A Lodge Called Fokestone by Bob Kranich

A Lodge Called Folkestone

The Dream, The Challenge, The People
 by Bob Kranich

(Excerpt 9)

“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.

Ring, ring, “Hello, Al Watson here.”

“Al, this is Bob Kranich. Remember the Army guy you met at the Natural Well?”

“Oh yes...Bob. How are you doing? Did you get out of the Army?”

“Yes, and I’m thinking that I would like to hike in the Smokies.”

“Bob, remember that I said you should leave your car at my house on Deep Creek. It’s just about a mile and one quarter to the park line from it. You know there are a lot of good trails leaving out of Deep Creek. You could go up the Fork Ridge Trail to the top and come back by way of Deep Creek or Indian Creek for that matter.”

“Al, I would like that. Just where is your house on Deep Creek?”

“Bob, it’s easy. Just go across Deep Creek at the mouth, go up the east side of the creek till you come to the first road to the left. It is a loop back to the creek, and then back out to the main road. It’s the first house on the right after the corner one. It’s got a big porch, and Deep Creek’s out front. There are only two houses after it. Doc Gibby lives next to it.”

“Thanks, Al.”

“When you going up there?” Al asked.

“Don’t know for sure, in about a month,” I replied.
I had all of my hiking gear ready, my food and supplies stocked in my Ranchero, and I was raring to go. I was ready to quit my job, and go to the Smokies hiking. It was a strange, but exciting feeling, the day Honeywell’s personnel debriefed me. As I walked out of the building and across the parking lot, I felt that I was free, and on another adventure.

A Week’s Tralilin’ In The Smokies

“Ouch, this old army surplus ski pack sure made my back ache with fifty pounds in it,” I said out loud to myself.

Then I thought, I should have bought that new frame. I was just trying to save some money, but in reality, I didn’t save myself.

Someone once said to me, “The best and cheapest way to go is usually First Class!”

I was hiking down the paved road toward the Smoky Mountain National Park. I had left my 1957 Ford Ranchero pickup camper parked about a mile back at my new friend, Al Watson’s cabin, outside of Bryson City, North Carolina. I had always wanted to hike in this area, since I had been informed that it had some of the most spectacular scenery and trails in the eastern United States. After all, this was, next to the Everglades National Park, the largest national park east of the Mississippi River.

Whew, sure is warm, I thought to myself. The sun was out in full force this mid-August day. But being in good spirits, fair shape, and enthusiastic, I plodded on. Here and there as I moved along, people would look out of their house and stare. I guess if I saw a person loaded down with a huge pack, big boots, crazy old hat, and a bright red bandana, I would stare too.

I could see the Deep Creek Campground just ahead and also a national park sign proclaiming, “No Hunting!” I took a left turn and soon was crossing the bridge over Deep Creek. Some children were wading in the cool mountain water. Others were shooting down the small rapids in rubber mattresses, or it appeared in whatever they could find that would float.

Now that I was in the park, I was enveloped in huge trees, and the shade sure felt great. Then I remembered I had better fill my canteen, and a rest would be good too. I set myself down on the ground, slid my shoulders and arms out of the pack, and walked to the nearby campground spigot.

The water tasted cool, looked clear, and clean. None of those city additives, I thought. With my thirst quenched, and canteen full, I decided that I had to get that pack back on, and get started up the mountain. I devised a procedure to best get my pack on: sit down, lean back, slip first one arm and shoulder into the strap, then the other. Now slide back and sit up. The pack settled onto my back, then by pulling my knees up under my chin, I could lean forward and rise up all at once. I would use this method hundreds of times in the next week.

Looking around for the trail I was to take, I saw a rustic wood sign with yellow lettering: “Noland Divide Trail, Clingmans Dome 22 Miles.”

There it was, the Noland Divide Trail. This would take me almost up to the Clingmans Dome parking lot. Clingmans Dome was the highest point in the park, at 6,643 feet above sea level. It is accessible also within one mile by car, but there would be a lot less traffic the way I was going to go.

With great determination I plunged on ahead, out of the nicely cut grass of the campground onto the trail. There was packed dirt in the center, and waist-tall grasses on each side. I headed towards the trunks of trees which formed a tunnel of foliage.

I took one last glance over my shoulder, and can still remember the look of the lady camper and her small child who had stopped to stare, and watch me disappear out of sight. I couldn’t help but smile.
Up I went into the hardwoods. The trail was wide at first. It seemed to be a combination of foot and horsepath. But the latter soon veered off in a different direction. I think the horse trail skirted the camping area to get to a different trail, possibly the Deep Creek trail. I found out that because of the heavy and not very efficient pack, and the grade, it became necessary to rest quite often. I would plod along until I was tired, about fifteen minutes, and then sit down and rest.

I used this rest time to be still as the forest sounds and sights closed in around me. Squirrels chattered, chipmunks scurried about, birds appeared and some even made their sounds, and the wind rustled in the tops of the trees.

I had started about ten this morning, and that was my last look at time as we normally know it. I had left my watch, radio, newspapers, etc. back in my vehicle. I found out that once on the trail, one eats when he is hungry, sleeps when it is dark, and arises bright and early with the light of morn. As for news, who needs it? My major thoughts were: Where’s the next spring for water? And, I sure do ache!

As I hiked up the trail, every now and then I came to a clearing. I could look out on the forest and survey the expanse of blue-green trees streaming out and down before me.

From the Author: 

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”.