This isn’t really a major news item, but it hits pretty close to home for me. Somebody apparently tried to steal the state historical marker for Harrow School in Cumberland Gap. Rev. A.A. Myers founded the school as one of the Appalachian missionary efforts that sprang up throughout the region in the late nineteenth century. Harrow eventually expanded to become Lincoln Memorial University.
Tag Archives: Cumberland Gap
While looking up some information on Cumberland Gap I ran across something that all you heritage tourists and genealogists out there might enjoy. It’s a firsthand account of one man’s long-distance bike ride through the Gap and along Boone’s Wilderness Road, following the same route his ancestors took all the way to Indiana.
Hey, all you inconsiderate dolts who are defacing the cannons at Cumberland Gap National Historical Park. Peek-a-boo! You’re being videotaped.
Those artillery pieces aren’t replicas. They’re genuine relics from Chickamauga and Chattanooga, and if you’re old enough to go pee-pee by yourself, you should have enough sense not to write, carve, or play on them.
While we’re on the subject of the Civil War at CGNHP, here’s an image I’ve had on my computer for a while that I don’t think I’ve posted on the blog before. This is Cumberland Gap as seen from the Kentucky side when the Union held the pass. The print itself is in the Abraham Lincoln Library and Museum, within sight of these very mountains.
The Pinnacle is at the top left, Tri-State Peak at top center, and the road into Yellow Creek Valley is in the foreground. Check out the fortifications on top of the ridge and on the slopes.
If you drive along U.S. Route 58 in Lee County, VA you might notice a distinctive geologic feature a few miles east of the entrance to Wilderness Road State Park and just inside the eastern boundary of Cumberland Gap National Historical Park. Atop the ridge of Cumberland Mountain sit the “White Rocks,” a sandstone formation containing light-colored quartzite that shines when the sun hits it.
In the late 1700′s the rocks were an important landmark for the hundreds of thousands of settlers traveling on the Wilderness Road below. The sight of this outcrop let migrants know that they were about a day’s march away from Cumberland Gap, which offered a passage through the mountain wall into Kentucky. (Today you can drive from White Rocks to the Gap’s opening in fifteen minutes.)
I doubt any of those frontier migrants felt like climbing to the top of the ridge to see what the valley looked like from the rocks; they had more important things on their minds. Today, though, if you want to check out the view from White Rocks, there’s a three-mile trail that will take you there. That’s three miles one way, mind you, and it’s mostly uphill. Not exactly easy, but you can take in some nice scenery once you get there.
Sort of a bird’s-eye view of Daniel Boone country. Actually, I guess it is a bird’s-eye view, since you’re eye-level with the birds.
If you’re going to hike to White Rocks, make sure you see Sand Cave, too. It’s about a mile from the White Rocks overlook, and on the other side of the ridge. I’d never been there before last week, but as soon as I saw it, it immediately became one of my favorite places in Cumberland Gap National Historical Park.
The cave gets its name from the fine sand that covers the floor. There’s a small waterfall near the cave’s entrance. My pictures don’t really do it justice; with the waterfall-fed stream running through the trees and the cave’s ceiling towering overhead, it’s like stumbling across the Garden of Eden. It’s not a deep cave, but the semi-circular roof towering overhead and the wide entrance make it pretty spectacular. The sand inside is so thick that it’s like walking on a beach, with your feet sliding and churning all over the place.
…over at the Times blog about early Civil War battles in Appalachia. Check it out.
There’s a move afoot to draw increased attention to the trace Daniel Boone carved out of the wilderness and into Kentucky. You can still drive much of the route on paved highways, but these days a lot of folks take I-75 instead. It’s faster, but not nearly as interesting. As Charles Kuralt said, “Interstate highways allow you to drive coast to coast, without seeing anything.”
So, as I was saying, I was driving around in Cumberland Gap National Historical Park the other day when I spotted a wayside marker I’d never seen before.
I’ve driven by this spot several times, so I think this sign is a recent addition, but maybe I just need to be paying closer attention. Anyway, this marker is worth a closer look, because it scratches an itch that I noted earlier this year.
Back in March I was griping about our tendency to get so caught up in the dramatic and exceptional events that happened in historic areas that we ignore what happened in between them. The Gap is notable mainly for those people who were (often quite literally) just passing through. Its story is one of long hunters, pioneers, Civil War garrisons, and industrialists who came and went. The people who lived in the area had their own history—a long and interesting one—but it’s a history that’s invisible to many observers. Their story forms a hazy and indistinct background to the procession of pioneers, soldiers, and boosters that passed by on their way to whatever it is they were after.
In some cases, the local story vanishes altogether. CGNHP isn’t a battlefield or a building; it’s acres and acres of beautiful green space. A lot of visitors come for the views and the hiking trails instead of the history. It’s so easy to find the “wilderness” along this famous segment of the Wilderness Road that you can forget about the people who once lived nearby. Who were these folks, and how did they live?
These are the questions I was asking back in March, and they’re exactly the questions the NPS answers in this wayside exhibit. It affixes an actual, flesh-and-blood past to the rural Appalachian communities that so many Americans misunderstand or ignore. Here’s a close-up of the text:
I have a long break between classes this semester, so I’ve developed the habit of making short little excursions into Cumberland Gap National Historical Park after grabbing lunch. CGNHP is the largest historical park in the NPS system, with 24,000 acres and eighty-five miles of trails, so you can easily spend months or even years poking around in its nooks and crannies and still not manage to take it all in.
I was driving around near the Sugar Run trailhead today and passed by some interpretive signage I’d never noticed before. When I stepped out of the car and walked over to have a look, I encountered this.
That’s dog poo, and it’s sitting right in the middle of the sidewalk, which is a most inconvenient resting place for fresh fecal matter. Dogs are permitted in CGNHP, of course, provided they’re on a leash, and I certainly don’t begrudge them the occasional bowel movement. It happens to the best of us. But consider the location of this particular specimen.
The sidewalk runs alongside a grassy strip, which in turn borders one of the wooded areas that are quite plentiful within the bounds of CGNHP. It would seem to be a simple matter, if one’s dog was in the process of assuming a posture conducive to defecation, to persuade the animal to take two or three steps off the sidewalk and relieve him or herself in the grass. Failing that, one might dispose of the excrement in one of the many conveniently located trash receptacles provided by the NPS.
Indeed, one such receptacle was readily available, as documented in the photograph below.
The small lump in the foreground is the offending bit of canine waste; the brown metal object behind it is for trash disposal. About ten feet separate the one from the other. Note also that the dog crap is almost directly in the center of the sidewalk.
Don’t mind us, you inconsiderate puke. Make yourself right at home.
It took two centuries and millions of dollars to improve on Daniel Boone’s route through the Cumberland Gap. For years, the portion of US 25E that crossed from Tennessee into Kentucky followed the path of the old Wilderness Road as it skirted the tip of southwestern Virginia, passed along the rocky face of Cumberland Mountain, and cut through the Gap—the notch in the mountain wall near the point where Tennessee, Virginia, and Kentucky intersect. Then it descended into the valley of Yellow Creek just across the Kentucky state line.
It worked well for a pioneer footpath, but as an automobile route it presented a couple of problems. For one thing, paving over the old Wilderness Road obviously made it very difficult to appreciate the way this critical passage looked when tens of thousands of settlers used it to head to the West.
Second, since it ran along the mountain face, the highway was treacherous. If you happened to veer off the road, you could easily go plummeting down into the town of Cumberland Gap, TN at the mountain’s base. Quite a few motorists had done just that over the years. Locals sometimes referred to it as “Massacre Mountain.”
This combined need for safety and preservation resulted in one of the largest engineering projects this area has ever seen, a four-lane, two-way tunnel bored completely through the mountain not far from the Gap itself.
When the tunnel opened, the old portion of the highway across the mountain closed. The Park Service tore up the pavement and began restoring that part of the Wilderness Road route to its pioneer-era appearance. Now it’s one of the walking trails at Cumberland Gap National Historical Park; you can literally walk in Boone’s footsteps, along the side of the mountain and right into the Saddle of the Gap, along what used to be a busy roadway. (Click here to see a map of both the trail/old highway route and the new tunnel route.)
I was in high school when the tunnel opened. My school was just a short distance from the Gap, almost within sight of the pinnacle of Cumberland Mountain. We all got out of class that afternoon to attend the opening ceremony, seated with the other spectators in folding chairs facing the tunnel’s Kentucky side. The governors of the three states spoke, as did various other local dignitaries. Lee Greenwood sang “God Bless the USA,” there was a brief historical lecture, and a good time was had by all.
For the grand finale, a procession of reenactors marched out of the tunnel, depicting all those who had passed through the Gap: Indians, then long hunters, then pioneers, then Civil War soldiers. It was a flesh-and-blood, live-action version of Frederick Jackson Turner’s poetic summation of the Gap’s importance to the westward movement: “Stand at Cumberland Gap and watch the procession of civilization, marching single file— the buffalo following the trail to the salt springs, the Indian, the fur-trader and hunter, the cattle-raiser, the pioneer farmer—and the frontier has passed by.” The reenactors’ march out of the tunnel embodied Turner’s belief that the frontier consisted of stages of development, one following another in inevitable progression, and that the Gap was one of the places where this process played out.
Unconsciously, it also exemplified something that’s always bothered me about the way we remember and interpret the Gap, and indeed about the way we remember and interpret many historic places. The emphasis was on the people who were just passing through it. Migrating buffalo, Indians on the warpath, hunters on their way to the bluegrass, pioneer farmers on their way to new land, Civil War soldiers on their way to invade either North or South (the Gap changed hands four times during the war)—they were all from somewhere else, and going to some other destination. Everything around it, meaning the area where I grew up and have lived most of my life, was just an indistinct blur.
Once I got older and acquired an interest in history, I was a little appalled that I had spent much of my life just a few minutes’ drive from one of the most important places in America and had never really given it much thought. So I picked up a copy of The Wilderness Road by Robert Kincaid, the inaugural volume in a series of books on historic travel routes originally published by Bobbs-Merril in 1947. Like me, Kincaid had spent quite a bit of time in the Gap’s shadow; he held a number of posts at Lincoln Memorial University, just a stone’s throw from the Gap, and he eventually became the college’s president.
Kincaid’s book probably remains the most comprehensive examination of the Gap and the route of which it was a part, from the earliest European contacts through the first part of the twentieth century. Dr. Thomas Walker, Daniel Boone, the Civil War armies, the post-war British industrialists who founded the towns surrounding the mountain—they’re all there, marching across the pages just as they had marched across Turner’s imagination and then out of the newly opened tunnel in reenacted form. In that sense, the book is comprehensive; it gives you an overview of all the hubbub that went on in this part of southwestern Virginia, eastern Tennessee, and southeastern Kentucky for the past couple of hundred years.
But the hubbub is basically all you get. Kincaid’s book, like the tunnel pageant, is very episodic. Each chapter is devoted to some notable incident or group of incidents. Explorers, hunters, pioneers, soldiers, and industrialists saunter onstage, do their bit, and then saunter back off. What was going on between all this migrating, invading, and exploiting? Where were the people who actually lived here?
It’s not that this context would necessarily be more interesting than some of the highlights in the history of the region. In fact, it’s hard to beat this corner of the world for dramatic incidents and wonderful stories—the gruesome murder of Boone’s son when the famous pathfinder tried to lead a party through the Gap in 1773, the escape of General George Morgan’s besieged garrison from the pass in 1862, or the creation of a short-lived industrial and resort enterprise which flourished for only a few years before vanishing entirely in the 1890′s. Still, these occasions when the world came crashing in on the Gap region don’t, in and of themselves, constitute its complete history.
There is a natural tendency, especially among older or popularized history books, to focus solely on those occasions in which “something happened.” History then becomes a simple series of events. To be fair, this part of Appalachia wasn’t too heavily settled until after a lot of the more favorable lands to the east and the north were taken up, so there wouldn’t have been too much to cover besides the migrants passing by for those earliest years. But by the early 1800′s, this region began to have a history of its own. You don’t get much of that in many accounts of the Gap.
The region in which the Gap is located might have something to do with it. An early commentator referred to Appalachians as “contemporary ancestors,” meaning that people in this region lived for many years in a kind of static state of preservation, exactly as the pioneers who passed along the Wilderness Road to greener pastures had once lived. It wasn’t true, of course, but the idea caught on and has become one of the most widespread and persistent of Appalachian stereotypes. If you buy into it, then it makes sense to ignore the broader regional context, because you’d essentially be assuming that the region didn’t really have a history of its own.
It reminds me of the concept in evolutionary biology known as “punctuated equilibrium.” in which species change during occasional fits and starts, with longer periods of stasis in between. If you assume that things are just puttering along as usual, then why bother? You might as well ignore the stasis altogether.
I’m not denying that the more dynamic periods of history merit disproportionate attention, so I don’t intend this to be a criticism of historians in general. Nor do I intend it to be a criticism of Kincaid’s book in particular. It’s a valuable distillation of information about this area that I’m very glad to have in one volume. Besides, he was writing at a time before many of these issues became problematic. Anyone interested in the history of Cumberland Gap in particular or Appalachia in general owes him a debt of gratitude. (Besides, he and I have the same alma mater, so I’ve got his back.)
It’s just that the backdrop to that procession of long hunters, pioneer migrants, Civil War soldiers, and New South industrialists is my homeland, and I wish I knew as much about the folks who lived here as I do about the ones who were just passing through.