of climate change impacts to our region, Warren Wilson College, The Wilderness Society, and Orion Magazine have come together to launch their first annual Headwaters Gathering March 27 to 29 at Warren Wilson. As our region is the source of drinking water for millions of downstream residents and is home to the East’s coal fields, the conference is aptly subtitled “Southern Appalachia at the Crossroads.” The conference will focus on the impacts of climate change in the region and what these impacts will mean to our economy, environment, and community well being.

Keynote speaker Herman Daly will be joined by activists Majora Carter and Winona LaDuke, retired coal miner Chuck Nelson, and renowned environmental educator David Orr. Also presenting are NOAA’s National Climatic Data Center scientist Thomas Peterson, author and activist Janisse Ray, New York Times writer Andrew Revkin, and National Wildlife Federation President Larry Schweiger.

From a town meeting with expert panelists, to intimate sessions with inspired leaders, the Headwaters Gathering will engage a broad array of citizens and inspire a new network of problem solvers. Registration and information is available at www.headwatersgathering.org.

(Brent Martin is the Southern Appalachian Director for the Wilderness Society, and his office is in Franklin. He can be reached at This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it..)

What a great way to earn public trust: a public body decides that minutes from closed sessions no longer need to be secret, and therefore it periodically votes to make them public.

That’s what the Franklin Town Alderman Bob Scott asked the Franklin board to do. Scott was concerned about the information in one particular set of minutes, but he also understood what he was doing. If the town adopted a formal policy, the public would be a lot better informed as to what went on behind closed doors when aldermen lawfully shut out the public from their debate.

Here’s the deal about closed meetings and public bodies. The North Carolina Open Meetings Law gives public bodies seven lawful reasons to close their discussions. Those seven reasons are clearly defined, and minutes must be kept. How detailed those minutes are depends on each group of elected officials, but it must be discernible what was being discussed and who was saying what.

Once the reason for going into the closed meeting is past — say an industry has finished negotiations and announced plans to build — then the minutes become a part of the public record.

Most boards — including Franklin’s — adhere to the letter of the law. But what becomes of those closed session minutes? Reporters and the public seldom request them. In truth, most of what took place in those meetings is never revealed despite the fact that taxpayers and voters could gain valuable insight from them.

We think Franklin should have set itself up as the most open board around. It did not change its policy, but merely formalized what’s already taking place: once every few months, its attorney will review closed session minutes and determine if they can be released. That’s OK, but the public would be better served by the policy Scott proposed.

Franklin Alderman Bob Scott is to be commended for his commitment to open government. The public and elected officials need to understand that nothing has to be discussed in closed session, that the law gives public bodies a few exceptions where they are allowed — if they choose — to go behind closed doors. Some personnel matters probably should be discussed privately, but many times it seems public bodies close their meetings when the reasons for doing so seem suspect.

Franklin’s isn’t a bad policy, but we think a better one is to formally include closed session minutes in board packets whenever the reason for closing the meeting has passed. Rather than have an attorney make the decision, we think elected officials or the manager could more easily — and cheaply — make that call. The onus for conducting the public’s business in the open is on the elected officials, and they will suffer the fallout if they wrongfully shut the door on their constituents.

“Unique” is a word much abused as a descriptor for human beings. I have heard many, many people described as unique, people who are actually a great deal more like other people than they would like us to believe. Scratch the surface of a gothic kid and underneath you’ll find someone who is most likely just as desperate to find his place and fit in as any fraternity boy. This is not a criticism — just an observation of how seldom we meet a truly unique individual, someone for whom being different is not a style, but a calling.

My friend, Terry Presnell, was a unique person. I thought he might be a poser, or simply an advanced prankster, back in high school when we were on the tennis team, and he wore a rubber Richard Nixon Halloween mask in a match against West Wilkes, our conference rival, and refused to take it off, despite the protest of his opponent and the other coach. Nothing in the rules against wearing a mask to play tennis, Terry said. He wore it, and won the match.

Terry wasn’t big on rules anyway. Rules came from institutions, as far as he was concerned, and he had great, venomous contempt for institutions — schools, churches, government, you name it. Like Huck Finn, he was afraid that institutions were out to “civilize” him, and when he looked around, he didn’t much care for what civilization had come to mean in this age — war, hypocrisy, tyranny, fighting over oil but not genocide. He didn’t want any part of that “civilization.”

For Terry, the continental United States was his Mississippi River, and he drifted all across this country, never allowing himself to become too “tied down” to any particular job. Over the years, he called me from all sorts of places — Las Vegas, Kitty Hawk, somewhere in New Mexico, the Keys in Florida. He kept as much as possible to warmer climates, with the beach as a special favorite. He took any sort of job he could find, even delivering newspapers if necessary. He basked in the sun, but he really thrived in the nightlife. Within a few days, he became a “personality” in any town he lived in, which was as natural to him as breathing, with his background in professional wrestling, radio, and gonzo journalism. He had been a columnist for several newspapers, even started his own rag in the Ozarks, which lasted for a good while until he got behind on some debts and then pulled a stunt that would prove to be the beginning of the end for him.

Terry owed some company $1,400, which may not seem like an insurmountable sum unless you don’t have it and can’t get it. He could have called his friends — we would have pitched in and got him out of a jam. But he had never taken charity from any of us, and wasn’t going to start then. So he thought of a way out. He drew up a fake death certificate, sent it to the company, and hit the road with everything he could take with him, leaving whatever was left behind.

This bad decision — which I can easily imagine Terry rationalizing as a silly prank that he would somehow make good on later — led to other bad decisions. I believe there were some counterfeit checks, identity theft, I can’t remember what all. He stayed on the run for months, but one night in Ohio he got pulled over on a routine traffic stop, and within minutes, it was all over. In some ways, it was a relief to Terry. As the bad decisions accumulated, there was just no way to keep going without making another one, to get him through the next day.

He went to prison for a few years, and we lost touch. Then, a little over a year ago, he reappeared in our hometown, about twice his normal weight, barely able to move. Prison had been hard on him. He had a variety of very serious health problems, and no real way to make a living. Some of us did what we could for him, donating furniture, a microwave, a computer, groceries, whatever he needed to get on his feet. But he couldn’t get on his feet, not in any meaningful way. Part of being Terry was being on the move, beholden to no man and no institution.

He got by in a dingy little rent-controlled apartment for about a year. I saw him whenever I got home, which was only a couple of times. We visited and reminisced and laughed a lot — he had the greatest laugh in the world. He laughed with his whole body, his shoulders literally shaking up and down if he was really amused.

The last time I saw him, right around Thanksgiving, he gave me a grocery bag packed full of movies and CDs. He said he was getting the hell out of Sparta and moving back to Hickory, a town where he probably had the most success in making a decent living and where he had become pretty well known for his column on pop culture.

Now we know the real story. He “moved” to Hickory as a launching pad for his last big adventure, a trip to Florida, where he spent the last days of his life driving around, sleeping in the car most likely, or on the beach, drinking beer, which he had not really been able to do much with his health in such poor shape. He wrote a few fond farewells to his friends, and assembled packages for a couple of people containing the most meaningful scraps of his life. Somehow, he managed to get a gun, which he used to shoot himself two weeks ago.

Another friend from the old days, Stewart, called me last week to tell me about it. Initially, there were no reports of a note, which didn’t sound like Terry. Sure enough, two days later, Stewart called me again and said he had received a package, along with a note, in which Terry basically said that with his health getting poorer by the day, he was looking at another lengthy hospital stay, dialysis, even worse. He quoted Neil Young, “It’s better to burn out than to fade away.” He said if the preachers were right, he was “probably headed South,” but he thought the company would be more interesting there anyway. He said if reincarnation turned out to be true, he might come back as a fat Chihuahua.

He said that if there was going to be a service, he wanted only for a few of his friends to get together, drink a few beers, listen to some music from the old days, and remember some of the good times. He said he absolutely did not want the service to be held in a church, or for there to be any preachers.

There was a service on Saturday, at Saddle Mountain Baptist Church in Ennice, N.C. There were preachers. One of them had talked with him a handful of times in the hospital, the other had never met him at all. I was asked to speak, too, so I got up and shared a few stories, but whatever I said was swallowed up whole by 45 minutes of pure alter call preaching. For these two fellows, Terry was not a person. He was a platform. His life had no meaning for them other than as a cautionary tale for the rest of us. At one point, the preacher said, “Since I didn’t know Terry, I asked God what to say here today, and God said, “Remember me,’” which, it turns out, is translated as a very long story about the preacher’s own salvation, and how, thank God, he had not made the choices Terry had made.

It turns out that most of the memorial service for Terry was not really for Terry after all. Several times, I thought about walking out. I wish I had. After the service, someone told me they wished I had had an opportunity for a rebuttal.

Well, here it is. I don’t presume to know where Terry is today, but if God has a sense of humor, Terry may be pleasantly surprised with his accommodations. On the other hand, those responsible for denying him his final wishes ought to be deeply ashamed. Like Huck Finn, Terry once faked his own death. Unlike Huck Finn, he did not get to watch his own funeral. If he had, he would have been outraged. I have known him for 35 years, and I can guarantee that much. He would not have been alone. I spoke with at least a dozen of his friends after the service in front of the church, and every single one of them was upset by the service. Someone said it was more like a revival than a memorial for Terry. Someone else said those preachers ought to be ashamed.

Sometime this spring, there will be another service, the one he asked for. Call it a memorial mulligan, a do over. We’re going to get together, play some of the old songs, and drink a few beers in his honor. Then we are going to divide up his ashes and take them to various beaches — wherever anyone is going on vacation this summer — and set him loose on the tide.

If I see a fat Chihuahua running loose on the shore, I swear I’ll bring it home.

(Chris Cox is a writer and teacher who lives in Waynesville. He can be reached at This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it..)

By Anna Fariello • Guest Columnist

OK, so I have to admit that part of the appeal of the Dillsboro/Duke battle appeals to me in the same way that David and Goliath inspired me as a child. Small-town-takes-on-giant-corporation has the makings of movie. While I am into confession, I should admit that I don’t quite get the science arguments, although I am sure there is soundness on both sides of the issue. But overall, it is my practical nature that wonders — if Duke doesn’t want this dam, why can’t Dillsboro have it? The entire battle seems ludicrous as I imagine corporate fat cats strategizing on how to take such a little dam down, plotting where to strategically plant sticks of dynamite.

When I taught in Central America almost 10 years ago, I was struck by how historically significant archeological sites lived side-by-side with spontaneous soccer matches. In this country we protect our national treasures with guided tours and admission fees. Did those ball-kicking children realize that they were in the holy presence of history? There I was sent to teach collections care and soccer was, indeed, not in the preservationist’s handbook.

As the semester progressed and I became more familiar with those sites, my initial shock gave way to an appreciation of what is commonly called “patrimonio” in Latin America. We have a comparable word in English — patrimony — but in cultures where personal property rights reign, the word does not carry the same weight of meaning. Indeed, my Webster’s definition is particularly lacking, defining patrimony as “property inherited from one’s father.” A more professional definition, and one shared by Latin America and other countries, might better define it as “property of the people,” or I should say “property of The People.”

The Dillsboro dam has been around for the better part of a century. It has only been the property of Duke Power since 1988. In the hearts and minds of many Jackson County citizens, the dam is part of their cultural landscape as sure as Cowee Mountain and the Tuckesegee. It is a sweet and picturesque spot, a place to pause and drink in the view.

Most people are familiar with the National Register of Historic Places, the federal program that designates historic buildings and sites as significant to our country’s heritage. Indeed, Dillsboro recently received such designation for the historic Monteith House, bestowing both honor to the town and making the property eligible for tax rehabilitation credits. State law also provides for lesser-known designations, those called historic landmarks and historic districts, which are more local in nature. These designations do not require the same stringent nomination process, nor do they bestow the same benefits as the National Register, but they do enable local governments and citizens to take advantage of a number of credible preservation tools.

Historic landmarks and historic districts are administered by the N. C. Office of Archives and History and governed by specific North Carolina law. Local landmarks are designations that are applied to buildings or structures that have historical, architectural, archeological, or cultural value. While designation is honor, it is also a mechanism to assist with preservation planning and cultural conservation.

The process is not particularly difficult, but state law is specific and the process must adhere to defined procedures. The first step is that the locality — county or a joint commission of county and town managers — must establish an historic preservation commission or historic landmarks commission. This is the body that investigates and designates historic landmarks or districts for the locality that it serves. The commission is created by an ordinance adopted by the local governing board. After a commission is established, the local governing board appoints its members and provides enough support for it to operate. It is the commission that has the authority to designate local landmarks and districts with the state providing guidance and recommendations.

A local historic landmark does not have to be a building. The state allows for sites and structures to be included in the process. Yes, dams are specifically named as a category of “structure.” Once a landmark or district is recommended, the state reviews the designation and makes recommendations. A public hearing must be held. Once process is complete, it is the county attorney who drafts an ordinance to declare a local landmark. Interestingly, the consent of the property owner is not required.

I have pondered the plight of Dillsboro, a town that has had to endure the abandonment of the train, one of its fondest attractions. I have read and re-read explanations of sedimentation and mitigation with a limited understanding. I’ve been proud of the steadfast determination of our local leaders (some would say stubbornness, I am sure) to keep up their fight. Some have proposed making the dam operational and, who knows, the new administration may very well provide federal incentives for this as part of President O’Bama’s efforts to create “green” jobs. The idea of the Dillsboro Dam given designation as a historic landmark is not so far-fetched as it may sound. Surprisingly, Duke Power studied the possibility for itself in 2003. The “Eligibility Study of Seven Hydroelectric Projects in the Nantahala Area, North Carolina” is on the web.

Thinking back to Panama Viejo — “Old Panama,” the archeological site mentioned at the start of this essay — I recall the crumbling stone tower that was threatened with collapse. The National Institute of Culture had mounted a campaign for its salvation, adopting the motto, “Salve Tu Tore” (Save Your Tower).

I still have the mug, given to me by students at the end of the course, with the motto that seemed to be everywhere I looked. In class, we had agreed on the importance of delivering a succinct message that would resonate with anyone regardless of their level of interest or understanding of larger interpretive issues. “Salve Tu Tore” was printed on banners in the street, on the sides of city buses, in large newspaper ads, on tote bags, and coffee mugs. While the professional in me would advise careful planning and deliberate forward motion, the little girl awestruck by the audacity of David is ready to start printing T-shirts.

(Anna Fariello is Director of the Craft Revival and From the Hands of our Elders, projects of Western Carolina University’s Hunter Library. She can be reached This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it..)

A recent court victory by the state of North Carolina will require the Tennessee Valley Authority to reduce emissions at four coal-fired power plants close to the state line and the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. Once these modifications are complete, it should substantially help clean the air we breathe every day. But we hope this decision is a tipping point in the long-term effort to force utilities, manufacturers and others to make use of the latest technologies as this country makes the move toward cleaner, smarter, and less use of polluting fossil fuels.

The TVA has long been a poster child for companies that embrace a philosophy whereby the environment always plays second fiddle to economics. Although some of its plants were modernized over the years, the utility giant also regularly relied on technicalities in the 1970 Clean Air Act to keep from meeting the law’s stated principles. Those interpretations of the law allowed TVA to modernize its plants without installing the newest pollution-control technologies.

That meant Western North Carolina and east Tennessee residents never benefited from the Clean Air Act as we should have. The dirty air from the giant coal-fired utility plants became the major contributor to dirty air that obscured mountain views, damaged trees, streams and wildlife, and led to asthma and other pulmonary-related illnesses in many residents, especially children and the elderly.

The court ruling could become very symbolic in the effort to convince other utilities and private companies to do a better job of cleaning their emissions and reducing them. North Carolina’s court case was preceded by the passage of its own Clean Smokestacks Act in 2002. North Carolina’s two utility giants — Progress Energy and Duke Energy — forged a compromise with legislators. The utilities would clean up their emissions while being allowed to slightly raise power bills to pay for the work. In other words, citizens paid to clean up their air.

The TVA ruling comes just as the Bush Administration is leaving office. That administration’s wars in the Middle East and its economic policies grabbed most of the headlines over the last eight years, but it also did little to lead with new ideas about energy and pollution. In fact, it continually sided with corporate lobbyists who argued to maintain the loopholes in the Clean Air Act.

The Obama administration is promising a different strategy. Our dependence on imported oil is seen as a foreign policy liability and our energy policy is viewed as outdated. By moving toward greener technology, smarter energy use and less reliance on coal and oil, jobs will be created and we will become the world leader in the emerging new energy industries.

North Carolina acted on its own to clean up its act, and TVA had to be ordered to do the right thing. In both cases, the right decision was made. Perhaps this victory for residents of Western North Carolina is symbolic of a new era where the flashpoint between the economy and energy doesn’t always mean sacrificing the environment. That would be a welcome change.

By Bob Scott • Guest Columnist

A municipality would never think of electing a chief of police. But in North Carolina, sheriffs are elected like a high school popularity contest. When I tell people there are no qualifications required to run for sheriff, they are amazed.

Anyone can be elected sheriff without ever having completed first grade — although it’s not likely. A sheriff does not have to complete basic law enforcement training or have any law enforcement experience. This issue has surfaced again with the incident involving Swain County Sheriff Curtis Cochran.

Media reports say Cochran has had no law enforcement experience nor has he undergone basic law enforcement training. (The Smoky Mountain News, Jan. 21-26)

It is time for counties to do away with this archaic office bound by tradition and transfer the law enforcement function to professionals hired by and answerable to a commission or other oversight body. A county could still have an elected sheriff, who would be responsible for the jail, court security and civil process. The law enforcement function would be taken over by county police headed by an appointed chief. This would take partisan politics out of the law enforcement function, bring professionalism to the office, and establish accountability to the public.

Presently, the only control county commissioners have over a sheriff is his/her budget. Otherwise, the sheriff is not answerable to anyone for four years until he/she has to answer to the public at election time. Unfortunately, without any oversight, the public is often unaware of a sheriff’s effectiveness.

One argument to keep the office of sheriff is that it is the only office mentioned in the North Carolina Constitution. However, there is no mention in the constitution of the sheriff having law enforcement powers or protecting life and property.

Just for argument’s sake, here is a sampling of requirements some small towns are requiring in current advertisements for police chiefs:

• Archdale (Pop. 9,900) Bachelor’s degree. MA preferred in criminal justice related fields, advanced law enforcement certificate, high-level supervision experience.

• Mount Gilead (Pop. 1,389) Associate’s degree and minimum of three years experience.

• Erwin (Pop. 4,770) Must have thorough knowledge of law enforcement practices, procedures, requirements and working knowledge of administrative principles, finance, accounting and computers.

Another difference between a municipal police department and a sheriff’s office is that a sheriff may swear in a deputy. This allows that deputy to carry a badge and gun with powers of arrest for a year before attending Basic Law Enforcement Training (BLET). Currently BLET is over 600 contact hours and is generally taught through the community college system. A municipality may not put a police officer on patrol with arrest powers until that officer has completed state mandated BLET. Other local, state, and federal law enforcement agencies do not give an officer power of arrest until they successfully complete required training.

It is a common practice across North Carolina for sheriffs to fire and/or demote deputies who do not actively support their election. So if a deputy disagrees with a sheriff, he can lose his job for political reasons. The Fourth Circuit Court of Appeals has upheld this draconian practice. What other law enforcement or governmental agency can be so unreasonable in dealing with employees without due process?

It is time for North Carolina counties to establish county police departments, or at the least give deputies some form of civil service job protection and a grievance procedure overseen by neutral and objective persons. Sheriffs should have to abide by the same personnel regulations as other law enforcement agencies.

Many deputies loyal to the criminal justice system have had their careers cut short because of politics. Loyalty to the sheriff is seen as more important than loyalty to the criminal justice system and the public. When sheriffs demote or fire well trained and experienced officers, the taxpayers lose as well as the officers.

Another problem with the office of sheriff is the cost of the political campaign. The public should be concerned that sheriffs, unlike police chiefs or other law enforcement officials, become obligated to campaign contributors. The sheriff’s race is often the most expensive local race.

It hasn’t been too many years ago that the law was changed to require district attorneys to be lawyers and most counties have now done away with elected coroners in favor of medical examiners. Several counties have opted for county police. So there is precedent for counties to consider a move to county police.

(Bob Scott served as Executive Officer of the Macon County Sheriff’s Office. He has degrees in criminal justice, is a graduate of the FBI National Academy and earned the Advanced Law Enforcement Certificate from the N.C. Sheriff’s Education and Training Standards Commission. He may be reached at This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it..)

By Curtis Cochran • Guest Columnist

As sheriff of Swain County, I would like to take this opportunity to respond to your editorial dated Jan. 28 (“Questions for the high sheriff”) and, in so doing, make reference to your article of Jan. 21 (“Incident heightens tensions between county, sheriff”). Both of these pieces were based in part upon an anonymous letter received by The Smoky Mountain News. The author of this letter is apparently unknown, and your Jan. 21 article quotes the Swain County Manager as saying “it was signed with a false name.” Your article further states that it was received by Swain County Commission Chairman Glenn Jones from its original anonymous source. It was then forwarded by the Swain County Administration Offices to Swain County commissioners and various media outlets.

The letter — and portions of the resulting editorial — made a number of misleading, unfounded and blatantly untrue allegations concerning the conduct of both myself and members of my office with respect to our attempts to apprehend Jody Smallwood, a recent escapee from a Swain County Courthouse holding cell. Smallwood had previously been convicted of at least five felonies. These allegations are not only reckless but unfairly call into question the integrity and professionalism of a dedicated group of Swain County law enforcement officers who put their lives on the line on a daily basis to insure that Swain County residents have a safe place to live. Attempts by anonymous persons to question the professionalism of these selfless individuals, without acquiring a complete understanding of the facts, is patently unfair and places these professionals in an even more dangerous position than they already possess.

With respect to my conduct, let me be clear that I, at all times, acted professionally and in the interests of, and with due caution for, the public, law enforcement personnel, and Mr. Smallwood. In the first paragraph of your editorial, you state that I “fired [my] gun at an escapee....” Thereafter, in the third paragraph, you again imply that I fired at Smallwood.

This is not true. There was never a shot fired at anyone during the Smallwood pursuit. Rather, in an attempt to bring the extremely dangerous situation to a safe conclusion, I fired two shots at the rear tire of the van that Smallwood was using to elude pursuing officers. Indeed, at least one of these shots hit the tire, ultimately disabling the van and playing a part in bringing it to a stop.

This occurred after Smallwood had recklessly traveled down Main Street in Bryson City at a dangerous rate of speed, made a left on Veteran’s Boulevard and, when turning east on to U.S. 74, exceeded the 100 mph mark. Once on U.S. 74, Smallwood continued to travel on rain-soaked roads to the Hyatt Creek Exit, where he exited the freeway, lost control of the van, spun the vehicle in a 360-degree turn, regained control and continued back onto 74 East, again at a high rate of speed.

After re-entering U.S. 74, Smallwood then brought the vehicle to a stop in the road. I exited my vehicle to take him into custody. At that point, he again accelerated and, fearing that he would injure or kill innocent travelers, I fired two shots at the rear tire of the vehicle. I did this while standing on the pavement. At no time did I fire from a moving vehicle, which was alleged in the anonymous letter.

Mr. Smallwood’s conduct placed the lives of Swain County citizens and visitors in jeopardy and was an immediate threat to their health and safety. It was my firm belief, then and now, that capture of him was necessary and that discharge of my weapon in an attempt to safely do so was justified. I based this belief, in part, upon Smallwood’s criminal history, his previous attempts to elude Swain County officers and events which occurred earlier in the day.

For instance, shortly after his escape from the courthouse lockup, Smallwood approached an 81-year-old woman, requesting that she give him a ride. At that time, the lady did not know that Smallwood was an escapee. At his direction, she drove him around Bryson City. Smallwood lied to her, saying he had been in a car wreck and wanted to go to the store. He then directed her to go to the 288 Boat Ramp and, when she refused to do so, he said that he wanted to go to his sister’s house. (His sister lives in another state.)

After driving for some time, they ended up in the Watson Hollow area, where he told this lady that he could not get out the passenger side of the vehicle and asked her to let him exit from her side. She felt that something was wrong and took the keys out of the vehicle before she let him out the driver’s side. Smallwood then went into the woods and left this lady to find her way back home. The Bryson City Church of God is just over the embankment from where Smallwood left the lady. This is where he stole the van.

Significantly, this was not the first time that Smallwood led law enforcement in Swain County on a high-speed pursuit through a downtown area. Two days prior to the Monday pursuit, Smallwood led federal, state, tribal and county officers on a high-speed chase that began in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, went through downtown Cherokee, west along U.S. 74, and ended across from West Elementary School. From there, Smallwood exited the vehicle and eluded arrest for another two hours. It was at this point that he was apprehended, after running through the woods for almost a mile.

On both of these occasions, Mr. Smallwood resisted law enforcement before being taken into custody. Indeed, resisting arrest and escape is consistent with Smallwood’s past. His multi-page criminal history contains numerous felony convictions dating back to 1989. In addition, he was wanted by officials in Georgia.

It goes without saying that Mr. Smallwood’s actions placed the lives and safety of third parties in jeopardy. His actions demonstrate that he had no reservations about driving through congested areas at high rates of speed. As sworn law enforcement officers, we were, at all times, acting with the utmost care and concern for the people of this county. This matter was handled professionally and, as a result of our actions, a dangerous individual is off the streets. My job is to protect and serve the people of Swain County, and that is what I intend to do as long as I am sheriff.

In your editorial, you made reference to my lack of law enforcement experience at the time that I was elected and began serving the people of Swain County. Again, this is misleading. As sheriff, I have graduated from the Sheriff’s Leadership Institute, which was held over several months in Raleigh and at Duke University. I am continually updated on all aspects of the sheriff’s office and, as a working sheriff for over two years, I have received training and experience that can only be acquired by day-to-day, hands-on interaction with the job. In addition, as sheriff, I qualify with my weapon on the same range and schedule as every deputy in this office.

When I ran for sheriff, I presented the citizens of Swain County with my qualifications and vision. After reviewing my background, these same citizens had enough faith in me to elect me Sheriff of Swain County. I appreciate the confidence that the people have placed in me and I will never overlook the fact that I, along with my staff, are at all times public servants.

Finally, in your initial article, you published portions of the anonymous letter. While this is certainly your right, it appears contrary to your own Anonymous Source Policy. That aside, it is very easy for someone to write a letter containing libelous allegations about a public official and then fail to sign it or, worse, use someone else’s name.

As sheriff of Swain County, I have always had an open-door policy. If any member of the public wishes to speak with me concerning the actions of either myself or sheriff’s office personnel, all they have to do is come to the sheriff’s office and ask. We will show them the same high degree of courtesy, professionalism and respect that we would any other resident or visitor of Swain County. The Office of Sheriff of Swain County has always been a position of high honor and integrity. And, with respect to the last paragraph of your Jan. 28 editorial, neither I nor the sheriffs of Swain County who preceded me have ever held ourselves to be above the law which we are sworn to uphold.

(Curtis Cochran is sheriff of Swain County. He can be reached at This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it..)

For nearly a year, my 3-year-old son Jack has been obsessed with heavy machinery. We rent films from the library with footage of backhoes, excavators, and bulldozers pushing around heaping mounds of debris, which Jack sits and watches with absolute focus as long as we will allow it. Whenever we are going someplace in the car, Jack erupts every time he sees a crane, a steamroller, or anything gigantic, mobile, and yellow that can lift or, even better, crush, things.

I don’t worry about it much. Crushing stuff is cool — I get that. I figure it is just a phase he is going through and that he will leave it all behind soon enough. For boys, life is just a series of meaningless obsessions until they’re old enough to notice and then obsess over girls, which crushes all their other obsessions like a giant monster truck rolling over a bunch of Volkswagens.

I guess I should have foreseen what would happen the first time Jack saw a monster truck. Before I really knew what was happening, he began obsessing about something called a “Monster Truck Jam.” I soon discovered that commercials for an upcoming monster truck extravaganza had been playing pretty much nonstop on television for the past few weeks. Every time “SpongeBob SquarePants” paused for a commercial break, there were “Grave Digger” and “Monster Mutt” rolling and rumbling over rows of crumpled cars.

“Daddy, I like Grave Digger! Please take me that monster truck show! Please daddy please!”

Soon, I found myself on the Internet looking at seating charts and ordering tickets, great tickets actually, on the lower level. My 7-year-old daughter, Kayden, decided she wanted in on the action, so I bought us three tickets and on Saturday, we drove down to the BiLo Center in Greenville to get a look at these monstrosities in action. The kids were so excited they could hardly stand it. We made up monster truck songs on the way down, and talked about all the great things we expected to see these monsters do.

We were pretty hungry when we got there, and thanks to a slightly late start and slow traffic, we had to settle for getting some food at the arena, which, of course, was a big mistake. I shelled out 25 bucks for two fossilized hot dogs, one rubbery hamburger, one order of charred fries in a cup, and one large soda in a cup that could have served as a swimming pool for a small otter. I had to carry all of this on a flimsy gray tray about the size of a potholder, while also holding onto the kids somehow and worming my way through a thicket of monster truck enthusiasts. Imagine, if you will, trying to climb a rickety ladder while balancing three hardboiled eggs on a popsicle stick with one kid on your back and another one pulling excitedly on your pocket, and you will have the basic idea.

Of course, our seats were on the other side of the arena, and by the time we made our way around the arena and finally reached the ramp leading down to our seats, the cup of French fries, top heavy with the addition of ketchup, took a sudden suicidal leap off the tray onto the floor. Four dollars, shot, just like that.

“I guess we won’t be having fries, huh, Daddy?” Kayden said, surprisingly chipper under the circumstances.

Once we found our seats, I was somewhat startled how close to the action we actually were. Wow, the kids were going to be thrilled with these seats, I thought. The brightly colored monster trucks were arranged in a semi circle on our side of the arena, and the closest truck was no more than 40 or 50 feet away.

We had made it just in time. I had no sooner passed out the food than the announcer took the mike to begin the show. A few seconds later, the drivers appeared to wild cheers from the crowd and assumed their positions behind the wheels of the trucks. The kids were leaning forward in their seats with anticipation.

Suddenly, there was an enormous explosion that rocked the entire arena, pinning the kids back against their seats, transforming their looks of eagerness into expressions of abject terror. The explosion did not subside — it was constant, all enveloping noise, noise more monstrous than the trucks from which it issued. It was merely the sound of the gentlemen starting their engines. Merely. I looked at the kids. Both were weeping.

“Daddy, I’m scared!” Jack said. “Please take me home right now!”

“Please, Daddy, get us OUT of here,” Kayden agreed.

I quickly reviewed the numbers. Fifty bucks for the tickets. Twenty-five bucks for two dollars worth of food. Another twenty for gas. Four hours of driving. Fifteen seconds of “entertainment.”

I tried putting my hands over Jack’s ears, while urging Kayden to cover her own ears. Still, they wept, harder, since it appeared that the ordeal had just begun.

I saw it was no use, and ushered them out of the arena, away from the terrible noise. I was ready to take them out for ice cream, or to go in search of some local park to salvage something from the trip, when an idea occurred to me.

“Hey, guys, what if we go up higher, far away from the trucks where it is not as loud? If you are still scared, we’ll leave in a few minutes, but let’s just try it.”

They were in no way sold on this idea, but they could see that I was determined to give it one more shot, so they played along. So we gave up our expensive, choice seats and headed to the upper level, up, up, and up some more until there were no more seats behind us and we had an entire section more or less to ourselves. From here, the monster trucks were not so intimidating, the noise not quite so earsplitting.

The kids were still uncertain when we settled in, but they stopped crying, and in a few minutes, when I stole a glance to my left, I could see Jack nodding his head in the affirmative, as if in response to some internal question he had asked himself. Yes, I can. Yes. Yes.

“Daddy, look at the one with the ears and the tail!” Kayden shouted with something like enthusiasm. “His name is Monster Mutt! He’s my favorite!”

Two hours later, I had experienced my first Monster Truck Jam. We made it through. By the end of it, I felt like one of the few survivors in the Poseidon Adventure. We had climbed out of the wreckage below to the hull of the ship, and were now waiting for someone to cut us out with a blowtorch.

“Did you have fun, Daddy?” Kayden asked, as we waded among thousands trapped in the flow, slowly oozing like tree sap in the general direction of the exit. I thought of Woody Allen’s comment on reincarnation. “Does it mean I have to sit through the Ice Capades again,” he wondered. There are no more Ice Capades. But there will be other Monster Truck Jams.

Then I looked at my two children, now buzzing with excitement like miniature monster trucks waiting to unleash their own torrents of noise on mom as soon as they got home, stories of enormous trucks crushing things, and motorcycles jumping off ramps, and dune buggies racing around the track!

“Fun?” I said. “You bet I did. One of the best times ever.”

I looked at Jack, who was nodding again. Yes. Yes. Yes.

I didn’t need to review the numbers again. This time, it all added up.

(Chris Cox is a writer and teacher who lives in Waynesville. He can be reached at This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it..)

The military remains a popular employment choice for young people today, and the poor economy is probably helping steer many through its recruitment centers.

The Army and all the other branches of the military met recruiting goals in 2008, the first time that’s happened since 2004. As unemployment numbers continue to rise across the nation, the military and its promise of steady pay, good benefits, and money for college become very attractive.

“Basically, it’s a guaranteed job, and even after you’re out they take care of you,” said Brand Lenhart, a 23-year-old Sylva resident we interviewed for a story last week about military recruiting.

Aside from the economy, another factor is probably helping recruitment — President Barack Obama’s promise to end the war in Iraq and the declining violence in that country over the last year.

Some join the military out of tradition or a duty to country, but many others sign up because it’s a steady job. For many reasons, military service remains a part of growing up for many Americans. The discipline and rigor expected of those in the military are worthwhile lessons for almost any youth. And employers generally look favorably on those who have military experience, seeing in them people who understand how to take orders and know the value of hard work.

We hope that congressional leaders continue to pass measures to make sure we pay our soldiers a fair wage and that we take care of them and their dependents, for their service is vital to our country.

In this economy, the popular recruiting slogan, “Uncle Sam Wants You,” may easily get turned on its head. Many young people want — and need — Uncle Sam so they can count on a good job with good benefits.

Questions for the high sheriff

Swain County Sheriff Curtis Cochran should be more open about the incident where he fired his gun at an escapee.

Cochran shot at the vehicle of an escapee who had somehow gotten out a holding room and stolen a church van. The man had been charged with eluding arrest and drug possession when he found his way out of a holding cell at the Swain County Courthouse.

Cochran was elected sheriff in Swain County in 2006. He does not have a law enforcement background and hasn’t had Basic Law Enforcement Training, a pre-requisite for being hired for a job as a patrolman in even the state’s smallest municipalities.

The escapee was unhurt and was later captured. But shooting one’s weapon at anyone is a serious matter, and Cochran at this point is keeping too much about the incident quiet. He says the escape from the holding cell is under investigation, but the shooting is not.

We believe the SBI should be called in to assess whether the sheriff department’s response to the escape was handled properly.

The people of Swain County voted Cochran in, but that doesn’t put him above the law. Citizens need to know that the county’s highest ranking law enforcement officer is carrying out his duties with the professionalism the job demands. Anything less is not acceptable, besides being potentially dangerous.

You hear it often, mostly from those of us who are guilty. I’m talking about making a promise of spending “quality time” with someone we care about, a precious and valuable experience in these hurried and harried times.

And a few weeks ago I was going to do just that. I planned for dinner and a football game night with my son, Liam. Just us at the house, a huge pizza, him slurping cold milk out of a frosty beer mug and me filling my glass with something a little tastier. He’s 10, and at this age a passion for sports has become something we share. In a household where the only men are the bookends — I’m the oldest and he’s the youngest, with a wife and two daughters in between — we seldom get several hours to do indulge our passion.

On this night, I hatched a plan for the girls to do a movie in Asheville. They took the bait, and we looked forward to the game. An hour or two prior, though, he found a better offer.

“Dad, can I spend the night with Jack and Mason?” he asked after spending the afternoon playing hard with his buddies.

That’s how quick a plan for that elusive “quality time” can disappear. That game and our pre-game dinner had been the most looked-forward-to event on my calendar that week. But that’s also why I’ve learned over the years that the search for that special time — more times than not — is a recipe for disappointment. You can’t run through the week and neglect a son or a wife in hopes that some hyped-up special event will make up for what you’ve just sprinted past. Doesn’t work that way.

I should have known this. It’s a mantra I preached over the years — only in a different set of circumstances — as I became accustomed to driving my daughters to swim practice at 5 a.m. three or four mornings a week. Friends and family would hear about the early morning practices and tell me how bad I had it, how crazy I was for letting my girls get that caught up in swimming.

I would shake my head and tell them they were wrong. Those five minutes around the house before the sun rose and those 15 minutes in the car became a precious commodity. Some mornings there would hardly be a word as we listened to NPR or the girls just dozed. Others we would have conversations about everything from the news on the radio to boys to school to how they should treat their little brother to some crazy family story about one of my brothers or one of Lori’s sisters. Those 20 minutes added up to hundreds of hours spent together, forging ties that will never be broken.

But my oldest has had her license for half a year now. I’m not needed as the chauffeur for the early morning swim practices. That lesson about time had been replaced with me looking forward to that special Saturday night with Liam. Yeah, I was disappointed when he picked his friends over me, but just like that, he reminded me of a lesson I had too quickly forgotten.

Saturday is errand day for us, as it is for many families. This particular morning — prior to the big game — the plans included a trip to the dump, to the dreaded Super Wal-Mart, to the shoe store, over to Ingles and back to the house. The idea was to rush and get the chores done and get things in motion for the night.

And so we were off. The trash takes twice as long with my son helping, but he’s learning how to break down the cardboard and how to get it in the green trailer properly. That’s his job, and so we muddle through it. At Wally World we tried to get in and out fast, but he wanted to trade in a Christmas gift card for a toy, and so we were there quite a while as he figured out which toy gun was the best. Shoe shopping was taxing, but we finally got just what he needed. And so it went. Suffice it to say the errands took longer than I’d hoped.

On Sunday, after the football game disappointment, Lori and I went to the lake for a walk, and Liam wanted to come along. As we walked, he became a Star Wars clone warrior, protecting our perimeter, running, rolling, flipping, hiding and shooting. All around the lake we went, rubber bullets flying, us getting dirty looks from those who think kids and toy guns are a bad mix. You can tell when children are just having fun in their escape mode, when the game becomes reality and to hell with what most of us consider the real world. He was in that zone.

On the way home he was was tired. He sat quietly in the back before telling us that Saturday morning had been one of the best he could remember. It was fun doing all that stuff together with dad, he says.

And so it was, and out the window once again went the pompous idea that anyone can really measure out planned teaspoons of quality time, like there’s a recipe that adds meaning to time spent together. It comes when you least expect it, amid all those hurried and harried moments we call life.

(Scott McLeod can be reached at This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it..)