Going home: A Smoky Mountain Tale

Fall greeted all five of the man’s senses. The air was (finally) cool to the touch. He could taste the sweet apples from the local orchard. He could hear the crunch of the fallen leaves under his feet. He could see the color erupt in the local mountains. And he could smell the woodsmoke from the cabins off of Highway 321 near Pittman Center. It was fall in the Smokies. And the man and his son were going home.

They walked up the Grapeyard Ridge Trail which follows Rhododendron Creek in the Greenbrier section of the Great Smoky National Park. The water babbled and gurgled as it tumbled toward the Little Pigeon River. This area had once been a vibrant mountain community before the formation of the park. Now it was crumbling walls and abandoned graveyards. Pastures had been taken over by trees. Nature had reclaimed the land from man.

This was the man’s family’s home ground, where his roots were. His family had been forced to leave their land when the National Park was formed. To them it was like Adam and Eve being forced out of paradise. To him, it wasn’t a National Park. It was Eden.

Thirty years ago, the man’s dad had taken him up here for the first time and told him all the family’s stories. And now it was time for the man to take his son to do the same. Wild Turkeys had wandered across their paths earlier on the trail. The man smiled. His grandfather would have served them for dinner. Today they were nearly tame. They had nothing to fear. He wished he was so lucky.

A low ground fog had covered the bottomland near the Little Pigeon River. There had been a hotel down there at one point. You could almost see the ghosts rustling through the fog. But this morning the area was calm. The only noise that could be heard was the rushing of the river.

A small voice broke the silence. “Dad, can we take a break?” The son plead tiredly.

“Sure, pal,” the dad answered from up ahead.

They sat on the rock by the creek and ate their snack: A can of vienna sausages and crackers chased by a granola bar. They drank some fresh apple cider and packed their trash back in their backpack. “You ready? Remember, leave no trace.” They continued their hike.

The man got there first. The homesite’s rock wall was still intact. “Your great great grandparent’s homesite was right over there.” Looking at the rock foundation and giant trees, you could still make out the homesite. “I call it paradise lost.” The boy listened to his father and looked around at the view of the valley below. The mountains’ majesty was on full display today.

They walked into the nearby graveyard to the old tombstones. The man knelt down and cleaned off one of the stones. It was a woman with their last name. “This is your great great grandmother’s grave. She died while giving birth to your great grandfather. Times were tough back then. Much tougher than now.”

The boy soaked it all in. He noticed his father take photos and then go over and sit down. He started to pray and say a few words that they boy could not hear. The boy slowly approached his dad and didn’t want to disturb him. The dad opened his eyes and looked up at his son.

“The mountains are our home. This is the source of our power. This is where our roots are. Where they are buried. Never forget that. Even though we no longer live here, we must always protect them. They are our heritage.”

The father and son walked back down the trail in the Smoky Mountains to their car. They were leaving their home to go home. It was a family tradition.