by Jeff Alt
“These are great ideas. I think we have a good start,” I replied.
Some other visitors stepped into the council meeting building, which prompted us to end our meeting. We stepped out of the structure and walked around until we found Uncle Boone, Aunt Walks-a-Lot, Papa Lewis, Grandma, Mom, and Dad talking with a re-enactor dressed as a fur trader. He was explaining how the Cherokees traded animal pelts with the white settlers in exchange for munitions and other domestic items. After the re-enactor finished, everyone was ready to move on to our next adventure. We left the village, and when we got into the parking lot, we huddled together in a circle to discuss our plans. We agreed to grab some lunch and then stop at the Oconaluftee Park Visitor Center. Little did we know that we were about to stumble upon a breakthrough with our family mystery!
CHAPTER 11
THE MILD GOOSE CHASE
The Oconaluftee Visitor Center is located off of Newfound Gap Road, as you enter the Great Smoky Mountains National Park from Cherokee. We were only in the vehicles for a few minutes before arriving at the visitor center. Hug-a-Bug was very focused on completing all the tasks to earn her Junior Ranger badge. As soon as she stepped out of the Jeep, she walked past the visitor center entrance and marched ahead of us and around the building. Behind the visitor center was a recreation of a nineteenth-century farm called the Mountain Farm Museum. Hug-a-Bug continued ahead of us all, in search of an answer for her Junior Ranger booklet about early settler’s spring houses.
As we walked around the farm, Papa Lewis gave us some of the history.
“According to the National Park Service, the buildings here were moved from other areas in the park to give visitors a feel for early life in the Great Smoky Mountains. The cabin was built out of American chestnut before the chestnut blight,” Papa Lewis informed us.
“This is pretty cool that the park brought all these buildings together as an example of early farm life in the Smokies,” I said.
Hug-a-Bug rejoined our group, happy that she had found her Junior Ranger answer to the question.
“Before we go, can we stop in the visitor center?” Hug-a-Bug asked as she continued walking, with a bounce in her step, towards the Oconaluftee Visitor Center.
None of us had a chance to ask Hug-a-Bug what the Junior Ranger question and answer was. We all followed her inside. She stepped up to a counter staffed by park rangers and park volunteers. There were several tourists with maps unfolded on the counter, getting expert advice from the park rangers on their Great Smoky Mountain visit. Crockett and I stood nearby while Hug-a-Bug got in line to speak with a park ranger. When Hug-a-Bug reached the front of the line, the park ranger greeted her and asked how he could help. Crockett and I moved our way through the line of people and stood alongside Hug-a-Bug.
“Does anyone work in the park by the name of Will?” Hug-a-Bug asked.
“Hmm. That’s funny you ask. There was a volunteer named Will Lewis that worked here up until two months ago. He preferred to be called Wild Bill. He was only on staff for a few months. He interacted great with the park visitors and we hated to see him go. But, he had a fascinating goal he wanted to accomplish. He wanted to explore as many areas of the Smokies as he could, through the eyes of those that lived here before him. The next thing we knew, he left to volunteer as a miller’s apprentice.”
The three of us looked at each other in disbelief. Hug-a-Bug’s idea of checking with the park was a home run. This had to be Papa Lewis’ cousin Will. I mean, what are the odds of someone else named Will Lewis working here? This has to be him, I thought.
“Why do you want to know about Wild Bill?” the park ranger asked.
“We’ve been trying to locate our papa’s long-lost cousin and we think Will Lewis, I mean Wild Bill, might be him,” Hug-a-Bug answered.
“What’s a miller?” Crockett asked.
“You need to go to the Mingus Mill and see for yourself. Millers worked in the grist mills. Early settlers relied on grist mills to grind corn and wheat. Mingus Mill is just up the road as you go up into the park, on the left-hand side of the road. You can’t miss it,” the park ranger said.
“Thank you,” the three of us said in unison, leaving the counter so that the next person in the growing line could get advice on their own adventure.
“You bet! Good luck! I hope you find Wild Bill.”
Our adventure had just changed course. We ran back over to where our parents stood with Papa Lewis and Grandma. When we told Papa that a Will Lewis worked here up until two months ago, a smile spread across his face from ear to ear.
“Will left the visitor center to be a miller’s apprentice, and the Mingus Mill is just up the road. He might be there,” I explained.
Everyone felt an immediate sense of urgency to find Wild Bill. We all trotted out of the visitor center, got into the vehicles, and drove up the road for about a half mile, heading north of the Oconaluftee Visitor Center. We pulled off of Newfound Gap Road, into a large parking lot. We parked, and hurried along towards the mill.
We approached the Mingus Mill, a three-story structure. A long wooden flume was carrying water from a nearby stream towards the mill. The water was rushing along so hard and so fast it was spilling over the sides. The water flowed along, like a log ride at an amusement park, into the back of the building. Then it poured down onto the notches of a great big turbine wheel, causing it to turn, which then moved the grinding stone that ground the grain in the mill. We stepped inside the mill, unsure if Will would be there. We saw a man wearing denim bib overalls. He was pouring corn from a sack into a wooden hopper. A group of visitors had gathered before him and he introduced himself as the miller.
“That doesn’t look like Will,” Papa Lewis whispered.
“You haven’t seen Will in forty years. Are you sure that’s not him?” my dad whispered back.
We all stood and listened to the miller tell the Mingus Mill story. “The Mingus family had Sion Thomas Early build this mill in 1896,” the miller stated.
He pointed to a circular stone that was in motion, grinding the corn he had just poured into the wooden hopper, and he said, “The stone was imported from France and was used to grind corn into cornmeal and wheat into flour. This is a unique mill because it has a metal turbine instead of a wooden waterwheel. The finished product spits out into the exit hopper over here,” he said, pointing to where a sack had been placed and was filling up with cornmeal.
“People from as far as fifteen miles away brought their corn and wheat to the mill to be ground. They paid the miller by giving him a portion of their grain. The grain was then used to make bread, biscuits, cakes, corn whiskey (a.k.a moonshine), and many other baked goods,” the miller said.
The miller continued with his presentation and answered some questions from the other visitors. We waited to approach the miller until he was done talking and the other tourists had walked on to another location.
Papa Lewis asked him, “You don’t know a Will Lewis, do you?”
The miller looked up in surprise and said, “You mean Wild Bill? I sure do. Wild Bill worked as my apprentice up until about a month ago, when he left to fill in as the miller at the Cable Mill in Cades Cove. He sure was a great apprentice to work with. I really didn’t have to teach him anything—he seemed to already know everything. He was a natural miller. It was as if he had gone back in time and learned from the original Mingus millers.”
Papa Lewis smiled.
“Why do you ask?” the miller inquired.
“I think Wild Bill is my long-lost cousin. I last saw him forty years ago,” Papa Lewis said.
“What a wonderful man. He had a bucket list that consisted of trying to live the life of various individuals that used to live here in the Smokies.”
“That’s definitely my cousin. Thank you for all the information,” Papa Lewis replied.
“Good luck. I hope you reconnect.”
We all walked single-file through the mill and climbed the stairs up to the storage area. We
had the room all to ourselves.
“We seem to be one step behind your cousin,” I said to Papa Lewis.
“I know. Our best bet is to get over to Cades Cove. If he has a bucket list of people to follow, he may not be a miller for long.”
“While we’re here, are you thinking what I’m thinking?” I asked, anticipating that everyone would want to see the mill in operation back in the day.
“Let’s do it,” Crockett said.
We all formed a circle and I placed my hand on the family journal and said, “Take us back to 1897.” The mill was built in 1896, but I figured it may have taken a year or so to get up and running. After a few seconds, I felt something heavy push me towards the center of the room. All of us were moved over by piles of heavy sacks of fresh ground flour and cornmeal. The room, empty just seconds before, was now lined with these bags, leaving very little room to stand. We heard lots of chattering voices coming from outside the building. It was a warm summer day, and through the doorway, we saw a few dozen women, men, and children gathered outside in front of the mill. A horse and buggy were sitting out front. We were all wearing different clothing. I had on bib overalls, a cotton shirt, and no shoes. The ladies all wore long dresses. We walked down the steps to where the miller was busy grinding more corn. There was lots of activity going on. Men and boys were carrying bags of unground corn and wheat into the mill as others were leaving with sacks of freshly ground corn and wheat.
Mom whispered to Aunt Walks-a-Lot, “Can you imagine having to ride a horse or walk to the mill, just to get some grain or flour to bake something?”
“Well, at least it was the boys and men that had to carry the grain back and forth. This does make me thankful that I can buy flour and cornmeal at the grocery store.”
“It’s amazing how the settlers converted water into power. Now, we take electricity for granted,” I whispered.
We stepped outside and some people stared at us, never having seen us before, but then they went back to their conversations. I overheard several people bartering. Two men struck a deal. One man swapped a hunting rifle in exchange for two baby pigs. A barefoot teenaged boy traded the chicken he was holding for a hammer. After a few minutes, we wandered back into the mill, back up to the third floor, huddled together, and I took us back to the present. No one spoke until we got out to the parking lot.
“Those people were trading things instead of paying with money,” Hug-a-Bug said.
“That’s called bartering, Hug-a-Bug. I guess you couldn’t just pick up Chipotle or McDonald’s in the Smokies back then, huh?” I joked.
“With all the steps they had to go through just to get flour to make a meal, I can safely say that dinner as an early settler was the complete opposite of modern-day fast food,” Crockett replied and we all laughed.
“We have quite a drive to get over to Cades Cove. We better head in that direction so we have time to pitch camp and eat dinner,” Papa Lewis suggested.
“Are you thinking we can catch up to your cousin Will today?” I asked.
“No, we will have to wait until tomorrow. They close the Cades Cove loop road in the evening. You will get even more of a flavor for early settler life in the Smokies tomorrow, when we explore Cade’s Cove.”
We all climbed into our respective vehicles and drove north on Newfound Gap Road, up and over the mountain, and down the other side. We turned left off of Newfound Gap Road onto Little River Road and continued for another twenty miles, following the scenic two-lane road, and enjoying views of the Little River. We passed the turnoff to Elkmont and several other sites packed with tourists before arriving at the Cades Cove campground. Another segment of our adventure had ended, and a new one was about to begin.
I had a newfound appreciation for how big the park was. We had started our day in the Cataloochee campground, and now we were ending our day clear across the park in the Cades Cove campground. The Appalachian Trail runs for seventy-one miles along the ridge of the entire length of the park. Even with vehicles to zip around in, it was a long distance to travel on narrow mountain roads. The Smokies is indeed a “great,” big national park.
Everyone had a new sense of excitement about catching up with Papa’s cousin, Wild Bill. Looking for Wild Bill added an element of the unknown to our trip, which was already the most amazing adventure I’d ever been on, and on top of that, you couldn’t ask for a better location to search for someone. From the tranquil mountain streams and beautiful sunsets to the thick forests, wild animals and rich history, this was the perfect backdrop for most anything.
We all worked together setting up camp, and then it was time for dinner. Everyone was hungry. Mom surprised us with a bag of cornmeal she had bought back at the Mingus Mill.
“I thought we could try out some skillet cornbread to go along with our ham, potatoes, and green beans.”
We all went about a similar campsite routine to what we had done the night before. We kids gathered firewood and Uncle Boone and Dad got a blazing fire going. Mom, Grandma, and Aunt Walks-a-Lot assembled the meal. Mom used our propane stove to cook. It took longer to prepare the meal than to eat.
You could tell everyone was tired and hungry. Few words were spoken during dinner, and we ate everything—there were no leftovers. After dinner, we sat around the fire for a bit as the sun set and the wooded campground grew dark. Papa Lewis and Grandma were the first to call it a night and slip into the tent. It wasn’t more than ten minutes later that the rest of us did the same.
It’s funny how nighttime sounds can frighten you, especially if you don’t know what’s making them. This is especially true when you’re camping with nothing more than a thin nylon tent to offer what you know is a false sense of security. As I lay awake in my sleeping bag that night, I heard a chirping bird sound, which Dad had told me the night before was a whippoorwill’s call. He said they make their calls at night. So that sound didn’t alarm Hug-a-Bug and me as we lay in our sleeping bags. It was the next sound that disrupted my dreamy thoughts drifting into sleep. It was a very distinctive eerie sound:
“Hoo, hoo who, hoo, hoo ahoo!”
“What was that?” Hug-a-Bug asked in a nervous whisper.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s a barred owl,” Dad answered. “There are five types of owls in the Smokies: screech, barn, great horned, saw-whet, and barred, and they each have a distinct call.”
We could now write off another mystery sound as nothing to worry about. We finally drifted off to sleep.
CHAPTER 12
AWAY FROM IT ALL
Morning came quickly after a much-needed ten hours of sleep. The cool part about camping is that you don’t need an alarm clock to wake up—the natural sunlight is Mother Nature’s way of opening your eyes to start a new day. The tent walls were beginning to glow with sunlight. As I lay inside our tent, I could hear the muffled voices of other nearby campers, and occasional metal clanks of pots and pans, as people were preparing the first meal of the day.
“Okay, up and at ‘em, everyone, we have another big day in store for us,” Papa Lewis called out. “We have bike rental reservations to ride the Cades Cove Loop. The road is closed to cars until ten AM. We’re going to have a quick breakfast, and we have packed lunches all ready to go.”
With that announcement, those of us who were still lazing in our sleeping bags groggily came to life, pulling on pants, tucking in shirts, and lacing up shoes. Everyone quickly took care of their morning routines.
Mom put on some coffee, Aunt Walks-a-Lot handed everyone granola bars, and I helped Dad make sure everyone had water and lunch packed in their daypacks.
As everyone wolfed down breakfast, I unfolded the map of Cades Cove onto the picnic table to get a sense of what we were about to do. Crockett and Hug-a-Bug sat down and joined me. All three of us were scanning the map looking for the grist mill where we hoped we would find Cousin Will. We were looking down at an eleven-mile loop dotted with historic homesteads and churches.
“Here it is,” I said, pointing to a spot on the map labeled “Cable Mill Historic Area.”
“It looks like that’s the only mill in Cades Cove. That has to be it,” Crockett said.
“That’s over halfway around the loop. It will take us a while to get there on bikes,” Hug-a-Bug said.
“Don’t worry about Cousin Will. Let’s enjoy the day in Cades Cove. There is lots to see and do before we get to the grist mill. If Cousin Will is here, we’ll find him,” Papa Lewis said.
We picked up our rental bikes and pedaled over to the entrance gate for the Cades Cove Loop road. On Wednesdays and Saturdays, the road is open to non-motorized traffic from seven to ten in the morning, and today was Saturday. We had a three-hour jump on the automobile tourist traffic that usually filled the one-lane road.
A park ranger arrived just before seven, opened the gate, and we were off, pedaling into Cades Cove. We were surrounded by dozens of other cyclists, runners, and walkers taking advantage of the “non-motorized” hours. The bike ride was a nice change after having spent several hours in the car the day before. Shortly after we rode through the gate, the trees lining the road thinned out to reveal expansive meadows and tall mountains off in the distance. Patches of fog lingered above the field, and the sun was peaking over distant mountains with brilliant yellow and red hues adding a colorful light show to the blue morning sky. Scattered deer were grazing the tall thick grass. Wow, from visiting other areas of the park, I would have never guessed such a flat area of land existed in the Smokies. Almost everywhere else we had been it was either up or down.
Papa Lewis slowed his bike and stopped along the side of the road overlooking the cove and we all did the same. The road was lined with a simple barbed wire fence with log posts spaced every four or five feet apart.
“Imagine traveling over the mountains looking for a place to settle down and make a farm, and wandering into Cades Cove,” Papa Lewis said, as he looked out across the field.