I have written of my great grandfather here on this blog and elsewhere (
Tin House magazine) many times. Horace Kephart has been credited with helping to create the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. He was an author and a campcrafter, a brilliant librarian who left academia to live among the Appalachian people, to understand them. He has been the subject of countless articles, at least one
novel, a stunning song cycle, a lengthy segment in the recent
Ken Burns series of National Parks, theatrical productions. He is celebrated yearly during
Horace Kephart Days (an event largely organized by my cousin, Libby). He has been
praised by Barack Obama. He has been lovingly attended to by
George Ellison, a biographer of heart and intelligence. He has been discussed, parsed, debated, and he continues to be the subject of ongoing scholarship and interest.
I had never had the opportunity to visit Bryson City, where Kephart lived for many years and where he is buried. I hadn't been able to go, in fact, until this past Sunday, a misty day in the Carolinas. We had been in Asheville for
a glorious wedding. My husband drove the mountain roads. When we found Bryson City, we stopped and walked. Seeing the
Historic Calhoun Hotel and Country Inn, I made the decision to be bold. To knock on the door and see what might happen, for I had heard that this innkeeper had a Horace Kephart library and a respect for Kephart's work.
We were in the south, and so politeness ruled. Mr. Luke D. Hyde, the Calhoun innkeeper and a key player in the ongoing sanctuary that is the
Great Smoky Mountains National Park, didn't just open the door; he invited us in. He told us his stories, shared images, took us up to his Kephart library (see the portrait of my great grandfather on that wall), even gave me a copy of Kephart's work on the Cherokee Indians. Then he sent us on our way, and I will always be touched by the time he took and the generosity he showed.
Kephart is buried on a hill beside a small church. He is buried no more than a half mile away from one of my best friends' childhood homes. I heard from Ann as we were walking the incline. I saw her home in the near distance. I felt her spirit beside me. Ann has visited Kephart's grave for many years; members of her family are buried nearby.
I wish I was with you, Ann wrote. And how I wished, too.
Finally, as I was making my way through Bryson City, I heard from my dear friend
Katrina Kenison. I have known Katrina since the beginning of my publishing time (truly) and written of her often here. Once, years ago, Katrina, who so deeply understands and loves the natural world, sent me a copy of Kephart's
Camp Cookery, which sits right here on my shelf. I had written of
Katrina's gift when it came. On Sunday I was the recipient of yet another kind of gift, for Katrina was reading
Handling the Truth and there in the hills of Bryson City, I read her thoughts about its early pages for the first time.
Blessed.
I have written, on this blog, of my great grandfather, Horace Kephart, who left a career as one of the nation's great librarians and left a family, too, to live among the private beauties of the Appalachian Mountains and people. Horace Kephart documented Appalachian ways and campfire know-how. He was in part responsible for the creation of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. He has been the subject of songs (see Daniel Gore's
beautiful song cycle), movies (the
recent Ken Burns' documentary), novels, and myths. He is also, thanks in large part to my cousin Libby Kephart Hargrave and the great historian George Ellison, celebrated in the annual
Horace Kephart Days, held each year between April 29 and May 1st in Bryson, City, NC.
George Kephart, my grandfather, was one of Horace Kephart's two sons. When his father departed for his Appalachian journey, George moved, with his mother, Laura, and his five total siblings, to Ithaca, New York. All six Kephart children ultimately attended Cornell University, while Laura took in boarders to try to make ends meet.
Toward the end of his life, George Kephart made two important decisions: to
leave his own papers to Cornell University and to dedicate a glen in his wife's name within the
Cornell Plantations.
This weekend I saw those plantations for the first time. With my husband and son, through mist then heavy rain, I searched for the glen. There was hardly anyone about, and no one to ask, and if I never found the glen itself, if I will have to return with a guide (and I will), I did discover the tremendous beauty of this place—even in rain, even before most any flower has had a chance to bloom. This is peaceful, water-streaming, well-considered country. This is ravines and slopes and green, a tumble of hellebores. My grandfather was a quiet man, a forester, a rose gardener, a lover of things alive and growing. No wonder, I kept thinking as I walked. No wonder this place was his eternity.
Every once in a while I get a phone call from a southern gentleman. His name is George Ellison, and he has been my great-grandfather's biographer since 1967, when he was asked to write the introduction to Horace Kephart's Appalachian classic,
Our Southern Highlanders.
A brilliant librarian, a devoted outdoorsman, a conflicted husband, and the father of the six children pictured here, Kephart had retreated to the Carolinas following a mysterious breakdown. There he outposted in a cabin, read and reflected, fished and hunted, and began to write about the people he met and the things that happened to him. He had one blue eye and one brown one. He was a force behind the creation of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, as was recently documented in the newest Ken Burns film. His life story has inspired and goaded authors, artists, and musicians; brought me unexpected and long-sustained friendships; and been transformed in the service of such novels as Ron Rash's
Serena, where Kephart appears (
unfortunately) as a mere cartoon version of himself. Last year, Kephart's own novel,
Smoky Mountain Magic, was re-released by the great Smoky Mountains Association, with prefatory material prepared by my cousin, Libby Kephart, as well as George Ellison. Soon, Kephart's
Camping and Woodcraft will be re-released, and once again, George Ellison has been at work on an introduction that incorporates interesting new material about my great-grandfather's time in St. Louis, where he reigned over one of the greatest libraries in the land.
This past week, I was again talking to George, who wanted to share with me an early version of his newest work. It's beautiful, as it always is—respectful to both the facts and to Kephart himself, and written with more than a touch of poetry. I wondered how George could keep going, more than forty years on, finding the new and finding new ways to phrase it about a single man who refused, in his own lifetime, to do much explaining about or for himself. In an e-mail, George wrote the following—words that testify to the kind of man he is, words that make me grateful that one small part of my own history has been entrusted to such a worthy soul:
It's a terrific story from a literary point of view . . . and it has become somewhat personal now that I have grown close to various family members. My job has always been to help people appreciate the unlikely accomplishments that emerged from what were, at times, chaotic situations: Camping and Woodcraft; Our Southern Highlanders, Smoky Mountain Magic,
and a role in the founding of a national park.
Ken Burns has been at work on a six-part documentary called America's Best Idea—a series that will tell of the making of our national parks. Since my great-grandfather, Horace Kephart, played a pivotal role in the creation of the Greak Smoky Mountains National Park, he, along with his good friend, photographer George Masa, will be featured in the stories told.
(I've written about my great-grandfather from time to time, both for literary journals and here, on the blog.)
The photograph here is of Horace Kephart's son, George Kephart, my father's late father. Though Horace was absent during the majority of his childrens' youth—ensconced among the Appalachians, recording their ways, advocating on behalf of earth and stream, living a life that to many remains a mystery—few people were as proud of Horace Kephart as this son. I think of him looking down right now, and smiling.
The series begins this Sunday night. A viewers' guide is featured here. Concurrent with this event is the release of a long-hidden Horace Kephart novel, Smoky Mountain Magic, that features an interesting foreword by my cousin, Libby Hargrave, and a beautiful introduction by long-time Kephart scholar, George Ellison.
You are descended from greatness.
And it shows.
:-)
What a wonderful legacy! What an honor (and you have a beautiful blog.)
Just love the serendipity of this: that once again, in a way, it was your Horace who connected us. How perfect, that I was reading here while you were exploring there.
Feeling extremely lucky to be one of this extraordinary book's first readers. I am underlining, exclaiming, savoring, admiring.
And I am grateful.
(very)
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Wow. Now I really want to go visit that exact same place. Fantastic post.