“A Lodge Called Folkestone”
The Dream, The Challenge, The People
by Bob Kranich
(Excerpt 13)
“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.
I went back down, and continued on the trail. It was pretty steep, and at the bottom I met two little boys saying, “They’ll get you!”
“Who?” I asked.
“The bears! They’ll kill you!”
I told them I didn’t think bears would really kill anyone as long as they exercised good outdoor rules. Do not feed or molest them, and give them a wide berth.
I told them to be careful, and again I was back on the trail. It was a little over three steep down hill miles towards Newfound Gap, to the intersection of the Fork Ridge trail with the Appalachian Trail. I crossed over the access road that goes to the Dome parking lot. I was just about to plunge into the vegetation and onto the Fork Ridge Trail, when some people that were picnicking beckoned me to come over.
I walked over. It was two ladies and a man. It seems that they had just finished their picnic lunch. For a few adventure stories, they loaded me up with all kinds of delicious looking leftover goodies. We had a real nice talk. It seems that their mountain pleasure was to drive up here, sit, and enjoy the surroundings. At one time during our talk, my glance wandered and rested on some trash along the road.
They saw my look and said, “No, that’s not ours!”
They must have read my mind. I bid my hosts goodbye, and entered the Smoky mountain forest environment. I was glad to be back.
Shortly, a light rain began to fall. I paused to put on my waterproof windbreaker jacket. I welcomed the cool sprinkle. It seemed light and refreshing to me. I didn't mind it too much. In a open space I looked up, and could see that it was just an afternoon shower.
About the time it cleared, I became aware that I was walking in a different environment. I had unsuspectingly walked right into a stand of huge virgin pines. Some were four feet in diameter. There was a thick carpet of pine needles all around, and hardly any scrub vegetation or brush anywhere. I had to stop, and almost lay on my back, to see the tops of some trees. Somewhere above, a lone crow was perched, proclaiming that all of this was his domain.
There had been much logging activity in the Appalachian Mountains in the early days. It seemed impossible that these wonderful specimens were spared. Later, I would be told by an old mountain man, that if a couple of us would be allowed to log in a national park with modern equipment, in the short span of one year, we would have a fortune. I guess it’s just the lust for the dollar that has destroyed and upset nature’s delicate balance in so many instances. Will man ever learn?
As I hiked along, even though the trail was clear, I could tell that it was little used. It was about five miles down to Deep Creek. When I got there, I had to wade the creek, and climb up to the trail into what on the map said was the Poke Patch campsite. I suddenly found myself looking at four men in their twenties. They were just preparing a supper of pan-fried potatoes and trout. The aroma and sight of this reminded me of my own hunger. I had to look the other way to keep my mouth from watering. I could see that I had surprised them by coming in from the direction I did. No one said a word. I realized why. There on a post was a pistol in its holster, a definite breaking of park rules.
“Howdy,” I said. Trying to be congenial while setting myself down and getting out of my pack.
“Which way to Bryson Place?” I had to ask this because they had hung a tarp on the park post trail marker. One of the group nodded, and I saw that there were no friendly indications. I slipped back into my pack and headed down the trail without looking back.
I moved along Deep Creek. The trail along here was easy. However, this was not a place to camp. The sides of the trail were either steep or moist. My cramp had crept back into my left leg, and I was using a hiking stick again to support it as I walked along. I thought back as the dusk set in. It was a long way from Silers Bald, then the plunge down Fork Ridge Trail to Deep Creek. Those fourteen miles were definitely a lot of adventures for one day.
I wearily dragged myself into the Bryson Place camp area. I had added another four plus miles to that fourteen. I could see shadows from a couple of campfires, lean-tos, people moving about, and I heard the sounds of horses nearby. I hastily set up my own plastic tarp shelter. I then got out the last package of powdered soup from my dwindling rations.
A short walk brought me to the location of my evening ice cold bath with the creek water. I used the light of the candle lantern. It was extremely dark. I realized it was because of the camp’s location in this hollow, with tall trees obstructing any light from the moon or stars. I can still remember thinking, as I crawled into my sleeping bag, that I had never been so happy to be able to lie down.
The next morning, I saw that the other two parties camped nearby had ridden in by horseback. They had a mixed bunch of horses. A couple of big work horses, some regular-sized, and even a pony for a small boy. I was feeling pretty good after my sleep last night. It seemed that every evening the ground felt softer than the night before. I guess this is in direct proportion to how tired a person is.
While I started to prepare breakfast, I was approached by a jolly old man. His name was Andy. He was an old Smoky mountain backwoodsman. He brought me breakfast, fit for a king or a tired hiker...fresh bread, butter, bacon, eggs, and homemade jam.
He said that he had seen me drag in the evening before. He didn’t want to bother a tired hiker, so he didn’t introduce himself at that time. He and his partner had come up mainly for some good trout fishing. I spent a good three hours watching the two men fly fish. Old Andy was one of the best fly tiers in this mountain area. He had a terrific assortment of flies, and they sure worked!
In a short time, I received a complete lesson on rainbow trout fishing. Andy’s partner owned a logging business. He was part Cherokee Indian, and because of that, he could bid for the reservation timber. Fishing also came natural to him. He had learned fishing skills from the time he was able to bait a hook.
I decided to push on. I said I would possibly see them down at the campground, because they would catch up to me on the trail with their horses. The other party had left, and their two big work horses remained. These horses were used during the week for hauling logs out of hard to get to places. At this point I could go through my “pack picking up” movements almost mechanically.
Shortly, a light rain began to fall. I paused to put on my waterproof windbreaker jacket. I welcomed the cool sprinkle. It seemed light and refreshing to me. I didn't mind it too much. In a open space I looked up, and could see that it was just an afternoon shower.
About the time it cleared, I became aware that I was walking in a different environment. I had unsuspectingly walked right into a stand of huge virgin pines. Some were four feet in diameter. There was a thick carpet of pine needles all around, and hardly any scrub vegetation or brush anywhere. I had to stop, and almost lay on my back, to see the tops of some trees. Somewhere above, a lone crow was perched, proclaiming that all of this was his domain.
There had been much logging activity in the Appalachian Mountains in the early days. It seemed impossible that these wonderful specimens were spared. Later, I would be told by an old mountain man, that if a couple of us would be allowed to log in a national park with modern equipment, in the short span of one year, we would have a fortune. I guess it’s just the lust for the dollar that has destroyed and upset nature’s delicate balance in so many instances. Will man ever learn?
As I hiked along, even though the trail was clear, I could tell that it was little used. It was about five miles down to Deep Creek. When I got there, I had to wade the creek, and climb up to the trail into what on the map said was the Poke Patch campsite. I suddenly found myself looking at four men in their twenties. They were just preparing a supper of pan-fried potatoes and trout. The aroma and sight of this reminded me of my own hunger. I had to look the other way to keep my mouth from watering. I could see that I had surprised them by coming in from the direction I did. No one said a word. I realized why. There on a post was a pistol in its holster, a definite breaking of park rules.
“Howdy,” I said. Trying to be congenial while setting myself down and getting out of my pack.
“Which way to Bryson Place?” I had to ask this because they had hung a tarp on the park post trail marker. One of the group nodded, and I saw that there were no friendly indications. I slipped back into my pack and headed down the trail without looking back.
I moved along Deep Creek. The trail along here was easy. However, this was not a place to camp. The sides of the trail were either steep or moist. My cramp had crept back into my left leg, and I was using a hiking stick again to support it as I walked along. I thought back as the dusk set in. It was a long way from Silers Bald, then the plunge down Fork Ridge Trail to Deep Creek. Those fourteen miles were definitely a lot of adventures for one day.
I wearily dragged myself into the Bryson Place camp area. I had added another four plus miles to that fourteen. I could see shadows from a couple of campfires, lean-tos, people moving about, and I heard the sounds of horses nearby. I hastily set up my own plastic tarp shelter. I then got out the last package of powdered soup from my dwindling rations.
A short walk brought me to the location of my evening ice cold bath with the creek water. I used the light of the candle lantern. It was extremely dark. I realized it was because of the camp’s location in this hollow, with tall trees obstructing any light from the moon or stars. I can still remember thinking, as I crawled into my sleeping bag, that I had never been so happy to be able to lie down.
The next morning, I saw that the other two parties camped nearby had ridden in by horseback. They had a mixed bunch of horses. A couple of big work horses, some regular-sized, and even a pony for a small boy. I was feeling pretty good after my sleep last night. It seemed that every evening the ground felt softer than the night before. I guess this is in direct proportion to how tired a person is.
While I started to prepare breakfast, I was approached by a jolly old man. His name was Andy. He was an old Smoky mountain backwoodsman. He brought me breakfast, fit for a king or a tired hiker...fresh bread, butter, bacon, eggs, and homemade jam.
He said that he had seen me drag in the evening before. He didn’t want to bother a tired hiker, so he didn’t introduce himself at that time. He and his partner had come up mainly for some good trout fishing. I spent a good three hours watching the two men fly fish. Old Andy was one of the best fly tiers in this mountain area. He had a terrific assortment of flies, and they sure worked!
In a short time, I received a complete lesson on rainbow trout fishing. Andy’s partner owned a logging business. He was part Cherokee Indian, and because of that, he could bid for the reservation timber. Fishing also came natural to him. He had learned fishing skills from the time he was able to bait a hook.
I decided to push on. I said I would possibly see them down at the campground, because they would catch up to me on the trail with their horses. The other party had left, and their two big work horses remained. These horses were used during the week for hauling logs out of hard to get to places. At this point I could go through my “pack picking up” movements almost mechanically.
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