by Jeff Alt
“You mean our ancestors were spies?” Hug-a-Bug asked.
We both looked up at Papa Lewis for an answer.
“Bubba Jones, I’m impressed that you know what cipher codes are. You’re right on track,” Papa Lewis said. “No, we are not a family of spies. But, some of our ancestors were U.S spies. They helped the U.S. defeat the British during the Revolutionary War and then again in the War of 1812. When word got out about Lewis and Clark’s successful expedition, some of our ancestors predicted that our civilized society would soon populate the newly discovered U.S. wild lands to the west. They grew concerned that without careful planning, conservation and preservation, future generations would not be able to experience the same sense of adventure as Lewis and Clark. It’s in our family blood to live for adventure. Lewis and Clark had brought back samples of plant and animal life and our ancestors had the foresight to realize some of those very plants and animals could become extinct. They realized that the great outdoors is our greatest treasure. The natural world is where we get our food and water, where we discover new medicine and cures for deadly diseases. It’s where we get our energy supply, and so much more. It was true then, and it’s true today.”
Our ancestors formed a secret family mission to help protect and conserve nature for future generations. They wanted to be sure your generation and many more to follow will have places like the Great Smoky Mountains to go for an adventure. Some of our ancestors who had unique skills, like the ability to encode and decode cipher messages, used these talents to set up a vast secret network across the country. That network exists today and you are part of it. Time-travel is a unique skill we can use not only to help with conservation, but also to rediscover lost skills, medicines, and so much more. Our time-travel skills give us the ability to learn what existed before us, and to discover lost techniques of survival that worked before our time. Our family mission is noble and most people share our conservation philosophy. The reason our family mission is a secret is so that no one tries to misuse our time-travel skills for deviant purposes.”
“Whatever happened to your cousin, Papa? Could he have the other half of the paper?” I asked.
“I’m pretty sure my cousin Will lives here in the Smokies, but I haven’t spoken to him since that camping trip forty years ago, and I haven’t been able to track him down. With your help, maybe we can find him while we’re here,” Papa said hopefully.
As the fire died down, Papa Lewis poured water over the embers and we all zipped into our tent for the night.
“Papa Lewis, what will we do if a bear comes into our camp?” Hug-a-Bug asked, peering out from her sleeping bag. She was wrapped up as tight as a mummy.
“Don’t worry, Hug-a-Bug, we hung anything the bears can smell on those cables, and as long as you don’t have any food or anything with a scent in our tent, they will leave us alone,” Papa Lewis said sleepily. Within seconds, his slow, deep breathing told us he had already fallen asleep.
Calmed by Papa’s explanation, Hug-a-Bug and I snuggled into our sleeping bags and fell asleep too.
CHAPTER 5
THE ORIGINAL GREAT SMOKY MOUNTAIN INHABITANTS
We woke up to the tantalizing, smoky aroma of bacon cooking. The tent flap was unzipped, and I could see Papa sitting on a rock, stirring eggs in a pan over the stove. Hug-a-Bug and I joined Papa out by the fire pit for a mountainside breakfast.
“How did you carry eggs and bacon out here?” I asked Papa Lewis.
“I dried the bacon in my food dehydrator and the eggs are powdered; just add boiling water and voila,” Papa Lewis said. He stirred the eggs.
We sat quietly, eating breakfast and enjoying the peaceful stillness of the morning, with birds chirping and the distant sound of the bubbling stream. As I sat there, it dawned on me that I had completely forgotten about the bears since last night. Our campsite didn’t show any sign of bear activity. Just like Papa Lewis had said.
Papa Lewis looked over at Hug-a-Bug and me and said, “You have a whole life of adventure ahead of you, and the Smokies are a great place to try out your new time-traveling skills.”
I had no idea what to expect now that I had inherited Papa Lewis’ time-travel skills. The secret family journal was no longer in Papa’s cargo pants pocket; it was now in mine. We helped clean the breakfast pans, and broke camp. We stuffed our sleeping bags and sleeping pads in our backpacks, pulled the tent stakes up, slid the tent poles out of the fabric and folded them up. Papa seamlessly rolled up the tent and tucked it into his pack. He pulled out the map, reviewed our hiking plans, and we were off, heading up the mountain to Clingmans Dome. Papa said it would be a difficult hike. The trail followed a mountain stream for several miles on a continuous upgrade and then we turned onto the Goshen Prong Trail. The trail became steeper, making each step more difficult. Hug-a-Bug and I were in pretty good shape, but this was tough hiking. We stopped for a break and that’s when we realized that Papa had fallen behind. A few minutes later, he caught up to us and we all sat for a while to eat a snack and chug down some water.
“You guys are doing great,” Papa Lewis said. “I’m not far behind. I’m just enjoying my own pace. I’m not as agile as I used to be.” Papa was still breathing hard from the hike. He wiped sweat from his brow.
After a short break, we continued on. The trail turned away from the stream and continued to ascend. As we climbed higher, we began to smell the distinct aroma of Christmas trees, emanating from the spruce trees that dotted the landscape at the higher elevations. The tree species had gradually changed the higher we climbed, and the temperature had dropped noticeably as well.
I stopped to catch my breath and commented, “I wonder if anyone ever tried to live up here on top of the mountain. I don’t know if you could do it. It would be really tough to survive, especially in the winter.”
Hug-a-Bug was too winded from the climb to say anything, so she just nodded in agreement as she wiped sweat from her forehead.
Papa Lewis was right behind me and heard my question. He responded, “Bubba Jones, this is a perfect opportunity to practice your time-travel skills. Why don’t you take us back to 1838? You can see for yourself what it takes to survive up here.”
All morning I had been dying to try out my time-travel skills to see if they actually worked, so I gladly followed Papa Lewis’ request. I placed my hand on the family journal stuffed in my pocket. Hug-a-Bug and Papa Lewis stepped closer to me and I said loudly, “Let’s go back to 1838.”
Seconds later, our packs and hiking poles had vanished. We were now dressed in fringed deerskin clothing. Our boots were replaced with moccasins. A large boulder had shielded our arrival from view of others. A group was sitting nearby on rocks around a roaring fire. It was really cold, so we all quickly cozied up to the fire alongside dark-haired men, women and children. Some of the men had feathers woven into their long hair and others had Mohawks. Some had colored paint markings on their faces. They were speaking a language I didn’t understand or recognize. Some of them were reading, but I didn’t recognize the symbols on the paper. A group sitting around another fire sang chants to the beat of drums. Several men were standing guard off in the trees away from the fire circles. Some held rifles ready to fire as they looked cautiously out into the forest; others had bow and arrows.
“Papa Lewis, those look like real guns and these people have all the characteristics of Native Americans,” I whispered.
Papa led us away from the fire and whispered, “Yes, Bubba Jones, we’re hiding out with the Cherokee Indians high up in the Great Smoky Mountains. The president ordered the U.S. Army to remove all Cherokee from their villages—by force if necessary—and make them move twelve hundred miles west to Oklahoma. As you can imagine, the Cherokee didn’t want to leave their homes, but they were completely outnumbered by the U.S. Army, so most of them went to Oklahoma. This forced migration was known as the Trail of Tears. Some of the Cherokee refused to leave their homeland. One of the most respected chiefs, Yonaguska, fled with
a band of Cherokees into the mountains to hide, in the hope of staying in the area. They were joined by others that had escaped the U.S Army. We need to be careful, especially with our white skin. They don’t trust outsiders right now. We need to blend in.”
We went back over by the fire to keep warm. We kept to ourselves so as to go undetected. Thankfully, Hug-a- Bug made sure her blond hair was tucked underneath a turban she wore. We didn’t talk so the Cherokees wouldn’t hear our English. Everyone was shivering from the cold, including us. A group of men walked into camp, returning from a hunt for food. Some of them had rifles, bows, and arrows strapped over their shoulders. Others carried dead squirrels by the tail, and several men carried a lifeless white tail deer upside-down, with its legs tied onto a long thick stick. Everyone helped the hunters skin the animal and prepare the meat to cook for food. The ground was covered with snow and the tree branches were lacquered with ice. We all sat close together wrapped in blankets. Almost everyone looked lean and hungry.
Papa Lewis whispered, “Okay, Bubba, take us back to the present.”
I stepped away from the fire and walked around behind a big boulder, out of view. Hug-a-Bug and Papa Lewis followed. I placed my hand on the family journal in my pocket and whispered so that the Cherokees wouldn’t hear me, “Take us back to the present.”
Seconds later, we were all wearing our hiking gear once again and standing on the trail.
“Holy cow, Papa, that was scary!” Hug-a-Bug exclaimed. “What if the Cherokees discovered we were not from their tribe?”
“I’m not sure, Hug-a-Bug. The Cherokee Indians just wanted to stay in their homes that were rightfully theirs and lead their lives. Our government forced them out,” Papa Lewis answered.
“That’s horrible. Why would our country do that?” I asked.
“Greed!” Papa Lewis answered. “The white settlers wanted the Cherokees’ land, especially after learning it had gold.”
“What ended up happening to the group we just visited?” I asked.
Papa Lewis answered, “Over a thousand Cherokee Indians hid from the Army, high up in the Smoky Mountains. They struggled and some died, but it paid off. Eventually, they were allowed to stay. But, the U.S Army forced them to convict and execute one of their own band members, who had killed a U.S. soldier. That was part of the deal to be able to stay. That Indian is praised as a Cherokee hero. Today, those Cherokee are now known as the Eastern Band of the Cherokee Indians. They live on a reservation on the south side of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. The Eastern Band of the Cherokee, when pushed, proved their determination to keep what was rightfully theirs. They sacrificed everything up there on the mountain. For that, I look up to them.”
Papa continued, “The rest of the Cherokee established a new home in Oklahoma. Today, they have a thriving community there.”
“I’m glad we don’t treat Native Americans that way anymore,” Hug-a-Bug said. I nodded in agreement.
“Me too,” Papa Lewis replied.
“Well, I did it! I time-traveled and returned. I can’t believe that I can do this,” I said.
“Bubba Jones, I’m proud of you. You did a good job with your first time-travel episode,” Papa Lewis said, with a smile on his face.
“Bubba can’t use those skills to turn me into a toad or anything like that, can he?” Hug-a-Bug frowned.
“Oh no, Hug-a-Bug, Bubba Jones can’t turn you into a toad. He inherited some powerful skills, but they are only meant for discovery of the past and retelling events about our natural wild lands,” Papa Lewis laughed.
Hug-a-Bug smiled and let out a sigh of relief.
“Sis, you wouldn’t make a very good toad anyway. Toads eat bugs, you hug them,” I joked back.
We continued hiking up the mountain and soon came to a trail junction with the Appalachian Trail. We had just two more miles to Clingmans Dome. We felt a jolt of adrenaline, knowing we were almost to the top. The hike had been like walking up a rollercoaster hill. We took a standing break before continuing onward.
CHAPTER 6
ONE BIG MOUNTAIN
“Wow, we’re almost to the highest point in the park, and we walked all the way from the bottom of the mountain!” Hug-a-Bug shouted.
“Yes, at 6,643 feet above sea level, Clingmans Dome is the highest point in the park. It is also the highest mountain along the entire Appalachian Trail, which extends from Georgia to Maine,” Papa Lewis said.
We walked on, following a narrow path with beautiful mountain views. We stopped at one of the views and sat down for some water and a snack.
As we all sat there taking in the view, Papa Lewis added some more trivia: “Clingmans Dome wasn’t always this high; it used to be much, much higher.”
“Really?” Hug a Bug questioned.
“Can we travel back and see?” I asked looking at Papa Lewis.
“You’re the time-traveler now, Bubba Jones. It’s your call.”
“Sounds fun. What time frame should we travel to?” I asked Papa.
“Try going back 460 million years.”
“Are you serious? That’s a really long time ago.”
“These are some very old mountains, Bubba Jones.”
Hug-a-Bug and Papa Lewis stood close to me as I placed my hand on the family journal once again and said, “Let’s go back 460 million years.”
Seconds later, our thin jackets were replaced with thick, puffy, hooded thermal coats. Our hiking poles had vanished and our hands were insulated with thick mittens. Ice pellets smacked us on the cheeks. The wind was so cold it stung our skin.
Papa Lewis shouted over the wind whistling in our ears, “Geologists estimate that 460 million years ago, The Great Smoky Mountains were more than double the current elevation, at least fourteen thousand feet tall— possibly as high as the Himalayas.”
“Wow! So we’re at least twice as high as Clingmans Dome is in present day.” Hug-a-Bug shouted as her teeth chattered uncontrollably between words. “C-c-c-can we g-g-g-go b-b-back to the present B-b-bubba J-j-j-jonesr This is too c-c-c-cold. I’m turning into a popsicle.”
We stood together shivering as I placed my hand back on the family journal and said, trying to control my chattering teeth, “T-t-t-take us b-b-back to the p-p-p-present.”
Our clothes transformed back to our light parkas. The cool temperature now felt warm compared to the subzero windchill we had just experienced.
It’s amazing how old the earth is, I thought, as we trudged up the mountain.
We walked on and soon began to hear voices, car engines, car doors slamming: all the sounds of a popular tourist destination. We had reached our goal— Clingmans Dome.
We stepped up from the rocky footpath into a parking lot. Hundreds of people of all ages, shapes, and sizes were walking to and from their cars towards an overlook with a viewing area. Hundreds more people were walking back down from it. This is where we were supposed to meet Dad, Mom and Grandma, but we didn’t see them anywhere.
The three of us walked up the path, following hundreds of others who had cameras around their necks, were pushing strollers, or were carrying backpacks, until we reached an observation tower and stood enjoying the view. We could see for at least a hundred miles in every direction.
“Hug-a-Bug! Bubba Jones! Papa Lewis!” My dad’s voice shouted from behind us on the observation tower. Mom, Dad, and Grandma were up here enjoying the view while they waited for us. We all walked together down the path. Papa Lewis led us into a little visitor center nestled along the side of the footpath that led up to the lookout. When we entered the building, the wall to the right immediately caught my attention with some facts about Clingmans Dome. I walked closer to get the facts. One of the headings, “Spruce-Fir Forest,” drew my attention. We had smelled the distinct spruce scent (which reminded me of Christmas) all day on the approach to Clingmans Dome and now I discovered why I only smelled those trees at Christmas. The Red Spruce and Fraser firs only grow in certain areas over 4500 feet. They are left
here from the Ice Age. When the glaciers pushed south, they brought plants and seeds down from the northern part of the continent. As the glaciers retreated and the climate warmed, the spruce-fir forest remained up here in the cool air.
Papa Lewis interrupted my attention from the poster, “Yep, Bubba Jones, if you want to see a spruce-fir forest anywhere else you need to go to northern Maine or Canada. Our hike just from Elmont to the top of this mountain allowed you to see the same kind of change in tree and other plant species that you would if you walked all the way from Georgia to Maine!”
Our conversation continued as we exited the visitor center and headed towards the parking lot: “Papa, I also read that Clingmans Dome was named after the scientist that measured the height of the mountain,” I said.
“Yep, when the park was created, people that did something big, like Clingman, would have mountains and trails named after them,” Papa Lewis said.
“That’s so cool. A whole mountain named after you.”
“How’s the adventure going so far?” Dad asked us as we all walked together to our vehicle.
Hug-a-Bug and I went on for fifteen minutes telling everyone about riding the Little River Lumber train, how we met some of the original park founders at the cabins along the Little River Trail, how we saw the Cherokee Indians who had fled to the mountains during the Trail of Tears, how we went back in time to experience the amazing original height of Clingmans Dome during prehistoric times. We told them about the synchronized fireflies and how it was so unreal that we thought it had to be the work of Papa Lewis.
Then I told everyone the biggest news in a hushed tone so no one passing by would hear me, “Papa Lewis turned over his time-travel ability to me and Hug-a-Bug.”
“Papa Lewis has been looking forward to this trip for a long time,” Dad said.
“You got that right, Clark,” Papa Lewis said, smiling. Bubba Jones and Hug-a-Bug will do a great job time-traveling and taking over our family legacy.”
