By Scott Graber
It is Wednesday morning, early, and we’re in the wood-paneled lobby of the Fryemont Inn overlooking the Great Smoky Mountain National Park. We’ve packed our bags, paid the tab, assured Denise, the desk clerk, that “We’ll back in October when the leaves begin to turn.”
This is not our first visit to this historic, Poplar-clad hotel.
The hotel was built by Amos Frye who made a fortune cutting down trees in this area. In 1923, he decided to build an inn, made entirely of Oak, Maple, Locust and American Chestnut; enhanced with huge stone fireplaces in the lobby and in the dining room. Susan and I started coming here sometime in the 1970s.
The Fryemont is not for everybody. There is no central air conditioning, no big screen televisions in the rooms, no mini-bar, no spa, no wake-up service or any “amenities” that one would expect at a Hilton or a Kimpton.
Our room, 117, featured a queen-sized bed, a porcelain sink with a skirt together with a linoleum-tiled bathroom one might find on Amtrak. But what one gets here is time travel — a time machine that takes one back to 1923 when Amos opened-up his inn to shoe salesmen and tennis celebrities who wanted a mountain view, sautéed trout and a hearth-heated lobby where they could read into the night.
We came for the view and the trout; but we also wanted to hike — the Alum Cave Trail being our favorite. That particular trail — labelled “strenuous” and having an elevation gain of 3,000 feet — takes one to the top of Mt. LeConte. Early on, I persuaded my father to make this ascent.
Dad — though he had heart disease — was game and somewhere beyond the Alum Caves told me his biggest disappointment in life was not going to medical school.
“We were a poor family — it was the depression — but after sending my older brother to law school my parents had no money for me.”
(World War II came along and he didn’t have to worry about his post graduate education; he only had to worry about surviving the Japanese in the Aleutian Islands and then in the Philippines.)
Some years later, I was feeling depressed, emotionally played-out, and figured-out the hike up Mt. Leconte might help. But I didn’t want to do the four hour-long climb alone. I called three friends asking the same question;
“Do your love me?”
After a lengthy pause each said, “Yes, upon reflection, I suppose I do …”
“I’ll be in front of your house in 30 minutes.”
“Why would you do that.”
“We’re going to climb Mt LeConte tomorrow.”
That particular climb involved Dean Moss, David Taub and Tom Davis and proved more difficult than I anticipated — one of our number visibly limping, grimacing with each step and muttering, “I can’t believe anyone thinks this is fun!”
But, of course, there were the celebratory drinks at the end of the trail — actually in the dining room at the Fryemont — and I can still point out the table where we drank those drinks.
When my son, Zach, came of age I took him up to the Alum Caves explaining that this is where the Confederacy got its Saltpeter (Potassium Nitrate) keeping them in the fight long after they had lost.
After we got back to the Fryemont he came to the lobby and played “skittles” long after the other older guests had gone to their rooms.
From where I stand I can see a small sign — “Skittles is a noisy game and is not allowed after 10 pm” — and I’m pretty sure that sign was put up (35 years ago) because Zach would spin the wooden top knocking over the tiny ten-pins past midnight.
On this visit, an ascent on Mt. LeConte was not on the program. Actually the rustic, llama-supplied lodge atop LeConte is being demolished as I write this. Although there will be a new lodge, I can’t believe they will replicate the tiny, two-man bunkhouses that were, truly, smaller than an Amtrak bathroom.
But the Alum Caves Trail is now beyond my ability — way beyond my lung capacity; my ability to hold the steel cable that gets one across the narrow ledges near the top.
But as my wife and I exit the lobby, I take one last look around the room seeing my long-dead father and mother; my son at age 10; and three old friends telling stories about their climb.
The Fryemont is a time machine.
And that, for me, is enough.
Scott Graber is a lawyer, novelist, veteran columnist and longtime resident of Port Royal. He can be reached at cscottgraber@gmail.com.