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Chapter 6 VHDL for Engineers Solutions

October 26, 2008 5:18 pm

6.1 There are three common kinds of simulators for digital systems: time driven, event driven, and cycle based.
Time-driven simulation is the slowest. Cycle-based simulation is the fastest. However, cycle-based simulation is
only applicable to the functional simulation of synchronous sequential systems that have a single clock.

6.2 The VHDL LRM defines how an event-driven simulator that is compliant with the standard must execute the
VHDL language.

6.3 For a time-based simulator to simulate a circuit to a resolution of 1 ns it has to evaluate the model every 1 ns,
or 2 x 106 times for 2 ms of simulated time. For an event driven simulator, if the input changes only two times in
2 ms it has to evaluate the model only twice in 2 ms.

6.4 The three steps an event-driven simulator performs to accomplish a simulation are: elaboration, initialization,
and repeated execution of simulation cycles.

6.5
(a1)

library ieee;
use ieee.std_logic_1164.all;

entity andor is
port(
a, b, c : in std_logic;
y : out std_logic
);
end andor;

architecture boolean_expr of andor is

begin

y <= (a and b) or c;

end boolean_expr;

(a2)

architecture selected of andor is

begin

with std_logic_vector'(a, b, c) select

y <= '0' when "000" | "010" | "100",
'1' when others;

end selected;

1
(a3)

architecture conditional of andor is

begin

y <= '1' when (a = '1' and b = '1') or c = '1' else '0';

end conditional;

(b1)

process (a, b, c)
begin
y <= (a and b) or c;
end process;

(b2)

process (a, b, c)
begin
case std_logic_vector'(a, b, c) is
when "000" | "010" | "100" => y <= '0';
when others => y <= '1';
end case;
end process;

(b3)

process (a, b, c)
begin
if a = '1' and b ='1' then
y <= '1';
elsif c = '1' then
y <= '1';
else
y <= '0';
end if;
end process;

6.6 Since the testbench was not described as selfchecking, f is not shown brought back to simulation process tb.

2
 a uut/u1
s1 s2

b
tb uut/u0
f
uut/u2
c

6.7
(a)

p1: process (a, b)

begin
sum <= a xor b;
end process p1;

p2: process (a, b)

begin
carry_out <= a and b;

(b)

sum
uut/p1

a, b
tb
a, b

uut/p2
carry_out

(c)

Signal Current < Signal Driver Transaction Queue

Value

After elaboration

a < ‘U’ @ 0

b < ‘U’ @ 0

3
 Signal Current < Signal Driver Transaction Queue
Value

sum < ‘U’ @ 0

carry_out < ‘U’ @ 0

(d)

Design: p06_07
TIME Delta a_tb b_tb sum_tb carry_out_tb
0.000 0 U U U U
0.000 1 0 0 U U
0.000 2 0 0 0 0

6.8
(a)

u1: process (a, b)

begin
s1 <= a nand b;
end process;

u2: process (s1, c_bar)

begin
f <= s1 nand c_bar;
end process;

(b)

a, b uut/u1 s1

c_bar
tb uut/u2
f

(c)

Design: p06_08
TIME Delta a b c_bar f
0.000 0 U U U U
0.000 1 0 0 0 U
0.000 2 0 0 0 1

4
6.9
(a) An assumption is made that the testbench is not selfchecking.

a, b uut/u0
s1
f
tb uut/u1

c uut/u2
s2

(b)

u0: process (a, b)

begin
s1 <= a nand b;
end process;

u1: process (s1, s2)

begin
f <= s1 nand s2;
end process;

u2: process (c)

begin
s2 <= not c;
end process;

Design: p06_09
TIME Delta a b c f
0.000 0 U U U U
0.000 1 0 0 0 U
0.000 3 0 0 0 0
50.000 ns 1 0 0 1 0
50.000 ns 3 0 0 1 1

6.10
(a) and (b)

library ieee;
use ieee.std_logic_1164.all;

entity fcn is
port(
a, b, c : in std_logic; f : out std_logic);
end fcn;

architecture mixed of fcn is

signal s1, s2 : std_logic ;

5
begin

u0: process (a, b)

begin
if a = '0' and b = '1' then
s1 <= '1';
else
s1 <= '0';
end if;
end process;

u1: process (a, c)

begin
case std_logic_vector'(a, c) is
when "11" =>
s2 <= '1';
when others =>
s2 <= '0';
end case;
end process;

u2: process (s1, s2)

begin
f <= s1 or s2;
end process;

(c)

a, b uut/u0
s1

tb uut/u2

a,c uut/u1
s2

f
6.11 If a design description has more than one simulation process that contains an assignment statement that
assigns a value to the same signal it has multiple signal drivers. Each of these processes defines its own separate
driver for that signal. For such a multiply driven signal, the simulator must create multiple driver queues for the
same signal. Such a situation frequently occurs in a design with bused connections, a bus signal has multiple
drivers.

6.12 During a simulation, each simulator process can be in one of three states: suspended, active, or running. The
status of the simulation process in each state is:
• Suspended: simulation process is not running or active
• Active: simulation process is in the active processes queue waiting to be executed.

6
• Running: simulator is executing the simulation process.

6.13 At the beginning of the initialization phase, the current time (Tc) is set to 0. The kernel places all of the sim-
ulation processes in the active processes queue. Each simulation process is then taken from this queue and exe-
cuted until it suspends. The order of execution of simulation processes during initialization is not important. The
initial execution of each simulation process ensures that all initial transactions are scheduled, so that the simula-
tion may continue. A simulation process is suspended either implicitly or explicitly. A process with a sensitivity
list is suspended implicitly after its sequential statements have been executed to the end of the process. A process
with one or more wait statements is suspended explicitly when its first wait statement is executed.

6.14
(a).

Signal Current < Signal Driver Transaction Queue

Value

After elaboration

a < ‘U’ @ 0

b < ‘U’ @ 0

sum < ‘U’ @ 0

carry_out < ‘U’ @ 0

(b)

a sum
stim_a uut/u0

a
b
carry_out
stim_b uut/u1
b

(c)
stim_b: process
begin
b_tb <= '0';
wait for 20 ns;
b_tb <= '1';
wait for 20 ns;
b_tb <= '0';
wait for 20 ns;
b_tb <= '1';
wait;

7
 end process;

(d)

Design: p06_14
TIME Delta a_tb b_tb sum_tb carry_out_tb
0.000 0 U U U U
0.000 1 0 0 U U
0.000 2 0 0 0 0

6.15
(a)

a s1
p0
b
f
p2

p1
c s2

(b)

p0: process (a, b)

begin
s1 <= a and b;
end process;

p1: process (a, c)

begin
s2 <= a and c;
end process;

p2: process (s1, s2)

begin
f <= s1 or s2;
end process;

(c)

8
 tb0

UUT/p0
s1

a
b
tb1 UUT/p2 f

s2
UUT/p1

tb2
c

(d)

(e)

time delta a b c f simulation processes

0 0 U U U U tb0, tb1, tb2, p0, p1, p2

0 1 0 0 0 U p0, p1
0 2 0 0 0 U p2
0 3 0 0 0 0 none
20 0 1 0 0 0 p0, p1
20 1 1 0 0 0 none

9
6.16

tb: process
begin
enable <= '0';
wait for 50 ns;
enable <= '1';
wait;
end process;

6.17 Increasing the delta cycle limit will not solve the problem because the number of cycles required is infinite.

6.18

library ieee;
use ieee.std_logic_1164.all;

entity norwfb is
port(
enable : in std_logic;
sigout : out std_logic
);
end norwfb;

architecture dataflow of norwfb is

signal s1: std_logic;
begin

s1 <= enable nor s1;

sigout <= s1;

end dataflow;

For the functional simulation, with the enable input starting at ‘1’ the output stays ‘0’ until the enable input is
made ‘0’ at 40 ns. At that point a delta count overflow occurs and the simulation stops.

For the timing simulation, with the enable input starting at ‘1’ after a 20 ns delay the output becomes and stays
‘0’ until the enable input is made ‘0’ at 40 ns. At that point the output oscillates every 20 ns until the enable
input is made ‘1’ at 160 ns, at which point the output becomes and remains ‘0’. The following waveform
shows this relationship for a PLD with a 10 ns delay (not 20 ns).

10
6.19 The signal attributes transaction, quiet, active, and last_active can be categorized as transaction related. The
signal attributes stable, delayed, event, last_event, and last_value can be categorized as event related. Attributes
driving and driving_value can be categorized as general.

6.20
(a)

(b)
sigx’last_event at 7 ns (7 ns - 0 ns) = 7 ns
sigx’last_active at 7 ns (7 ns - 5 ns) = 2 ns
sigx’last_value at 7 ns = ‘U’

6.21

11
(a)

(b)
sigy’last_event at 28 ns (28 ns - 10 ns) = 18 ns
sigy’last_active at 28 ns (28 ns - 25 ns) = 3 ns
sigy’last_value at 28 ns = ‘1’

6.22 If the declaration of a variable was allowed in the declarative part of an architecture and two processes in the
architecture body read and modify that variable, the variable’s modification is indeterminate if both processes
contain the same signal in their sensitivity lists. This is because we cannot know which process is executed first
in response to and event on that signal and the variable will immediately take its modified value.

12
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
A businesslike atmosphere filtered through the quiet of the Smokies.
Though wolves and panthers had largely disappeared by 1910, fur
buyers and community traders enjoyed a brisk exchange in mink,
raccoon, fox, and ’possum hides. Oak bark and chestnut wood,
called “tanbark” and “acid wood” because they were sources of
valuable tannic acid, brought $7 per cord when shipped to Asheville
or Knoxville. As the sawmills flourished, makeshift box houses of
vertical poplar and chestnut planks gave way to more substantial
weatherboarded homes of horizontal lengths and tight-fitting frames.
Slick, fancy, buggy-riding “drummers” peddled high-button shoes and
off-color stories. The spacious Wonderland Park Hotel and the
Appalachian Club at Elkmont, and a hunting lodge on Jake’s Creek
graced the once forbidding mountainsides.
Undergirding this development was a growing cash base: peaches
and chestnuts, pork and venison, wax and lard—translated into
money—brought flour and sugar, yarn and needles, tools and
ammunition. Yet in the midst of this new-found activity, many clung to
their old habits. Children still found playtime fun by sliding down hills
of pine needles and “riding” poplar saplings from treetop to treetop.
Hard-shell Baptist preachers, such as the hunter and “wilderness
saddle-bagger” known as “Preacher John” Stinnett, still devoted long
spare hours, and sometimes workdays as well, to reading The Book:
“I just toted my Bible in a tow sack at the handle of my bull tongue
and I studied it at the turn of the furrow and considered it through the
rows.”
But whatever the immediate considerations of the hour happened to
be, logging was the order of the day. From the Big Pigeon River, all
the way to the Little Tennessee, the second generation of timber-
cutters had moved into the Smokies on a grand scale.
The companies, with their manpower, their strategically placed
sawmills, and their sophisticated equipment, produced board feet of
lumber by the millions. The rest of the country, with its increased
demands for paper and residential construction, absorbed these
millions and cried for more. By 1909, when production attained its
peak in the Smokies and throughout the Appalachians, logging
techniques had reached such an advanced state that even remote
stands of spruce and hemlock could be worked with relative ease.
Demand continued unabated and even received a slight boost when
World War I broke out in 1914.

Pages 100-101: Sawmills, such as this one at

Lawson’s Sugar Cove, were quickly set up in one
location and just as quickly moved to another as soon
as the plot was cleared.
National Park Service
High volume covered high costs. The Little River Lumber Company,
perhaps the most elaborate logging operation in the Smokies, cut a
total of two billion board feet. Cherry, the most valuable of the
woods, with its exquisite grain and rich color, was also the scarcest.
Yellow-poplar, that tall, straight tree with a buoyancy that allowed it to
float high, turned out to be the most profitable of all saw timber.
Coniferous forests, the thick, dark regions of pungent spruce and
hemlock, yielded a portion of the company’s output.
Extraction of such proportions was not easy. Timber cruisers combed
the forests, estimating board feet and ax-marking suitable trees.
Three-man saw teams followed the cruisers. One, the “chipper,”
calculated the fall of the tree and cut a “lead” in the appropriate side.
Two sawyers then took over, straining back and forth upon their
crosscut saw until gravity and the immense weight of the tree
finished their job for them. The work was hard and hazardous.
Sometimes, if the lead were not cut properly, the trunk would fall
toward the men; sudden death or permanent injury might result from
the kickback of a doomed tree’s final crash, or from a moment’s
carelessness.
To remove the felled timber, larger companies laid railroad tracks far
up the creeks from their mills. At the eastern edge of the Smokies,
for instance, one such terminus grew into the village of Crestmont,
which boasted a hotel, two movie theaters, and a well-stocked
commissary. Such accommodations seemed a distant cry indeed
from the upper branches of Big Creek, gathering its waters along the
slopes of Mt. Sterling, Mt. Cammerer, and Mt. Guyot. Workers from
improbable distances—even countries “across the waters,” such as
Italy—teamed with the mountain people to push a standard gauge
track alongside the boulder-strewn streams. Bolted onto oaken ties
that were spaced far enough apart to discourage foot travel, the
black rails drove ahead, switched back to higher ground, crossed Big
Creek a dozen times before they reached the flat way station of
Walnut Bottoms.
Dominated by powerful, blunt-bodied locomotives, the railroads gave
rise to stories that were a flavorful blend of pathos and danger.
“Daddy” Bryson and a fireman named Forrester were killed on a
sharp curve along Jake’s Creek of Little River. Although Forrester
jumped clear when the brakes failed to hold, he was buried under an
avalanche of deadly, cascading logs. There were moments of
comedy as well as tragedy. In the same river basin, Colonel
Townsend asked engineer Noah Bunyan Whitehead one day when
he was going to stop putting up all that black smoke from his train.
Bun
answered
: “When
they start
making
white
coal.”
Railroads
could
reach
only so
far,
however.
The most
complex
phase of
the
logging
process
was
“skidding,
” or
bringing
the felled
logs from
inaccessi
ble
distances
to the
waiting
cars. As
the first
step, men
armed
with cant Little River Lumber Company
hooks or
short,
harpoon- Massive steam-powered skidders pulled
like logs in off the hills to a central pile. Then the
peavies, loaders took over and put the logs on trains,
simply which carried them to the mills.
rolled the
logs
down the mountainsides. Such continuous “ball-hooting,” as it was
called, gouged paths which rain and snow etched deeper into scars
of heavy erosion. Sometimes oxen and mules pulled, or “snaked,”
the timber through rough terrain to its flatcar destination. Horses
soon replaced the slower animals and proved especially adept at
“jayhooking,” or dragging logs down steep slopes by means of J-
hooks and grabs. When the logs gained speed and threatened to
overtake them, the men and nimble-footed horses simply stepped
onto a spur trail; the open link slipped off at the J-hook and the logs
slid on down the slope under their own momentum.
Even more ingenious skidding methods were devised. Splash-dams
of vertical hemlock boards created reservoirs on otherwise shallow,
narrow streams. The released reservoir, when combined with heavy
rains, could carry a large amount of timber far downstream. In the
mill pond, loggers with hobnailed boots kept the logs moving and
uncorked occasional jams. Another method devised to move virgin
timber down steep slopes was the trestled flume. The large, wooden
graded flumes provided a rapid but expensive mode of delivery. One
carried spruce off Clingmans Dome.
There were, finally, the loader and skidders. The railroad-mounted
steam loader was nicknamed the “Sarah Parker” after “a lady who
must have been real strong.” The skidder’s revolving drum pulled in
logs by spectacular overhead cables. Loaded with massive timber
lengths, these cables spanned valleys and retrieved logs from the
very mountaintops.
National Park Service
George Washington Shults and some neighbors
snake out large trunks with the help of six oxen.
Sometimes the lumber companies would hire such
local people to handle a specific part of the operation.
Today we call the process subcontracting.
Little River Lumber Company
Of the many kinds of trees logged in the Great
Smokies, the largest and most profitable were the
yellow-poplars, more commonly known as tulip trees.
A man could feel pretty small standing next to one of
them.
Little River Lumber Company
The great scale of the logging machinery was like
nothing the Smokies had seen before. Long trains
carried loads of huge tree trunks to sawmills after the
flat cars were loaded by railroad-mounted cranes.
To coordinate all of these operations efficiently required skill and
judgment. The lumber companies devised numerous approaches to
the problem of maximum production at lowest cost. They contracted
with individuals; Andy Huff, for example, continued to run a mill at
the mouth of Roaring Fork and paid his men a full 75 cents for a 16-
hour day. The corporations sometimes worked together; in one
maneuver, Little River helped Champion flume its spruce pulpwood
to the Little River railroad for shipment to Champion’s paper mill at
Canton, North Carolina. Haste and carelessness could lead to
shocking waste. When one company moved its operations during
World War I, 1.5 million board feet of newly cut timber was left to rot
at the head of Big Creek.
The ravages of logging led to fires. Although fires were sometimes
set on purpose to kill snakes and insects and to burn underbrush,
abnormal conditions invited abnormal mishaps. Parched soil no
longer held in place by a web of living roots, dry tops of trees piled
where they had been flung after trimming the logs, and flaming
sparks of locomotives or skidders: any combination of these caused
more than 20 disastrous fires in the Smokies during the 1920s. A
two-month series of fires devastated parts of Clingmans Dome,
Siler’s Bald, and Mt. Guyot. One holocaust on Forney Creek, ignited
by an engine spark, raced through the tops of 24-meter (80-foot)
hemlocks and surged over 5 kilometers (3 miles) in four hours. A site
of most intense destruction was in the Sawtooth range of the
Charlie’s Bunion area.
Despite the ravages of fire, erosion, and the voracious ax and saw,
all was not lost. Some two-thirds of the Great Smoky Mountains was
heavily logged or burned, but pockets of virgin timber remained in a
shrinking number of isolated spots and patches at the head of
Cataloochee, the head of Greenbrier, and much of Cosby and Deep
Creek. And as the 1920s passed into another decade, the vision of
saving what was left of this virgin forest, saving the land—saving the
homeland—grew in the lonely but insistent conscience of a small
number of concerned and convincing citizens.
 Conducting a preliminary survey of the park’s
boundaries in 1931 are (from left) Superintendent J.
Ross Eakin, Arthur P. Miller, Charles E. Peterson, O. G.
Taylor, and John Needham.
George A. Grant
 Birth of a Park
Logging dominated the life of the Great Smoky Mountains during the
early decades of the 20th century. But there was another side to that
life. Apart from the sawmills and the railroads and the general stores,
which were bustling harbingers of new ways a-coming, the higher
forests, the foot trails, and the moonshine stills remained as tokens
of old ways a-lingering. One person in particular came to know and
speak for this more primitive world.
Horace Kephart was born in 1862 in East Salem, Pennsylvania. His
Swiss ancestors were pioneers of the Pennsylvania frontier. During
his childhood, Kephart’s family moved to the Iowa prairie, where his
mother gave him a copy of the novel Robinson Crusoe by Daniel
Defoe. In the absence of playmates on the vast Midwest grassland,
young Kephart dreamed and invented his own games, fashioned his
own play swords and pistols out of wood and even built a cave out of
prairie sod and filled it with “booty” collected off the surrounding
countryside.
Horace Kephart never forgot his frontier beginnings. He saved his
copy of Robinson Crusoe and added others: The Wild Foods of
Great Britain, The Secrets of Polar Travel, Theodore Roosevelt’s The
Winning of the West. Camping and outdoor cooking, ballistics and
photography captured his attention and careful study.
Kephart polished his education with periods of learning and library
work at Boston University, Cornell, and Yale. In 1887 he married a
girl from Ithaca, New York, and began to raise a family. By 1890, he
was librarian of the well-known St. Louis Mercantile Library. In his
late thirties, Kephart grew into a quiet, intense loner, a shy and
reticent man with dark, piercing eyes. He remained an explorer at
heart, a pioneer, an individual secretly nurturing the hope of further
adventures.
Opportunity arrived in a strange disguise. Horace Kephart’s largely
unfulfilled visions of escape were combined with increasingly
prolonged periods of drinking. Experience with a tornado in the
streets of St. Louis affected his nerves. As he later recalled:
“... then came catastrophe; my health broke down. In the summer of
1904, finding that I must abandon professional work and city life, I
came to western North Carolina, looking for a big primitive forest
where I could build up strength anew and indulge my lifelong
fondness for hunting, fishing and exploring new ground.”
He chose the Great Smokies almost by accident. Using maps and a
compass while he rested at his father’s home in Dayton, Ohio, he
located the nearest wilderness and then determined the most remote
corner of that wilderness. After his recuperation he traveled to
Asheville, North Carolina, where he took a railroad line that wound
through a honeycomb of hills to the small way station of Dillsboro.
And from there, at the age of 42, he struck out, with a gun and a
fishing rod and three days’ rations, for the virgin mountainside forest.
After camping for a time on Dick’s Creek, his eventual wild
destination turned out to be a deserted log cabin on the Little Fork of
the Sugar Fork of Hazel Creek.
His nearest neighbors lived 3 kilometers (2 miles) away, in the
equally isolated settlement of Medlin. Medlin consisted of a post
office, a corn mill, two stores, four dwellings, and a nearby
schoolhouse that doubled as a church. The 42 households that
officially collected their mail at the Medlin Post Office inhabited an
area of 42 square kilometers (16 square miles). It was, as Kephart
describes it:
“... the forest primeval, where roamed some sparse herds of cattle,
razorback hogs and the wild beasts. Speckled trout were in all the
streams. Bears sometimes raided the fields and wildcats were a
common nuisance. Our settlement was a mere slash in the vast
woodland that encompassed it.”
But it was also, for Horace Kephart, a new and invigorating home.
He loved it. He thrived in it. At first he concentrated his senses on
the natural beauty around him, on the purple rhododendron, the
 flame azalea, the
fringed orchis, the
crystal clear
streams. Yet as the
months passed, he
found that he could
not overlook the
people.
The mountain
people were as
solidly a part of the
Smokies as the
boulders
themselves. These
residents of branch
and cove, of Medlin
and Proctor and all
the other tiny
settlements tucked
high along the
slanting creekbeds
of the Great Smoky
Mountains, these
distinctive “back of
beyond” hillside
farmers and work-
worn wives and
wary moonshine
George Masa distillers lodged in
Kephart’s
Horace Kephart, librarian-turned- consciousness and
mountaineer, won the hearts of the imagination with
Smokies people with his quiet and rock-like strength
unassuming ways. He played a and endurance.
major role in the initial movement
for a national park. Initially silent and
suspicious of this
stranger in their midst, families gradually came to accept him. They
approved of his quietness and his even-handed ways, even
confiding in him with a simple eloquence. One foot-weary distiller,
after leading Kephart over kilometers of rugged terrain, concluded:
“Everywhere you go, it’s climb, scramble, clamber down, and climb
again. You cain’t go nowheres in this country without climbin’ both
ways.” The head of a large family embracing children who spilled
forth from every corner of the cabin confessed: “We’re so poor, if free
silver was shipped in by the carload we couldn’t pay the freight.”
Kephart came to respect and to wonder at these neighbors who
combined a lack of formal education with a fullness of informal
ability. Like him, many of their personal characters blended a
weakness for liquor with a strong sense of individual etiquette. He
heard, for example, the story of an overnight visitor who laid his
loaded gun under his pillow; when he awoke the next morning, the
pistol was where he had left it, but the cartridges stood in a row on a
nearby table.
He met one George Brooks of Medlin: farmer, teamster, storekeeper,
veterinarian, magistrate, dentist. While Brooks did own a set of
toothpullers and wielded them mercilessly, some individuals
practiced the painful art of tooth-jumping to achieve the same result.
Uncle Neddy Carter even tried to jump one of his own teeth; he cut
around the gum, wedged a nail in, and made ready to strike the nail
with a hammer, but he missed the nail and mashed his nose instead.
None of these fascinating tales escaped the attention of Horace
Kephart. As he regained his health, the sustained energy of his
probing mind also returned. Keeping a detailed journal of his
experiences, he drove himself as he had done in the past. He
developed almost an obsession to record all that he learned, to know
this place and people completely, to stop time for an interval and
capture this mountain way of life in his mind and memory. For three
years he lived by the side of Hazel Creek. Though he later moved
down to Bryson City during the winters, he spent most of his
summers 13 kilometers (8 miles) up Deep Creek at an old cabin that
marked the original Bryson Place.
Kephart distilled much of what he learned into a series of books. The
Book of Camping and Woodcraft appeared in 1906 as one of the first
detailed guidebooks to woodsmanship, first aid, and the art we now
call “backpacking,” all based on his personal experience and
knowledge. There is even a chapter on tanning pelts. But the most
authoritative book concerned the people themselves. Our Southern
Highlanders, published in 1913 and revised nine years later, faithfully
retraces Kephart’s life among the Appalachian mountain folk after he
“left the tame West and came into this wild East.” And paramount
among the wilds of the East was the alluring saga of the moonshiner.

Laura Thornborough
Wiley Oakley, his wife, and children gather on the
porch of their Scratch Britches home at Cherokee
Orchard with “Minnehaha.” Oakley always said, “I
have two women: one I talk to and one who talks to
me.”
National Park Service
Oakley was a park guide before there was a park. And
in that role he nearly always wore a red plaid shirt. He
developed friendships with Henry Ford and John D.
Rockefeller and became known as the “Will Rogers of
the Smokies.”
In Horace Kephart’s own eyes, his greatest education came from the
spirited breed of mountain man known as “blockade runners” or
simply “blockaders.” These descendants of hard-drinking Scotsmen
and Irishmen had always liked to “still” a little corn whisky to drink
and, on occasion, to sell. But as the 1920s opened into the era of
Prohibition, the mountain distiller of a now contraband product
reached his heyday. He found and began to supply an expanding,
and increasingly thirsty market.
Stealth became the keynote in this flourishing industry. Mountaineers
searched out laurel-strangled hollows and streams that seemed
remote even to their keen eyes. There they assembled the copper
stills into which they poured a fermented concoction of cornmeal,
rye, and yeast known as “sour mash” or “beer.” By twice heating the
beer and condensing its vapors through a water-cooled “worm” or
spiral tube, they could approximate the uncolored liquor enjoyed at
the finest New York parties. And by defending themselves with
shotguns rather than with words, they could continue their
approximations.
In this uniquely romantic business, colorful characters abounded on
both sides of the law. Horace Kephart wrote about a particular pair of
men who represented the two legal extremes: the famous
moonshiner Aquilla Rose, and the equally resilient revenuer from the
Internal Revenue Service, W. W. Thomason.
Aquilla, or “Quill,” Rose lived for 25 years at the head of sparsely
populated Eagle Creek. After killing a man in self-defense and hiding
out in Texas awhile, Rose returned to the Smokies with his wife and
settled so far up Eagle Creek that he crowded the Tennessee-North
Carolina state line. Quill made whisky by the barrel and seemed to
drink it the same way, although he was occasionally seen playing his
fiddle or sitting on the porch with his long beard flowing and his
Winchester resting across his lap. His eleventh Commandment, to
“never get ketched,” was faithfully observed, and Quill Rose
remained one of the few mountain blockaders to successfully
combine a peaceable existence at home with a dangerous livelihood
up the creek.
W.W. Thomason visited Horace Kephart at Bryson City in 1919.
Kephart accepted this “sturdy, dark-eyed stranger” as simply a tourist
interested in the moonshining art. While Thomason professed
innocence, his real purpose in the Smokies was to destroy stills
which settlers were operating on Cherokee lands to evade the local
law. He prepared for the job by taking three days to carve and paint
a lifelike rattlesnake onto a thick sourwood club. During the following
weeks, he would startle many a moonshiner by thrusting the stick
close and twisting it closer.
When Kephart led the “Snake-Stick Man” into whiskyed coves in the
Sugarlands or above the Cherokee reservation, he found himself
deputized and a participant in the ensuing encounters. More often
than not, shots rang out above the secluded thickets. In one of these
shootouts, Thomason’s hatband, solidly woven out of hundreds of
strands of horsehair, saved this fearless revenuer’s life.