Mr. Write's Page

In 2000 and 2001, I wrote several feature stories for a small outdoor magazine based in Atlanta. The article below is probably the best. Lots of research required. Although the magazine eventually folded, my articles played no role in its demise. Nosiree.

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Nov. 6, 2000.

Lakeview Drive is a delightfully scenic two-lane mountain road in North Carolina that you might mistake for the Blue Ridge Parkway.

This remote byway heads west out of Bryson City, North Carolina, and for 10 miles, meanders high above Fontana Lake on the southern slope of Great Smoky Mountains National Park. Then, just six miles inside the national park, the road unceremoniously ends.

To the hikers, backpackers, anglers and equestrians who use it, Lakeview Drive is a splendid find, because it takes you well inside a lightly-used section of the National Park. Where the road ends, a spiderweb of backcountry trails begins.

Some trails lead south to Fontana Lake, on the shore opposite Tsali Recreation Area. Some continue west, contouring around ridges above the lake in the direction of Fontana Dam. Others lead north, climbing up the valleys and backbones to the Appalachian Trail and Clingman’s Dome on the better-known side of the Park.

But there is more to Lakeview Drive than its role as a dead end and a trailhead. The locals know it as “The Road to Nowhere,” and it has been at the center of an emotional controversy since the 1940s.

***

The southern mountains region of North Carolina has a rich history that predates Great Smoky Mountains National Park. When the Park was created in 1926, the hills already were peppered with homesteads and small communities. Commercial mining and logging had been underway there since the end of World War I, and the area south of the Park was thriving.

That changed in the opening years of World War II, when the Tennessee Valley Authority built Fontana Dam and made a lake out of the Little Tennessee River. As the water rose, most roads into the area were flooded out. The businesses and settlements quickly died.

Soon, only about 1,000 scattered homesteads remained. At a time when large numbers of men were away at war, the TVA purchased the remaining land above the river, turned it over to the National Park, and carried out the removal of the families. By 1944, the last houses north of Fontana Lake were torn down.

***

I first hiked beyond The Road to Nowhere in late Spring 1998. Early on a chilly Sunday morning, I drove west out of Bryson City, approached the unmanned gate that marks the Park boundary, and stopped the car to study the small, plaintive billboard on the hillside.

“WELCOME TO THE ROAD TO NOWHERE – A BROKEN PROMISE! 1943 – ?”

As I understood it, the sign blamed the federal government for failing to complete a road across the southern end of the Park. That was about all I wanted to know at the time, because frankly, I was anxious to log some trail miles. The morning chill sent me back inside the car, and I drove on into the Park.

Soon, I came to the end of the line: a barricade sporting a well-spray-painted “road closed” sign. I parked, geared up, and headed beyond the barricade.

A short distance from the parking area, the pavement disappeared into a tunnel in the side of the mountain.

The tunnel was concrete, two lanes wide, and in surprisingly sound shape to be 55 years old. Peering inside, I was comforted to see daylight at the other end. I strode ahead.

A half-mile later, the tunnel emerged from the western face of the mountain, and the pavement at last gave way to dirt. I set out down the Lakeshore Trail at a gentleman’s pace.

My destination that morning was the convergence of Forney Creek and Fontana Lake, about three miles from the tunnel. Two miles down the trail, I encountered 75 people coming in my direction.

Naturally, I heard them long before they reached me. In fact, my mind had plenty of time, as the din came closer, to search for an explanation for such a huge group on this fairly remote trail. Nothing plausible presented itself.

When the group surged into view at last, the man in the lead smiled and said in answer to the obvious question, “Family reunion.”

***

The construction of Lakeview Drive was halted in the early 1940s for a host of reasons, not the least of which was an unexpected byproduct of cutting into the local rock: sulfuric acid. Not far into the project, road-builders discovered that after heavy rains, the streams smelled of sulfur, and serious fish kills followed.

Engineers isolated the cause as a local rock that oxidizes when exposed to air, producing a nasty solution of H2SO4. The unwelcome chemistry could be controlled, but the price of Lakeview Drive suddenly shot up to $6 million per mile, in 1940s dollars.

Added to the concerns of environmentalists, who vigorously opposed a road through the National Park under any circumstances, the eyebrow-raising price tag convinced the Park Service to stop the project at the tunnel. That decision, they said, was temporary.

***

“Ah, family reunion,” I repeated. The man and I exchanged introductions, and then, with great formality, he introduced me to the nearest dozen family members – young and old, brothers and aunts, cousins and nephews. I strained to summon up my best Savannah-bred manners.

This was a local family whose elders once lived in the surrounding hills. The group that day ranged in age from 10 to 70. Some were children when the lake was formed and the government had bought their properties, but most were of later generations. They were natives of other communities in Swain County south and east of the lake.

The weather was pleasant, and all were dressed in Sunday clothing, except for footwear, which was hiking boots or sneakers.

The oldest member of the family was its matriarch, a widow, to whom I was introduced with special reverence by the man leading the group.

Later, he told me, “Mama is the reason we come up here every year. After she’s gone, some of us will keep making the trip, but not as many.”

I asked where they were going — and just where the heck they had come from. He said their destination was a family cemetery on a hilltop not far up the trail. They had crossed the lake early that morning by barge.

While I was grappling with that image, he told me the family planned to stop soon for a picnic lunch. He invited me to join them and to accompany them to the cemetery afterward. I accepted the lunch to be neighborly, but declined to go to the cemetery. A pilgrimage to visit the dearly departed was a family thing I didn’t want to impose upon.

A few coolers were produced, and we had a superb meal of fried chicken, potato salad, and other homemade delicacies. I thanked them profusely and sincerely and raved about the food.

Finally, fumbling for the right compliment, I offered to marry the person who cooked the chicken, if she would agree to move to Georgia.

The cook was Mama. She declined with a modest smile. Then after a pause, she told me to check back next year. A wall of laughter erupted from the crowd.

***

When the TVA began to negotiate a buy-out of the families of the north shore, one of the obstacles was the presence of family graveyards. Some families had lived in the area for generations. Small cemeteries were everywhere, many with graves dating back to the early 1800s.

The cemeteries were genuinely important to community life. Many annual “homecoming” celebrations centered on a visit to the family graveyard. The families vigorously opposed the idea of relocating the gravesites, and further, they wanted assurances of perpetual access.

Finally, the TVA promised that when World War II ended, a road would be built to give the families access to the cemeteries. This was the promise that convinced many of the residents to accept the buy-out and leave their homes.

When construction on Lakeview Drive stalled, and it became clear that a resolution would not soon be found, the Park Service quietly began to arrange transportation to the gravesites. Today, more than half a century later, families are still transported by barge across Fontana Lake to a point nearest their family plot.

Most of the time, the groups choose to walk from that point, but if needed, a four-wheeler or golf cart is brought along for the elderly.

***

After a lengthy farewell to the family, I continued on the trail west to Forney Creek and then turned south to Fontana Lake. At the mouth of the creek near the Lower Forney campsite, I sat for a long time next to the riffles.

On the hike out, I followed Forney Creek a good distance north and returned to the Lakeshore Trail by a different route. When I got back to the site of our picnic, the family had departed.

Although it was getting late, the cemetery wasn’t far, and I like cemeteries. Ten minutes later, I was standing at the fence peering in.

The hilltop was small and uneven, and the cemetery was painfully modest. The headstones, arranged more or less in two long rows, were mostly stone or cement. Some were store-bought marble. In all, they reflected the names of no more than a dozen families.

Except for crickets and birds and the rustle of leaves, the place was silent. On most of the graves, fresh flowers had been added to the supply of faded silk and plastic.

***

Today, the Road to Nowhere is a symbol in a larger fight, presently a stalemate, over whether to declare the area a wilderness. As expected, the issues are complex and contentious.

Proponents of the wilderness plan want to stop all future development, including road-building, in a large portion of the National Park. Opponents of wilderness designation want the road completed, not only because of the cemeteries, but also in hopes of expanding tourism in the area.

But both sides agree that Swain County probably has a cash settlement coming. In a spectacular case of bad timing, the county went into debt to build a portion of State Highway 288 only a few years before Fontana Dam was constructed. County taxpayers were obligated to make payments on that debt for 30 years after the highway disappeared beneath Fontana Lake.

***

I stood peering over the cemetery fence a second time in late summer 2000. It was a repeat of my 1998 hike, and the cemetery was my last stop on the way out.

I had encountered a few hikers and some anglers heading for the lake that morning, but mostly, I had the trails to myself. Although the forest canopy seemed as lush and beautiful as ever, the creeks were down to a trickle, and the lake was painfully low. An unhealthy-looking band of bare clay at the waterline made clear the extent of the drawdown, due primarily to the long drought.

In a clearing beside Lakeshore Trail not far from the cemetery, I was pleased to see that the Park Service has constructed a series of long wooden tables suitable for big family picnics.

At the cemetery on the hilltop, the soil was cracked and the undergrowth had long since surrendered for the year. Any fresh flowers placed at the last homecoming had dried up and blown away.

As I sat on the grass munching my bagel and peanuts, I tried to imagine the tiny hilltop overflowing with animated people.

I also thought about their gracious treatment of me. Whatever you want to call it — manners, gallantry, chivalry — it comes from a sense of propriety that is hard-wired in some people.

After a quiet lunch, I closed the big aluminum gate and headed down the hill. The family wasn’t there, but the place hummed with its presence.

***

To reach the Road to Nowhere, take U.S. 74, the Foothills Parkway, to one of the Bryson City exits. At the downtown area, cross the river and follow the signs toward Deep Creek Recreation Area. When you reach Everett Street, turn left (west). Past the high school, Everett Street becomes Lakeview Drive.