The Adventures of Bubba Jones Time Traveling Through the Great Smoky Mountains

by Jeff Alt

  The Cherokee Indians called the park home at one point in history and referred to the mist surrounding the mountains as Shaconage (shah-con-ah-jey), meaning “place of the blue smoke.” Early settlers, in reference to the clouds and mist, referred to the mountains as the Smoky Mountains, and some people simply call the park the Smokies.

  Papa Lewis drove our Jeep deeper into the park, weaving along a curvy two-lane road lined with thick forest. Mom rode in the front seat. Dad and Grandma Lewis were in the second-row seat, and Hug-a-Bug and I were in the third-row seat with our eyes fixated on the trees, looking for more bears. We turned off onto another road at a sign announcing Elkmont, one of the national park campgrounds. A few miles later, we rolled into the campground, a quiet, shaded area with mountain streams running through—a truly relaxing setting. Elkmont is a simple set-up with a small camp registration office, bathrooms, vending machines, and campsites.

  Papa Lewis explained, “This will be our base camp for a few days.”

  We all stepped out of our vehicle. We pulled our gear out and worked together pitching our tents and setting up a dinning canopy.

  Papa announced, “We have a big day in store for us tomorrow and we should get plenty of rest.”

  No one argued. We were all tired from the long drive and excitement. After we ate some sandwiches Mom had packed, we all retired to our tents for the night, just as the sun set behind a distant mountain.

  The next day, everyone was up at the crack of dawn, refreshed and ready for some adventure. Sunlight trickled through the leafless gaps between trees. Birds chirped, singing their morning song. The grass dripped with beads of morning dew. Elkmont had a peaceful quietness about it, with most of the visitors still asleep in their campers and tents. Papa Lewis studied maps during breakfast. When he finished eating, he placed one foot up onto the picnic table bench and leaned in toward me and Hug-a- Bug as we scooped cereal from our bowls, hungrily shoveling spoonfuls into our mouths.

  “Are you guys ready for a big day?” Papa Lewis asked.

  “You bet!” I exclaimed, and Hug-a-Bug nodded eagerly with a smile.

  Papa slid an unfolded topography map of the Great Smoky Mountains over to us so we could follow along as he began to explain our itinerary.

  “We are here,” Papa said, pointing to Elkmont on the map. He ran his finger along the Little River Trail stopping on a little triangular symbol indicating a campsite.

  “We are going to campsite twenty-four,” Papa Lewis said. “Your parents and grandma will meet us here tomorrow afternoon,” he added, pointing to Clingmans Dome.

  “Papa, it looks like Clingmans Dome is the highest mountain in the park,” I observed, looking at the map.

  “Yep! It’s 6,643 feet above sea level. Not only is it the highest mountain in the Smokies, it’s the highest mountain along the entire Appalachian Trail,” Papa Lewis said, with an upswing in his voice.

  “Let’s go! After reliving your adventure stories at home, it’ll be awesome to actually be with you on an adventure in real time! But why can’t Dad, Mom, and Grandma come along?” Hug-a-Bug added.

  Dad looked up at Hug-a-Bug and me with a grin, and said, “Bubba Jones, Hug-a-Bug, your Papa has looked forward to taking just the two of you on this hike for a long time. He has something special to share with you guys. We’ll join you at Clingmans Dome tomorrow afternoon and spend the rest of the trip with you. So, go on, have a good time with Papa Lewis. Your gear should be all set.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” Hug-a-Bug said.

  “Look after your sister, Bubba Jones,” Dad added.

  “I will, Dad,” I replied.

  Dad, Hug-a-Bug, and I had stuffed all our backpacking provisions into our packs before we left on our trip.

  I grabbed my pack and slung it over my shoulders. Hug-a-Bug and Papa Lewis did the same. Papa’s pack looked like something out of a history museum. It was made out of Army green canvas. They don’t even use canvas to make packs anymore. In contrast, Hug-a-Bug and I wore modern packs made out of brightly-colored, lightweight synthetic fabric. Mom and Grandma hugged us and said good-bye. Dad helped adjust our pack straps one last time and gave us each a hug, too.

  “Enjoy your adventure,” Dad said, standing with Mom and Grandma in our camp.

  We turned towards Papa Lewis and we were just about to walk out of camp, when it happened. Papa Lewis took us on our first time-travel adventure—and believe me when I tell you, this was even more real than his living room storytelling!

  Papa Lewis turned around looking at everyone, and said, “Elkmont wasn’t always a relaxing national park campground. I’m going to take you back to 1906 so you can see for yourself.” With that statement, Papa Lewis placed his hand on the thick book-like object bulging out of the cargo pocket on his right upper thigh and— poof!—in an instant, everything from the present vanished! We were surrounded by rows of narrow wood cabins about the width of mobile homes. Smoke billowed up from chimneys and fire pits. Our campsite—tent, vehicles, provisions, and hiking gear—was gone. Women and girls milled about in long dresses and some wore bonnets on their heads—Mom, Grandma, and Hug-a- Bug included. The men and boys, including Papa Lewis, Daddy Clark, and myself, were sporting long pants with suspenders and wide-brimmed hats, similar to photos I had seen in history books. Set off in the distance stood a post office and a railroad station. This definitely wasn’t a campground—this was a little village! From the looks of the houses, it must have been quickly assembled.

  For a moment we were all speechless and spellbound with amazement, with a zillion questions we were dying to ask Papa. It took me a minute to fully realize that we had just time-traveled with Papa Lewis to an earlier time in Elkmont.

  Papa broke the silence, “This was one of several logging camps in the Smokies during the early 1900’s. The cabins, called set-off houses, were brought in by train. That’s where the loggers lived with their families.”

  “Nice hat, Hug-a-Bug,” I said tugging on her bonnet.

  Hug-a-Bug responded by snapping one of my newly acquired suspenders and said, “You look pretty dapper yourself, Bubba.”

  Papa Lewis turned away and began walking towards the trail before anyone could get out a single question. The rest of us continued to turn and stare in every direction with amazement. The stillness of the morning ended with a whistle from the distance. A group of men and teenage boys carrying saws and axes walked in the same direction as we were, towards the Little River, so I guess the whistle signaled the beginning of the work day. I opened and closed my eyes to see if what we were seeing was real. As fast as Papa’s imagination had taken us back in time to the Elkmont logging camp, we returned to present day. The campground snapped back instantly to its modern appearance, once again sprinkled with brightly colored modern tents, shiny RVs, and campers cooking breakfast. We were wearing our modern clothes again, too.

  Hug-a-Bug and I waved goodbye to Mom, Dad, and Grandma, and followed Papa down the trail. I grinned with excitement wondering what would happen next, as we walked in step with Papa Lewis.

  “Papa, how did you do that?” I asked.

  “If I place my hand on this pocket and imagine or mention a past event, everyone within a ten-foot radius of me will instantly time-travel back to the period I’m talking or thinking about. If I want to time-travel to a specific location, I need to be physically present at that place in the present time in order to travel there back in time.”

  “Way cool, Papa Lewis, but I sure was hot wearing those long pants and long-sleeve shirts in this heat,” I said.

  “Life was different back then, Bubba. If you grew up in the 1920’s, you wouldn’t have known how it felt to wear your modern-day, synthetic, lightweight clothing with wicking capability. Time-traveling really lets you experience the characters and feeling of the period. That whistle you heard came from the lumber mill in Townsend, seventeen miles away.” Papa Lewis added.

  As we hiked out of camp, Papa continued to feed us more information: “Time
-traveling offers you the ability to answer questions, get facts, and even solve mysteries.” “Mysteries? What mysteries?” I asked.

  “Well, that remains to be seen,” Papa replied with a wink and a smile. And so we walked out of the Elkmont Campground on our way to our backcountry campsite.

  CHAPTER 3

  THE FALL OF THE GIANTS

  Papa, Hug-a-Bug, and I walked along a narrow road. We passed through an asphalt parking lot and stepped around a closed gate, which blocked access to cars. The trail continued following the Little River off to our left, and the soothing white noise of the fast-moving water washed over us. The wide mountain stream roiled and frothed over many rocks and boulders. A deep sense of tranquility set in from the combination of being immersed in the shaded forest and walking along the Little River.

  “This is beautiful!” Hug-a-Bug breathed.

  “It is very peaceful, isn’t it?” Papa Lewis commented.

  A little further along the trail, we came upon a line of cabins that had fallen into ruin. They looked as if they had probably been quite inviting in their heyday. But now, doors hung half off their hinges, windows were shattered, roofs were sagging or caved in, and the elements had taken their toll on the neglected structures. One of the cottages off of the trail to the left, close to the river, looked to be recently refurbished. It was painted pink and had a river stone chimney.

  “What’s up with all the old run-down cottages, and why is that one house pink?” I asked Papa.

  Papa explained, “This is the Elkmont historical area. The buildings are part of the Appalachian Club resort community. Back in the 1920s and 30s, before this was a park, these cottages were known as Millionaires Row. The lumber companies sold off some of the land to wealthy folks from Knoxville, who, in turn, built these summer cottages. They’d come down here to hike, hunt, fish, swim, or just to get away from the city. The pink cottage is called the Spence Cabin. It’s recently been restored. It belonged to Alice Townsend, the wife of Colonel Townsend, owner of the Little River Lumber Company and Railroad. Let’s backtrack out of the gate for a spell, over to the Jakes Creek Trail. I want to show you something.”

  We walked back out across the parking lot and down a paved car-sized path. Papa Lewis led us over to a large rustic one-storey brown sided building. It was old, but you could tell it had been restored and it looked rather livable. It had a wide porch spanning the entire length of the building. Just across the parking lot stood rows of more dilapidated small cottages.

  “This was the Appalachian Clubhouse where everyone vacationing would gather for social functions,” Papa said referring to the large building we stood in front of. The old cottages up the hill are refereed to as Daisy Town. A few of the Appalachian Club members and cottage owners, a Mr. and Mrs. Willis P. Davis and a Colonel David C. Chapman in particular, had the idea to make the Great Smoky Mountains a National Park, but they knew they would need a lot of help to make that happen.”

  “Are you saying that two people were able to convince all the private land owners to sell their land to make this a national park?”

  “Not quite. What they did was help make the idea of a national park real. These folks are excellent examples of what happens when you come up with a great idea and put others before yourself. Your idea can become something bigger than you ever imagined, like the creation of the most visited national park in the United States. Whaddya say we go back and meet them?”

  Papa Lewis placed his hand on his cargo pocket and said, “Let’s go back to the year 1927, when the movement began to create the Great Smoky Mountains National Park.”

  Hug-a-Bug and I stopped in our tracks, huddled close to Papa Lewis, and braced ourselves for our second time-travel experience. In the blink of an eye, the ruined daisy town structures transformed into charming little cottages, well-kept and freshly painted. Shiny black Model T-Fords were parked in the yards. A wooden boardwalk spanned all the way through the Daisy Town cottages and led all the way up to the porch of the Appalachian Clubhouse where we stood. Our gear and clothing were transformed as well. Hug-a-Bug and I had canvas backpacks like Papa’s, and we wore pants tucked into canvas gaiters, which covered our boots and shins, and laced up almost to our knees. The towering trees that had shaded us only moments ago were now mere saplings.

  “What am I wearing, Papa?” Hug-a-Bug asked, looking down at her new outfit.

  Papa whispered, “Talk softer, Hug-a-Bug, everyone can hear you. You’re wearing the latest hiking apparel from the 1920s.”

  Men, in nice shirts and pants, and women, wearing long dresses and sun hats, rocked in chairs on the porch, sipping lemonade. They filled the porch, laughing, talking, playing cards and board games.

  Three people were seated at a table near the porch steps in front of us and another man was standing at their table, apparently in deep conversation.

  “If you want my support, you should drop the national park idea and make the Great Smoky Mountains a national forest,” said the man standing next to the folks that were seated. He then stormed off the porch in a bout of anger.

  Just after the man stormed off the porch, a well-dressed man and woman stood up from their seats at the table. The man had short white hair and wire-rimmed glasses. He was dressed in a suit and tie. His female companion had short dark hair, and was dressed in an equally elegant dress; hardly the wardrobe of hikers. When they stood up, the other man with whom they’d been sitting stood up with them. He had bushy brown hair and glasses. He shook the couple’s hands and said to the couple, “I’m with you guys, the Great Smoky Mountains should be a national park, not a national forest.”

  The couple turned and stepped off the porch and headed towards their car.

  Papa whispered softly, “That’s Mr. & Mrs. Willis P. Davis leaving now, and the man they were sitting with is Colonel David Chapman.” Papa pointed discreetly and continued to whisper to us. “They were some of the many people that used their business and political connections to help create the park.”

  “How exactly do you create a park?” I asked.

  “Well, it took a lot of people, a lot of money, and a lot of work. As you can see, some people didn’t want this to become a national park,” Papa whispered.

  “What’s the difference between a national park and a national forest?” I asked.

  “There are several differences, but the main distinction is that a national park does not allow logging and hunting; whereas in a national forest you can log and hunt,” Papa whispered back to us.

  Mr. & Mrs. Davis waved goodbye to Colonel Chapman before turning to stroll along the Little River, nodding and smiling to us as they passed.

  A man and a boy walked by, heading towards the river carrying tackle boxes and fishing rods over their shoulders.

  The boy said with excitement, “I hope we catch some more trout like yesterday!”

  “Wow, I could so live here,” I said loudly, waving to the fishermen as they walked by.

  “Where are you from?” Colonel Chapman shouted from the porch as he stepped down the steps and walked towards us.

  “We’re from Cincinnati. We’re staying at the Wonderland Club.” Papa responded as we stood near the porch steps.

  Turning to us, Papa, lowered his voice and said, “The Wonderland Hotel, was near our base camp at Elkmont, and was originally built during the height of the logging boom to lodge businessmen. The logging company eventually sold the hotel to some wealthy families who then used it as part of the Appalachian Club community to house guests. Unfortunately, the structure collapsed and was beyond repair. The park contracted to remove the collapsed remnants. The historically significant artifacts were preserved and the steps and other rock features remain.”

  Before we could respond to Papa, the Colonel had reached us, and extended his hand for Papa to shake. “I’m Colonel David Chapman,” he said. “Welcome to the Smokies!”

  “I’m Lewis and these are my grandkids, Hug-a-Bug and Bubba Jones,” Papa Lewis said.
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br />   “Hug-a-Bug is an interesting name,” Colonel David Chapman said with a laugh. “Won’t you stay and have a lemonade with me?” he asked. He led us up to the porch and poured us each a glass of freshly squeezed lemonade loaded with sugar.

  “Thank you kindly,” Papa Lewis said

  “Yeah, thank you,” Hug-a-Bug said.

  “Thanks,” I chimed in as I gulped down the drink.

  “That’s the best glass of lemonade I’ve ever tasted,” I said.

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it; there’s more if you like.”

  I helped myself to another glass.

  “I’m working with some friends to try to make this area a national park, so everyone can experience the Smokies. Some folks would rather keep things the way they are or make it a national forest,” Colonel David Chapman shared.

  “Ah, so we’ve heard. We are very appreciative of all your efforts, sir. I know the Great Smoky Mountain National Park is going to be a big hit!” Papa Lewis said.

  “The Great Smoky Mountain National Park,” the colonel mused, “It sure has a nice ring to it. You all have travelled quite a distance. It must have taken a few days to get here from Cincinnati. I do hope you enjoy your Smoky Mountain visit.”

  “It only took us about five hours. We could have gotten here faster if Papa Lewis didn’t have to slow down through the speed trap on 75,” Hug-a-Bug countered.

  “My Model T tops out around 45 miles per hour—you must have a fast car! And what’s ‘75?’” the Colonel asked with a frown.

  “Our Jeep can go at least ninety miles per hour, and 75 is the highway,” Hug-a-Bug answered back.