Wolf Laurel Historical Society

The longer you live in these storied mountains the more likely you will encounter a story of the unexplainable. Such stories usually start with: "It really happened! I am still trying to explain what and why."

Let me begin to recall this story with some context of its time. In that time we knew that when the dusk started to settle and night came to call, it was best to be nestled behind closed doors of hearth and home. Only the bravest and biggest ventured out after dark, only for a good reason and usually in a group. A group in those days could be defined as including an extra shotgun behind the door and the peering eyes of family members witnessing a lone sole venturing toward the commotion. If couples were courting and the evening hours got long, you would not think of sending that boy out alone. It was not unusual for a suitor to stay over and bunk in with the brothers of his sweetheart. Evenings were marked by the playing of games, telling stories, and making music until the fatigued participants announced, “Time for bed.”

All the time, outside those doors and windows, a whole new nocturnal world came alive. The howling of wolves and hooting of owls. A sharp shrill scream – like a woman’s cry – of the panther. The quiet trip trap of a raccoon or opossum across your doorstep only to be confirmed by prints left behind in morning light.

My Papaw kept story telling, game playing, and music making a tradition. He never tired of any of it. After a light supper (cornbread and milk) on a Saturday night we would head for the living room with our bowl of Cherry Vanilla ice cream delivered earlier in the week by the Biltmore milkman. This was the only time we were allowed to eat in the living room, sitting astutely on the long brown naugahyde couch. Lawrence Welk came on the square box, rabbit ear, T.V. at 6:30 PM and Hee Haw at 7PM. I am sure you have probably figured which was Granny’s show and which Papaw’s.

After the last Hee Haw, I would ask my questions: “Papaw, what was it like when you were little? Papaw, what games did you like? Papaw, have you ever been scared?” “Yes,” he pondered, reliving a moment in his life.

Knowing my Papaw to be no tall teller of tales, I leaned in a little closer as he spoke. It was good that I did because he never told it again and I never asked again.

There was a stillness in the living room as the weight of Papaw’s story settled into this little child’s mind, feeling his fear and bravery. I understood why he never spoke of it. I mean who would believe that experience?

These mountains were full of stories and folklore of the unexplained. Was I wrong? Was Papaw a tall teller of tales? Or was it Papaw telling me a story of what wildness meant in these mountains? Was it true? What was it? Why on that night? I will let you judge all a child's thoughts..

We arrived in Wolf Laurel in 2016, without old friends or family nearby. We were hopeful, however, that we would find a community that welcomed us and made us feel at home in a new, beautiful place. Our real estate agent -- the always patient and helpful Peggy Hobson -- was a good start. Unlike many outside realtors with little knowledge of community, Peggy spoke with authority as a resident of Wolf Laurel. We received a great orientation to life here. She had been a resident of Wolf Laurel for some time, answered our questions readily after careful thought. She told us about the Country Club and the Village Club, describing their roots in the people of Wolf Laurel. Still, I worried. The idea of making new friends in a new place was intimidating. While my husband Jim can talk to a post, I tend to be an introvert. The idea of starting from scratch to meet people in a brand-new community caused me considerable anxiety.

We completed our move in late summer. The moment that broke my anxiety came in late fall, in the parking lot of the Wolf Laurel Country Club. While walking to the mailboxes across the lot, I shyly altered my path to avoid a woman focused on conversation with someone in a car.

When the car left, here came the cute, petite woman after me. “Hi, I’m Cathy Johnson, who are you?” she asked. When I said my name, she said, “Oh, I have been looking forward to meeting you. I know you have been asking about exercise classes.” We talked about joining the club and my coming to exercise classes at the fitness center. I had such a warm feeling from Cathy’s greeting and friendliness, but that was just the beginning. Little did I know then what a wonderful and important friend Cathy (and Warren) would be to Jim and me, as she is to so many in Wolf Laurel. Whether for a walk, introductions to others, health support and advice, or just a conversation, Cathy was there for us. Once when Jim was in Mission Hospital for a surprise stay of several days and I, with a broken foot, could not drive, Cathy and Warren took me home for a change of clothes and back to the hospital again. Cathy’s kindness is a friendship that sustains you. It was also a taste of the friendship that enfolds one in Wolf Laurel.

Cathy’s friendship is not all we love about Wolf Laurel. Additional friends enrich our lives -- Mary Lou Woodiwiss and her exercise classes, the people we meet at Village Club get-togethers, walks with others through the beautiful nature of our surroundings, even organized trash-pickups along Puncheon Fork Road. It is the people who make a community and the friendly embrace of so many has more than met my doubts. Cathy has been special, yet a wonderful exemplar of a spirit that we have found so often in the people among whom we live.

From those early fears, I can now conclude without a doubt: We are so glad to be here!

In September, 2001, Susan and Frank Shepard were excited that they could spend an entire week at their weekend cabin, purchased twenty years earlier. Susan wanted to go hiking, but not alone. She had heard there was a group who hiked regularly and welcomed new hikers. She decided to join them one morning.

The Wolfpack was a group of Wolf Laurel hikers organized by Sally Ling, Nita West and Lois Lynn Bellemare around 1992. Susan had decided to join them that Tuesday morning for a short hike on the mountain, the shorter hike planned because several of the group would travel to the Little Switzerland area for an overnight trip Thursday through Saturday. The Wolfpack met Tuesday and Saturday for hikes within 1.5 hour drive from Wolf Laurel. Tuesday was the day for SHORT hikes.

Susan met the regular hikers that Tuesday morning to explore the area around what was to be Black Bear Run — today a surfaced road in the Preserve at Wolf Laurel; but then a rough logging road. Hikers trudging down the backside of the mountain that morning were: Mike Kaney, Lois Lynn Bellemare, Alice Viverberg, Susan Shepard, Brenda Whitt, Diane McKamey (guest), Marie Luranc, Cheryl Simmons, Nita West Ready, June Tapio, Kay Ryan and Sylvia Coudriet. Kaney, the lone man, and Bellemare were the hike leaders for the morning of exploring. A newbie, Susan quickly realized she did not know a soul.

After hiking a time, the hikers noticed there was no defined trail; they were wandering through woods and fields, and the going was getting a bit rough. Someone whispered, “This is not good. We have a couple of women in their 70s." One wrong turn had taken them bushwhacking down, down, down.

Knowing there were at least two novice hikers, the leaders decided it best to continue the steep decent until they reached a road or a stream. Around 10:30 they found what they hoped was Scronce Creek Road. Again, they decided to go down the road and not up. Soon they spotted a farmhouse. With dogs barking ferociously, Whitt and Bellemare approached the house.

Apologizing for her night clothes, a lady greeted them with, “You have no idea what has happened! They have bombed the Twin Towers!”

She directed the hikers to the next house where gate guard Freddie Buck was still sleeping, having worked a night shift. He graciously dressed and drove Kaney and Whitt up the back of the mountain to Wolf Laurel Country Club over the deeply rutted Town Mountain Road.

Kaney and Whitt returned along the circuitous route down Puncheon Fork, through Windy Gap, and back up Scronce Creek Road, to drive the bedraggled hikers waiting near the Buck House back to Wolf Laurel. Everyone was eager to get to a TV and learn more about the Twin Towers!

Today, each of those hikers has a vivid memory of how they learned of the planes that had flown into the Twin Towers that Tuesday, September 11, 2001!

My first memory of the Bald Mountain was summer 1969. I was 5 years old and out “loaferin” with my grandparents. This was a special time for me because I was a big girl and I could spend the weekends with Granny and Papaw while my brother was a baby and had to stay home. Loaferin usually meant we packed up the truck bed camper and left the farm in Leicester to go visiting Papaw and Granny’s family and friends on Puncheon Fork.

This trip we were headed to camp on top of “The Bald”. We packed up the 2 door tan Chevrolet truck with our supplies. Inside the silver metal camper truck bed cover laid a truck bed size mattress covered in warm colorful quilts and a small white metal lid pee pot for night time pee emergencies to the left of the camper door at the foot of the mattress bed. We were off! At this time there was no development around or near The Bald just untouched natural land. The Chevrolet navigated up the steep unmarked hillside to the blue hued skyline at the top. The sky felt so close that you might be able to reach up and touch the ceiling between the heavens and earth. You could certainly run through a low-lying passing cloud.

When it seemed as if we were on the very top of the world, Papaw stopped the truck, got out for a long look and deep breath. We had reached our destination. After unloading camp chairs and setting up our cooking fire Papaw and I were off to scout for brush. We were looking for the perfect branch and twigs to fashion me a bow with little twig arrows. Usually Papaw made me a bean shooter but today I was going to be an Indian princess. The day was cool and a breeze blew across the top of the untamed grass mixed with a sprinkle of wild flowers and an occasional laurel in bloom. Nothing but endless sky and feral fields rolling high above the mountain peaks that wrapped around this wide open space. Nature’s ice cream scoop nestled in a scalloped waffle cone of mountains. Granny gave me an extra sweater for my arms and Papaw’s binoculars dangled around my neck to my knees for our explorations. We were on top of the world!

As I grew older I began to understand more the personal importance the Bald held with Papaw, almost as if the Bald was a living identity. Papaw and I loved to go on walks. Often he would walk with me up to the pasture above his 1920’s white farm cottage house above Puncheon Fork. Then he would stand and look toward the north. “There!” he would say and point. “Between those two mountains, just to the left of that tallest pine tree in the distance, there is the Bald. Do you see it?” Even before I was old enough to see it the answer was yes. Then as I got older I would show him the Bald. It became a private conversation and game we shared together. I felt in those moments his soul was centered as long as he could find the Bald and I had the privilege of witnessing, sharing that quiet sacred moment as he looked off into the distance connecting his present home to his childhood home.

The last trip I made to the Bald with Papaw was fall 2002. Papaw was 97. I was 38. Momma was 57 and Cecillie, his 1st great grandchild was 13. We were taking Papaw to the Bald! We rode up old Highway 19/23, then across Murray Mountain through the Madison County countryside fall foliage. We shared memories, stories, and tall tales that sprang laughter to life along the journey. I was a little skeptical if it would be possible because time and development had changed the availability to access the Bald. Yet, we were on a determined mission.

The first hurdle was the security gate. We pulled up and the guard stepped out to inquire about our business. Looking into the car past me in the driver’s seat sat Papaw who spoke up clearly, identifying himself with the authority of some secret rite of passage. “We would like to go up to the Bald. I’m Ed Howell, Tommy’s boy.” The guard who was older in years but not nearly old enough to remember Papaw’s father smiled and replied, “I’m not sure you can get to the top. It is pretty rutted out.” “We are goin to try,” Papaw replied with delightful anticipation. The guard glanced through the car at Momma and Cecillie in the backseat, frozen during the exchange, waiting for the disappointment of being turned away.

Maybe God sent an angel’s spirit that day to settle softly on the guard’s shoulder. He smiled a tender smile waved at Papaw with a cheerful “good luck.” I was not sure the road to take, but Papaw guided me to the foot of the Bald like following a homing device in his soul. The guard was correct the road was deeply rutted out to the top. Papaw could still walk but not that steep distance. Momma jumped quickly out of the car assessing the road and navigated me as I slowly and cautiously straddled the deep ditches with the 4 door Oldsmobile. I was determined to drive Papaw to the top. This was the man who took me to get my first drivers license at 16 and taught me how to drive anything with wheels. We were going to the top!

When we reached the top everyone piled out of the car. We busied ourselves spreading a picnic blanket across the hood of the Oldsmobile and setting up our picnic of pimento cheese sandwiches, green beans, tomatoes, and cucumbers. I noticed Papaw had walked off a little way to himself and was standing looking out across the Bald and surrounding mountain peaks. The mountain tops mixed with green, red, and yellow colors reminded me of Granny’s colorful quilts on the camper mattress bed. All rumpled and sculpted by my little knees and hands crawling over the tops. I approached slowly from behind and put my hand in Papaw’s hand. He did not move or speak. He knew that hand for 38 years now. We lingered hand in hand like we had done so many times as I was growing up. I heard a deep peaceful sigh as he savored the air, the wind, the sun, the beauty, and the moment that always told me he was joining the past and present in a marriage of peaceful thoughts. We squeezed hands lightly and stood souls centered on top of the world together our last time that day.

Dedicated to Ed Howell who was laid to rest November 4, 2003, at the English Cemetery alongside his beloved wife of 70 years Mary Phillips Howell. Written by Angela Regtmeier. I am so blessed to live under the protective shadow of the “Bald Mountain” once again since summer of 2022.

I moved to Wolf laurel 10 years ago. I was recovering from the loss of my husband of 37 years to cancer. I was invited by my good friends to spend the weekend with them. My months long depression led me to the decision of getting away from my Florida home. I would find a place for me, not the wife, not the caregiver, just me, Karen.

After that weekend, I made an almost instant decision to purchase a mountain home at Wolf Laurel. It was the last house that I had visited among many homes (cabins) but when I walked into my now home, I felt at home. Wolf Laurel had wrapped arms around me.

Wolf Laurel is a magical place, the people, the history, the wonderful outdoors.

Fox Fire

No one would believe me nor my husband when we told them of the strange lights we had been seeing one summer in our Wolf Laurel woods. They never called us liars but their skepticism was heavy in the air.

In the early 1980s there was no light pollution at Wolf Laurel. On summer nights Rip and I loved sitting on our McDaris Loop deck, in the dark, marveling at the many trillions of stars then visible. On one such evening we began noticing a soft light that would alternatively glow and fade in one area of our forest floor. It continued as long as we were willing to watch, and it was visible most nights when the weather was clear.

Visiting nieces and nephews also witnessed this miracle and one of them, a PhD scientist, identified the light as "fox fire," even though he had never seen it before.

Webster's Dictionary defines "fox fire" as "an eerie phosphorescent light; a luminous fungus that causes decaying wood to glow."

That one summer in 1986 was our first and only time to witness that lovely mystery, for other commitments occupied us and conditions at our newly built home were not conducive to viewing it. Still, I remember it as something rare shared with my husband and my wish is that other residents at Wolf Laurel will discover for themselves the eerie beauty of fox fire.

We Have Many Cute Neighbors!

Some of the most rewarding experiences we have had at Wolf Laurel involved wildlife! We discovered synchronous fireflies one July evening quite by happenstance. At the same time, our side yard had a lot of ferns growing and the fireflies were doing their dance -- first the females on the ground would light up, then the males flying above would light up -- squadrons of them at the same time!

Another example, just the other day was a fawn standing in the middle of a winding, unpaved road as we were driving uphill. We stopped to see what it was doing -- we could see the mom on the side of the road up ahead watching both us and her fawn. The fawn jumped to the right side of the road and climbed up the bluff, all the while looking at her mom. Somehow mom telegraphed the message that she should come down from the bluff to her, mom having moved to the center of the road by now. The little one came down, walked over to mom, and tried to nurse. Mom conveyed that this was a bad idea with a car and people a few yards away and shooed the fawn off the road and down the other side. So precious!

And last, but not least, we had three little raccoons one night up in the rafters of our outside porch just looking exactly like the "see no evil, speak no evil, hear no evil" monkeys!

My Climb Up Big Bald Mountain

I climbed my first mountain when I was eight years old. The mountain named Big Bald Mountain is part of the Blue Ridge Mountain range on the border of North Carolina and Tennessee. It was a 6-mile hike with my whole family and my cousins and grandparents. I had my trusty Camelback backpack, which carried a gallon of water.

I don't remember much about the hike except for the narrow dirt path, the endless trees and the huge boulders that we climbed over along the way. However, I will never forget the moment I reached the very top.

I'm not quite sure what I was expecting but the view in front of me took my breath away. The sky was bright blue with only a few stray clouds in sight enabling me to see miles and miles into the sea of mountains in front of me. This is the first time in my life that I remember being aware of my perspective and place in the world. Before that day, my whole world had been my neighborhood, my family and my friends. But at that moment, I realized, while standing on this one mountain in just one of the 50 states in the United States, how vast the world was compared to me or my neighborhood, I felt a lot smaller.

This did not disappoint me, however, it actually taught me a few things that I still live by to this day. It taught me that I am not the only human on Earth although it might seem like it sometimes. There are always people around me who might be affected by my actions. I have to be conscious of others every day. It also taught me not to take things too seriously. Seeing how small you are on this mountain makes you realize how much smaller your problems are. Humans tend to build up problems in their heads and make them a lot bigger deal than they actually are. While I still fall victim to this, I have been trying harder to not let the little things in my life ruin any minute, much less a whole day of my life. People who can take steps back like this and view conflicts from different perspectives tend to be more mentally at peace and ready to work through these conflicts efficiently.

I was never expecting to gain so much out of that hike up Bald Mountain. In fact, when my parents told me that we would be doing it, I most likely groaned and complained about how long it was going to take. But I've always been thankful that I took that hike, and every time I've gone hiking since then I am reminded of the lessons that I learned during my first hike, and while there is a lot that can be learned in a classroom, there is an equal amount that can be learned by being present in nature.

The Last Hurrah

Shame on all of us! We are missing out on the best fun ever had at Wolf Laurel, and it is all because we have let die an old tradition: THE LAST HURRAH. It is stone cold dead.

Maybe you have never heard of it. In days of yore, from 1982 until the late nineties, during late October, the residents of Wolf Laurel would present an annual talent show, starring themselves, and usually directed by Ed Martin. Because the show was our last fling before saying goodbye to each other for the winter, it was called THE LAST HURRAH. As corny as they were, these LAST HURRAHs were beloved to everyone. We were bonded.

It was Ann Dobbins' great honor to be involved in two of these productions. In 1988 "Snow White, The Sequel" was the first and only LAST HURRAH to be filmed outdoors in the natural beauty of Wolf Laurel. Rip Dobbins was the photographer. Now he and most all the cast have passed away, but we have the video in which we remember those dear folks.

Two or three years after "Snow White, the Sequel," THE LAST HURRAH went dormant for a long time because it was crowded off the calendar by numerous regional October festivals. In the summer of 2008 a group of residents who regretted the loss conscripted Ann Dobbins to revive THE LAST HURRAH. The play "The Beanstock Boondoggle" was the result. Over forty people contributed to the production which was presented on October 3, 2009, and reprised on August 27, 2010, too early in the season to be called THE LAST HURRAH. No October date was available that year.

The delightfully wacky cast of "The Beanstock Boondoggle" included Dr. Joe Morgan as Father Time, Dr. Steve McKnight as Jack in 2009, and John Benecke as Jack in 2010. Monte Veal, in drag, portrayed Jack's mother, and Mary Alice Veal was "udderly" precious as Buttercup, the cow. Dr. Hamilton Hunt was a convincing con man, Nita Ready was gorgeous as Marilyn Monroe, Don Mathis gave us a fearsome giant, Michele Hunt was adorable as "Chickie" who produced golden eggs, and Harriet Hill's gorgeous voice made her harp zing. Dr. Ernie Powell, "Dr." Cathy Johnson, Nurse Kay Ryan, and medics Bob Turner and Lee Weaver attended the wounded giant. Successive sheriffs who arrested Jack for murder were played by Mike Kaney and Louis Bellemare. In court we saw Warren Johnson as bailiff, Dr. Milton Ready as Clarence Darrow, Michael Whitt as Jennings Bryant, and Carol Turner as Judge Judy. Fred Buck provided piano music throughout the performance.

Thirteen years have passed since "The Beanstalk Boondoggle," but we still laugh about the fun we had producing the show. Though we grieve the losses of Kay Ryan, Dr. Ernie Powell, Dr. Joe Morgan, Dr. Hamilton Hunt, and Bob Turner, we do have that recording in which they live forever. We made beloved memories.

Sadly, since 2010 there has been no interest in doing further shows. Amateur performances do require hours and hours of work. Writing the script comes first, followed by casting, memorizing lines, practice sessions, crafting stage settings, and creating costumes. Our new Wolf Laurel generation is young, bright, creative, and energetic enough to do all that. We entreat them: make new memories for us!

Papaw and the Wagon Wreck

In the early mornings, as I top Buckner Gap on I-26, the grand scale of the view is breath taking. Each seasonal change leaves nature’s Art Gallery on display. Daily tweaks of weather, cloud placement, and wildlife give each morning its own framework.

I find myself rolling down the mountain interstate at a cool 70 mph, loaded Ingles trucks pulling laboriously up the steep grade toward Tennessee across from me and passenger vehicles with varied licenses plate tags ahead or beside me. Some days, just to skip the I-26 traffic, I enjoy going across Murray Mountain [the mountain traversed by US-23A after it passes in front of Laurel Valley Road]. But I am always a bit more cautious than when traveling the wide-open stretch of interstate. I am reminded of the cautionary tales taught through years of oral history telling of Murray Mountain incidents.

I begin to think about those rugged individualists who climbed these steep terrains from Yancey County traveling by way of Windy Gap. Persevering, building a life and community in the high mountains that often times could be an unforgiving place. Bringing all they owned on wagon beds or horse back to carve out a life here in the community of English. During the late 1880s to early 1900s this area was known as English N.C. It wasn’t until the 1950s that the English N.C. postmark became Mars Hill NC, but that is another story for another time.

My Papaw was born here March 26, 1905, to Julia and Tommy Howell. Tommy had the nickname “Honest Tommy” because he was the man trusted to gather the produce from the lands of Mack English and his sharecroppers and take them to market in Asheville. Inside of 3 days he returned with the money from the sale and items from that list he had been given to bring back to the community. Sometimes it would be a wagon load of hog meat and other times he would be driving livestock to market. Tommy would leave early and reach the old “watering trough” near Weaverville by the end of the 1st day. Here, he slept in the hay or in the wagon. He refreshed the horses with food, water, and rest for the next morning’s travel into Asheville. By the end of the second day he arrived back at the watering trough and beded down for the night, then returned home after dark the third day.

On one particularly cold late December day in 1913 my Papaw and his Poppa, Tommy, began their trek with a wagon load of pork meat for the Asheville market. They were bundled up, warm, with hot wrapped rocks placed on the buckboard to warm their feet. An earlier snowfall still had a hold on the northern mountain slopes. The weather was sunny and clear. It had been sunny and clear for several weeks which made the journey, bitter when the north wind rolled down off the mountain tops, tolerably more pleasant. This also made it easier to navigate the frozen ice-patched ground of the wagon road across Wolf Pit Mountain and Murray Mountain towards Mars Hill and Weaverville [Wolf Pit Mountain is the ridge separating Puncheon Fork from the main branch of Laurel Creek].

Just as they began to descend Murray Mountain that particular day one of the four horses spooked causing the horse team to lose footing and roll the wagon bed. The wagon scattered hog meat everywhere along the steep bank beside the overturned wagon bed. Harnessed together the horses had not gone far. Tommy jumped to the lower side of the slope digging up underneath the wagon bed and frame. Tommy was panic stricken and searching for his son yelling my Papaw’s name, “Ed! Ed! Ed!!!”

Now Papaw being a boy of 8 years old couldn’t resist hesitating briefly in all the commotion. Also it took him a moment to get his bearings. During the wagon’s topple, the whirling motion had flung him high up in the branches of a poplar tree, above this scene that he was now looking down on from his perch. “Poppa I’m here.” “Where,” Tommy yelled searching more frantically around the wreckage?! “Up here,” Papaw hollered back, “in this tree.” Bewildered and relieved to hear his son’s voice, Tommy looked up above the strewn hog meat and over-turned wagon into the tree branches cradling Papaw. “If I didn’t know you are alive I’d think you were haunting me from above, now get down here before I climb up there and kill you myself,” Poppa shouted back as Papaw scrambled down out of the limbs toward the mess below.

Reaching solid footing Papaw looked at his Poppa. Now Poppa was a serious man who never gave way to fear in a critical moment. But this moment was different and both stood still experiencing the burning flow of blood rushing though their veins. In this frozen moment his Poppa began looking him over and brushing him off like a mamma cat grooming her kittens. His hot frequent breaths pushing outward into the cold chill, he inspected every bodily limb. Poppa suddenly burst into a huge laugh spewing out all that was holding his deepest fear and anguish. “Boy you better quit dawdling and help me make sense of this mess. We got a way to go.”

Many trips followed this one as the two pointed another wagon load toward Asheville. But there were frequent retellings of “their” story escaping certain catastrophe coming down Murray Mountain. This morning I find myself lost in thought and a light morning fog. I wonder just exactly on which curve, turn or steep grade did that horse loose it’s footing?

Carrie Ramsey and Her Family: 100 years at Wolf Laurel

By Gayle Barr, April 2020, from stories told her by her husband, Ritchie Barr

Carrie Ramsey was from Walnut NC. She was the grandmother of my husband, Ritchie Barr. Her church sent her to Santa Fe NM one time to teach English to Indians. She hated it because it was a far different world from the one she was used to. They sent her to the Buck House in 1917 or 1918 to teach English to Russian immigrants working in the Buck's lumbering business. The trip from Walnut would take a week or more by horse and buggy. She always had to travel all the way through the Wolf Laurel to get there. At that time farmers in the Wolf Laurel had hogs and cattle going up to Big Bald and elsewhere through the area to graze. Carrie would stay for weeks or months, going home for a visit and then back again.

I know that at 92 when she was in a nursing home they tried to remove her dentures and could not. She was perturbed with them. My mother-in-law walked in on the struggle and put a stop to it. She was laughing because at 92 those were her mother's real teeth. She always brushed them with branches from a particular tree that smelled like spearmint. She always chewed mint leaves for freshness. Ritchie's parents wanted to put a toilet in her house and she called them barbarians. She said a toilet in the house are for the heathen, that it was a dirty disgusting thing to put indoors.

When Ritchie's parents came for a visit on leave from the military they told her they were going to drive up to Wolf Laurel and would be back, that was in the late 60's. That night when they came back to her house she thought they changed their mind and didn't go. She was shocked that they had driven to Wolf Laurel already, eaten there, visited friends, and drove back, all in one day.

Ritchie's folks used to rent cabin 1 and later cabin 3 in Settler's Village. In the late 60's his dad flew in Bud Edwards' helicopter and bought many lots picked out from the sky. He eventually built 4 homes assuming all his kids would move there with them and all live at Wolf Laurel. Carrie Ramsey's family have over 100 years of being a part of Wolf Laurel, 6 generations. They owned the ski resort for 6 years at one time in the 70's, chased down a crooked developer at the airport in the 70's after he swindled most of Wolf Laurel's residents of the money they invested, worked the horse stables, helped with the shuttling service offered to renters in the 70's, helped with the rules made in the 60-70 era, and enjoyed Friday barbecues in the park area, now the Pavilion in the village. It was a time when the whole community, on and off the mountain, joined together for horse shoes, baseball , and bluegrass.

Camping on Bald Mountain, c1920

I was born in a log cabin at the base of Bald Mountain. The distance from “The Bald” – as it was called – was approximately three miles. We traveled there by horseback or we walked. There was a rough sled road on which supplies were hauled for camping. Camping was a great sport. Workers were sent ahead of our arrival to carry supplies, set up the tents and get the wood needed for the outing at Big Spring. There was telling of big tales, card playing, much eating and usually a daily walk to the Top of the Bald to view the glorious sunset.

I remember one memorable sunset. My younger sister and I were playing in the area of our campsite when we realized that is was sunset time. We galloped alone to the top of the mountain to see the sunset. In the darkness that followed the sunset, we went down the wrong side of the mountain. We wandered all over but we remembered the warning to never cross the fence that had been built to keep cattle in the area. We were not found until 2:30 in the morning. By that time we had laid down and gone to sleep. My mother was wild because of her fear of cooperheads and rattlesnakes.

I am sure that it is difficult for you to visualize this little Wolf Laurel area without roads, electricity, or a single house. The grassy area was well groomed because of the many herds of cattle and horses pastured there during the summer and early fall months. My father did have a cabin built for the caretaker who watched over the cattle pastured in the enclosed area. I believe that the pasture fee was $1.50 per month – a good source of income for Western North Carolina and East Tennessee.

Hope Buck was the daughter of David M. and Pearl Buck. Her story is provided courtesy of Susie and Larry West, grandchildren of David and Pearl.

Our Mountain Cabin

I know some people might think of a mountain house as a luxurious getaway on the side of a mountain, but our mountain house was different. We loved the fact that it was rustic and small and cozy, appropriately named "The Cozy Nook." I loved the history; I loved the creaky floorboards and I loved the mantle. I just loved the mountains. It was my favorite place in the world to be. The air feels better and smells better, the views are better, and life is better. The mantle was so special because of such a simple saying that perfectly fit our family and our times there -- "A pipe, a book, a cozy nook, a fire at least its embers, a dog, a glass, tis thus we pass these hours that we remember." To us, the seven cousins, there was no place that we would rather be.

Let me give a little background about this special house. It was an antique log house, over 150 years old, purchased by my great-grandparents who lived in Tennessee. They disassembled it and moved it by truck from Virginia to its resting place in Wolf Laurel, NC. My grandparents spent as much time there as they could from the time my mom and her brother and sister were little. Mom told me of all the fun times she had there doing many of the same things I did. She went on some of the same adventures that I went on.

Now this isn't meant to be a sad story so I'm not going to make it one, but, unfortunately, fun times there weren't going to last forever. Two years ago, the house was abruptly sold with no warning to my adventurous cousins and me. Now sometimes when we are in the area, we inch by in our black jeep just to get a look at the outside of that fantastic house. This brought back all the memories of my wonderful times there.

We had such fun in those awesome mountains -- unclogging creeks, watching fireworks on July 4th and being in the cart parade, playing in the waterfall, long nights with the cousins, the treehouse, freedom, fresh air, mountain views, secrets in the house and dogs roaming freely, but more memorable than all the rest was the 17th hole on the golf course, which was right below our cabin. What does hole 17 mean to most people? The next to the last hole on a golf course. That they're almost finished with a long 18-hole game. Probably, but to me, it has a whole different meaning. Hole 17 was the hole on the Wolf Laurel golf course where I spent almost half my time. There was always something to do -- sledding down the fairway when it snowed, looking for golf balls, walking through the creek, spying on golfers and running with the dogs. Of course, we got yelled at by our fair share of golfers while hiding in the woods after we spotted them but that was just part of the fun. That simple hole on a golf course brought us so much joy, and we made so many memories there. The part I find funniest about this is that I never once in my life played golf on this course. It is amazing that this one place had such an impact on my life without me even using it the way I was technically supposed to. To me, it was freedom to run and play and make up new things to do. What a time we had.

This freedom and independence that I had there taught me how to respect my parents' boundaries and how to deal with various issues on my own at a young age. Our parents were always less uptight about boundaries in the mountains, and I loved that. I am a very social person, but I also love my alone time, and in the mountains, I could wander off on my own and do my own thing with no questions asked.
I was free. There was nothing like it. What a way to spend some of my growing-up years. I am a lucky guy.

A Beloved Gate Guard

Fondly remembered by the few remaining old timers of the 1980s and early 1990s is Paul Hamlin who served as staff at the Wolf Laurel gate. A guitarist of note, he and his many musician friends were famous for their summer night jam sessions at the old log cabin that served in those days as the gate house. Residents gathered around in their lawn chairs and blankets to enjoy the music of the mountains played by our own.

Paul was also a prankster. Once, when some VERY IMPORTANT visitors came through the gate and announced their intended visit to Rip and Ann Dobbins, Paul sent them on their way with "Well, you ain't gonna' get nothin' to eat up thar!"

In Wolf Laurel's history Paul was the only gate guard to be deputized. Tall and good-looking, he was impressive in his uniform with its "Smokey the Bear" hat. AND he wore a side arm! This fun-loving mountain musician could, when circumstances demanded, backed by that side-arm, assume absolute authority. This writer knows of two occasions when Paul deemed that necessary.

Motorcyclists have always been forbidden inside Wolf Laurel and our gate guards never had any problems barring their entrance until an insistent rider defied Paul's request to stop, turn around, and leave the area. Arrogant and brash, the rider attempted to bypass Paul and crash the gate. Paul's side arm convinced him otherwise.

The second incident began one lovely Sunday morning as a resident couple enjoyed their brunch. Their peace was abruptly broken by a young visitor to our mountain, high on drugs, who burst into their home and threatened them with a gun. While the husband attempted to calm and distract the young visitor, the wife retrieved and introduced the household's own gun. Confronted and outmaneuvered, the intruder fled in his car followed closely by the armed husband in his. When Paul Hamlin was alerted that an armed assailant was on the way to exit the Wolf Laurel gate, he knew what to do. Our armed gate guard not only intercepted and arrested this dangerous fellow, but held him in custody for the Madison County Sheriff.

Wolf Laurel residents grieved when Paul retired in the early 1990s and they grieved all the more when he passed away in 2016. He was very must a beloved part of Wolf Laurel history.

The Caney River Railroad

by Hope Buck (1907-94)

In the older days the chief gateway to the Wolf Laurel area was through where my family later lived. The Caney River Railroad was chartered in 1903 and finished in 1904. That railroad operated from Huntdale NC to what became Bald Mountain Post Office at the foot of the mountain. The distance was 18 miles. The railroad was a spur from Carolina, Clinchfield, and Ohio. The express purpose of Caney River Railroad was to haul timber from a virgin timber area to Huntdale Station for shipment elsewhere. Would you believe that the steam engine was fired by wood burning and the rails were built of wood. The railroad had three locomotives, 30 freight cars, and one passenger car. It cost $40,000 to build.

The area was a beehive of activity. There was a sawmill that cut the timber for many buildings; round house for cars, shop for repairs, stables, boarding house, houses for workers, the commissary. That was my father’s private operation. There was a company doctor, Dr. Edwards. My father was also superintendent of the operation at Bald Mountain. Most of the logs were hauled to the railroads by a team of horses.

The company went into Federal Court Receivership in 1907. All closed. I do not know the cause. Our workers bore the expense of maintenance of the railroad. It is said that the lumber did not sell because of the large amount of chestnut that prospered in the area. That was a little ironic, for in later years a blight destroyed most of the chestnut trees. Chestnut lumber because a premium.

The Federal Court procedure “dragged on” for some four years before it was really processed. In 1911, the Caney River Railroad was left as abandoned. By the end of that period my father had decided to remain in the area. He owned a house in Johnson City.

Living was hard for many tenants who continued to live in the area rent-free. They were fairly well self-sustaining with cows, gardens, pigs, corn and wheat fields. About the only thing that had to be bought was coffee, sugar, lamp oil, and shoes. Some shoes were made locally and certainly repairs were made locally from tanned leather.

The schools in the area were short term – about three months. Sometimes there were two teachers for seven grades and sometimes there was only one. During the peak period of the railroad operation I understand there was a school in the neighborhood. The school I attended was a mile away. We either rode horseback or walked. There were no public high schools in Yancey County. The three high schools were religious ones: a Methodist at Bald Creek and a Baptist and Presbyterian in Burnsville.

Hope Buck was the daughter of David M. and Pearl Buck. Her story is provided courtesy of Susie and Larry West, grandchildren of David and Pearl.

[Editors Note: Since Hope Buck wrote her story, additional elements in the rail history of Wolf Laurel have come to light. The formal name of the railroad as chartered by the State of North Carolina in 1903 was the “Caney River Railway Co., Inc.” The mainline railroad through Huntdale that the narrow gauge Caney River Railway connected to was known in the days the narrow gauge operated as the South and Western Railroad . It later was renamed the Clinchfield Railroad and today is owned and operated by the CSX railroad system. The company doctor referred to – Dr. Edwards – was Dr. C. P. Edwards I, grandfather of C. P. “Bud” Edwards III, the original developer of Wolf Laurel in the 1960s. The closure in 1907 and the subsequent federal court “receivership” were the result of a successful law suit for company negligence filed by the wife of an engineer who lost his life when an engine went off the collapsing trestle-bridge over the Cane River at Lewisburg NC, near where Bald Mountain Road intersects US 19W today.]

Our First Party

Wolf Laurel was originally a sheep farm. The barn which they used for storage was in good shape when it was purchased by Fondren Mitchell. He fixed it up for offices and real estate. Huge fireplace for welcome visitors.

As more people bought lots and built homes, it wasn't long before someone thought about a get together place. So "Friday nighters" were born.

The first couple who came to welcome us to the group the first time we went were Marie and Carl Rose. They were such a generous couple. She has passed on, but I'll always remember she made us feel so welcome and wanting to come back the next Friday.

Its a BYOB party with several property owners bringing snacks. Now we charge a few dollars per person and at the end of the year we give lots of dollars to Hospice of Madison County.

Ice Storm at Wolf Laurel

High in the beautiful, forested mountains of North Carolina, backing to the Appalachian Trail, there is Wolf Laurel, an area developed for vacation homes. My husband and I have a log house in this heaven-on-earth, and we just happened to be up from Texas on February 27, 1987, when Mother Nature "did her ice storm thing." Old timers, who had lived all their lives in these mountains, said they'd never seem the likes of it.

If you haven't had the ice storm experience, you might have the notion that it is a vicious freak that, without warning, comes slamming down in great frozen sheets and assorted chunks. Not so! It "comes on little cat feet," like a Carl Sandburg fog, and conditions have to be just right, or it won't come at all. Helplessly watching, Rip and I learned its formula.

Frog hair rain, fog and a thirty four degree chill persisted all day Thursday, February 26. In late afternoon, when the mercury dropped to thirty-two, we started to understand what was about to happen. We stopped lazing by the fire and began our walk-abouts to check the porch thermometer, to inspect tree branches, and to say, "Hoo, boy!" By midnight ice buildup had begun, and we went to bed wishing mightily for a thaw.

About four AM, when branches began cracking and falling on our roof, sleep became impossible. Across the road, a tree fell on the power line, causing blinding electric arcs at the transformer. No electricity, no heat. We piled on blankets and held hands. I was SCARED.

At daylight Rip got up and built a roaring fire in our big stone fireplace while I dozed and dreamt that lovely summer had come. So real was this dream, that I sat up in bed to look out the windows, but instead of green leaves, there was a stunning white landscape. Every tree was dressed in exquisite lace. A large branch had broken from a budding maple and was dangling by our porch railing. Hundreds of its pink buds, each encased in ice, had become amethyst crystals. Rhododendron buds had become large emerald eggs. How gorgeous!

Shivering, I bundled in many layers of wool clothes, and hurried to the fireplace. Using my antique cooking utensils, I prepared breakfast over the coals. Coffee never tasted so good. For awhile, things were exciting, fun, and romantic -- for a little while, that is.

The wind picked up, clattering and rattling ice laden branches. We stood on our deck and were awe-struck. We heard continuous sharp snappings as whole tree tops broke away and swooshed down. Trunks cracked with rifle-shot reports, and, occasionally, large trees would uproot and crash with sickening "whumps". A tall oak began leaning over the back of our house, its branches touching our roof.

About 1:00 PM, Dick Bustin called from his real estate office at "The Barn" to ask if we were OK. Calmly, he suggested we might want to go to Asheville, and he added that everyone at "The Barn" was leaving. "Since daybreak, work crews have been chain sawing and hauling trees to get the main road open. You can get out if you leave NOW," he said. "You are not going to have power or water for several days. This morning, after a man was knocked out of his cherry picker by a falling tree, the power company pulled all its men off the mountain, and they won't be coming back as long as these conditions exist."

Quickly we packed our rented Toyota, and, thanks to its tiny size, Rip was able to thread it through low bending trees on McDaris Loop and Wolf Laurel Road. Surprisingly, as soon as we passed through the security gate, there was no more ice to be seen anywhere. In Asheville, it was a warm fifty degrees.

That night, we slept in my father's house, safe in my girlhood bedroom, but I awoke often, worried for all of Wolf Laurel. Trees there continued to fall throughout Friday night and all of Saturday -- about forty eight hours, all totaled.

Three days later we returned to Wolf Laurel and were heartsick to see so much damage everywhere. Nine miles of telephone and power lines were down, and sixty four homes had suffered roof damage. Joe Earman, General Manager of Bald Mountain Development, had declared a state of emergency, and, in response, the State of North Carolina had provided over a hundred men. They were all over the place, sawing and moving trees from our roads.

Luckily our house was undamaged -- not even by that leaning oak. Yes, it had fallen, but it missed our roof by two feet. Five trees had fallen across our driveway, and numerous others on our property were broken or uprooted. A summer's worth of sawing and clearing lay ahead of us.

That first evening back, after the ice nightmare, serenity presided. As though nothing at all had happened, a sunset blazed high and wide over violet mountains. Suddenly angry, I thought, "How dare she! Mother Nature now is redecorating, and she cares not one whit about the expense and grief she's cost us!" My simmer cooled in the quiet twilight, and, no need to wish on this evening star. Strength and peace come from the mountains. Their hurts, and ours, would heal and then be gently cloaked in the green leaves of summer.

The Mill Wheel

Mary Schlitt, in a memoir to her children telling the story of Frank Schlitt's installation of the Water Wheel by the pond

Dad noticed an old water wheel that was hidden in bushes and not in working order. He and Harvey English decided that it could be moved. Harvey can do anything!! So he took his big bulldozer and drug the wheel down by the lake. Dad then built two prisms to hold up the wheel.

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