This is a new book. It is about the Lodge I built in the Smoky Mountains, near Bryson City, and Deep Creek campground, North Carolina. Having been from Florida, I know that a lot of Floridians love to visit the Smoky Mountains National Park. Therefore hopefully you will enjoy my story of the building of “A Lodge Called Folkestone”.
The Dream, The Challenge, The People
by Bob Kranich
(Excerpt 12)
“The Lodge Called Folkestone”. You may wonder why the first half of the book is about my many adventures throughout the USA. Well, this first part explains just why my interests changed from hot rodding cars to backpacking. How the idea of a lodge came about, and just how the lodge came to be in North Carolina and next to the Smoky Mountain National Park, Deep Campground to be exact.
Since we were about eight feet away, and sitting on the lower bunks, we must have blended well with the shadows in the back of the shelter. All at once, the mother bear saw us, and not to let us know she was frightened, she made a sudden lunge towards us of only a couple of feet. If it had been a few more inches, I’m sure there would have been four new doors in the back of that shelter. Our hearts were stopped, and we sat wide-eyed and mute. Then, mamma bear and her baby bear left as fast as they had come, and hardly gave us any time to regain our senses. The Smoky bears look small and harmless, but I assure you that from that angle, those claws and teeth sure looked menacing!
This incident must have swayed the guerrilla team, for they decided to stay and not venture on. With good reason, the top bunks were in great demand that evening. More than once that night, I woke up in a half-drowsy condition, and heard the bears grubbing around near the fireplace. The bear’s eternal quest is for food.
The next morning, I bid the group goodbye. They went the way of my last friends. Today, I decided that I would leave my gear in the shelter, and go exploring down Hazel Creek. First I got some snacks, my compass, and map, put them in a small pouch, and filled my canteen. Next, I secured my food bag to a high beam in a waterproof bag in the roof of the shelter. I was ready, and headed down the trail. I had to go a little over a mile along the Welch Ridge trail before the Hazel Creek trail came up and intersected with it. The farther down I got, the more I could hear the sounds of Hazel Creek. Then I came upon an old logging railroad switchback. There actually were some steel rails spiked to old logs which were used for the ties. Soon I was next to the creek, and wherever there were pools, I could see dark forms of rainbow trout.
Looking around at the afternoon sunlight streaming into the small meadow, and lighting it with such radiant colors that accent the beautiful foliage, I realized that this would have been an enchanting place to live. I should have started back, but I found a wider road running parallel to the creek, and decided to follow it farther down the trail. I ate my lunch as I leisurely strolled along. I continued along the road that continually forded the creek, back and forth, ever going down.
Suddenly, it dawned on me that the day was more than half gone, and I should backtrack. As I got back to the meadow, an impulse hit me, and I decided to take an old trail that was shown on my map. However, the map didn’t show that it was overgrown or how impossible it is to hike on those kind of trails. After about an hour of scrambling through uncut brush, I turned back. Then, I realized that I had lost the trail. In fact, it looked different in reverse!
I found myself running trying to regain the trail. Then I stopped, and had to talk myself back to composure. I said out loud to myself, “Keep your cool, Bob. This is how people get lost. Just go slow, and think, after all, you’ve got food, a compass, and water.” Water! In my panic, I had not noticed that all along I had been listening to the gurgles of a small branch creek that surely had to have a mother creek.
“All I have to do is follow this branch, and it should return to Hazel Creek.”
Sure enough, it did. After a few minutes, I was back on the trail and soon in the meadow. By that time the sun was down close to the tops of the ridges around me. I had dropped 2,500 feet that day from Silers Bald. Boy, I really had some hiking to do! I quickly moved out. Fortunately, the light stayed the same, for as the sun went down, I went up. About halfway up, my leg developed a cramp, and I had to rely on a walking stick which I picked up along the trail. Eventually, all the familiar spots passed by, only in the opposite direction.
The light was getting dusky when I got to the top of the Welch Ridge. That’s when I saw a big buck raise his head from a nearby bush. With his ears erect, he saw me heading towards him, and went crashing into the dense growth with his white tail up and flashing.
Before long, I was hobbling into camp, and to my amazement, a whole Boy Scout troop was my company for the evening. This wasn’t my only surprise, though. The boys showed me my misfortune. Mamma and baby bear had somehow gotten my food bag down and had eaten or tried to eat most of my rations. Even the cans were bitten through. Luckily, after taking inventory, I still had enough provisions for a day and one-half. That would be just enough to hike back to my base, the old Ranchero truck. There were also two rangers who had hiked in for the express purpose of chasing the bears from this area. It seemed that the bears had frightened a few other hiking parties.
We had a good campfire talk that evening, my first campfire on the trip. From the rangers, I found out that the uprooted grass I had seen earlier on the Bald was from Russian boars. They were numerous in the Smokies, but were so wild that even a hunter would have a tough time seeing one.
Our attention was directed to the rangers’ return home. Since they hadn’t any sleeping gear, they left after our campfire talk. They were going to make their way back in the dark, an adventurous lot they were, I must say. In fact, you will read a lot of warnings to never hike in the dark. It’s too dangerous.
That night, I drifted to sleep with the old familiar sounds of a Boy Scout camp. Chop, chop, chop as they prepared more and more wood for their relentless consuming fire.
By morning, I was ready to move out. The troop was going down where I had been yesterday to do some trout fishing. I told them about the dark forms I had seen in the many pools. “Hopefully you should have some good luck,” I said.
I left the Silers Bald shelter. As I was heading down the trail, I was suddenly startled by what appeared to me as an early morning mirage. There coming towards me was a girl with a full pack! Alone? Nope. “Morning,” they both said as she and a boy passed me.
Soon I was back on the ridges heading towards the Dome. At times, when I was on a rise, I could see all the lower peaks stair-stepping up to the highest. It took me two hours to hike the four miles to Clingmans Dome. On the top of the Dome is a concrete spiral lookout, a major tourist attraction for that area. Once on the lookout, one can see over the trees, far out into the Smokies. All the peaks are wooded, and do not go over the tree line. I slipped into the flow of tourists walking towards the spiral. The view was marvelous. At times though, one could be up here looking out, and then suddenly be enveloped in a moist, dewy cloud. Then before long, the view would be perfectly clear again.
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