Read Jetsetters Magazine at www.jetsettersmagazine.com To read this entire feature FREE with photos cut and paste this link: http://www.jetsettersmagazine.com/archive/jetezine/cabinweb/east/nc/llama/llama.html

Ageless Smoky Mountain Tradition!

Folklore and whispering stories of adventure and mystery are as deep as hills around small Smoky Mountain towns. There have been legends born and heroes die, all carried by word of mouth and each telling, grander and larger than life tales, such as story of Fines Creek.

A man by name of Fines, not told to me as his first or last name, simply by Fines, traveled Smokies of North Carolina and Tennessee several times during the1800s. During one of his journeys, Fines was robbed of his horses by a local band of indians.

Fines, along with his group of men, forcefully retrieved their horses and set up camp along a creek deep in mountains. The threat of raids was ever present and resulted in ambushes in which Fines was mortally wounded. His men were not able to carry Fines back home and decided to bury him under frozen creek until they could return to retrieve him.

Upon their return, they discovered Fines' body missing and so named creek, Fines Creek.

Now creek lazily rakes along side I-40, some of best road travel in South. Large hardwoods infest roadside and you feel as if next 30 miles was taken up like a rug and shaken.

Read Jetsetters Magazine at www.jetsettersmagazine.com To read this entire feature FREE with photos cut and paste this link: http://www.jetsettersmagazine.com/archive/jetezine/cabinweb/french/french.html

Maybe it was small, closely-knit communities we passed through on our way to French Broad Outpost Ranch that told us we had ventured back in time—the ones that sold handmade Indian blankets and produce from small wooden buildings that clearly needed attention but more than made up for it in ambiance. Communities where folk still walked down town and met outside barber shop on a rusty old bench to gossip and talk about weather.

Everyone waved to my girlfriend and me as if they knew our names—not from systematic reaction, but in a sincere, simple way.

But it wasn't until we passed green draw bridge that was shrugging off paint like a piece of whittled wood in an old man's hand that our epiphany had come true. We crossed some cosmic time barrier into simple Deep Southern life where Smoky Mountains bellowed campfire fragrances of burning poplar and beech in a misty fog that lowered its tentacle-like fingers down range and settling into valleys.

White-capped mountains towered over us as we snaked down dirt road toward ranch. To left was an elevated train-track, which we later found out was still guiding trains every few hours. The train pulled 49 cars of cargo.

On right, French Broad River swiftly passed by, untouched by time, seemingly peaceful and beautiful and housing more memories then anything unable to tell stories should.

The trees opened their arms at end of road, revealing a rustic four building complex that looked sleepy and peaceful, as if an artist had brushed a replica of a gold-rush town. Behind office stood two buildings butted against side of a mountain. One of buildings contained a dining hall on first floor that transformed into a square dance floor later at night and second floor was a saloon, complete with barstools made from horse saddles.

Cool mountain air makes you sleep great at French Broad Outpost.

The building to left of dining hall housed sleeping quarters for weary traveler. There were four rooms in building, each with bunk-beds and a main bed with head-board and foot-board made of wood.

A black and white cat scurried in front of us as we pulled up to office, holding a prize in form of a field mouse in its lips.