The Blue Ridge Parkway unravels gracefully across the landscape, at times suspended from high cliffs and etched into rocky crags, then deftly shifting gears to skim over hayfields and past log cabins bound by split-rail fences.

The road seems unfazed by mountain topography. Arched bridges skirt rugged crevasses and stone-faced tunnels bore through the mountainside itself, always coursing onward and never compromising its smooth, undulating curves.

The Parkway moves so harmoniously through the scenery and lays so gently on the terrain, it seems possible that perhaps the Parkway was there first, or at the very least born at the same time as the mountains themselves.

“I can’t image a more creative job than locating that Blue Ridge Parkway, because you worked with a ten-league canvas and a brush of a comet’s tail,” said Stanley Abbott, the chief landscape architect of the Parkway during its construction in the 1930s.

The task facing the early Parkway designers was enormous, with little more than vague parameters of where to put the Parkway. Blazing a scenic road through high and rugged mountain passes in the 1930s was an engineering and artistic feat. It also pushed the boundaries of competing American ideals.

The country was in the midst of a burgeoning national park movement, and many in the general public had already accepted a popular concept of preserving America’s grand landscapes. Meanwhile, a love affair with the automobile had likewise gripped the country. These two notions gave rise to the newfangled Parkway concept.

Yet merging the two was not easy.

“A road and a park are very different things,” said Ian Firth, an historical expert on Parkway design and professor emeritus in the College of Environment and Design at the University of Georgia. “Roads are meant to bring progress and development. A park is 180 degrees different. It is where you preserve something from progress and from development.”

Abbott, just 26 years old when he was hired as chief landscape architect for the Parkway, possessed both the skill and instinct to capture the Appalachian countryside and its sweeping mountain vistas from behind the windshield of an automobile. He often likened his approach to that of a cinematographer, training his camera on one frame after the next and eventually producing a 469-mile masterpiece.

While the Parkway’s design is often compared to art, Abbott and his colleagues applied a mathematical formula to achieve the serpentine line.

Abbott was a master of the spiral curve, a highly engineered and deftly calculated arc that eases cars gently into a curve and exits them smoothly. The turning radius broadens as you move through the curve, much like a spiral expands as it moves outward from the center. The Parkway owes its sweeping nature to the equation, which avoids the unpleasant centripetal force of standard curves.

The formula was perfected by railroads in previous decades.

“They had all these cars they were pulling, and if you didn’t have a gentle change in curve, you had lurches, bumps and screeches that were very uncomfortable for passengers and bad for freight and prone to derailment and accidents,” said Mary Myers, a Parkway expert on landscape architecture and chair of the Landscape Architecture and Horticulture department at Temple University.

Abbott deployed another geometric tool called the reverse curve, essentially two back-to-back spiral curves in opposite directions. Drivers barely exit one turn before they slalom into the next one. The reverse curve creates a rhythmic experience, as if swaying back and forth through the mountains.

“I don’t think you can find a better example of that beautiful line of grace,” Myers said of the Parkway. “The reverse curves do everything.”

Not only do they achieve a rhythmic motion, but they aim the car’s windshield toward the views, whether it’s a mountain vista on the outside curve or a rhododendron-capped boulder after rounding the bend.

While the Parkway often plunges in elevation from mountain peaks to rolling valleys, the grade is gentle, another area of careful calculation. There’s also one road feature markedly absent from the Parkway: no painted white lines at the edge of the pavement.

“They tried to make a very gentle transition between the road and landscape,” Myers said.

Abbott’s crew faced a great conundrum. Roads, by nature, scar the landscape, sometimes obliterating the natural topography, especially when forging a new mountain passage. Yet the Parkway’s success depended on protecting the scenery it passed through.

“As landscape architects they were very concerned about that,” Myers said.

Luckily, Abbott had hundreds of CCC men at his disposal to install the massive landscaping on the denuded road edges left in the wake of road builders. If a road bank wasn’t sculpted to his liking, he asked the CCC men to cart off more dirt and re-contour it by hand.

A bitter tug-of-war played out in the political arena over the Parkway’s basic route — mainly pitting North Carolina against Tennessee. Once North Carolina came home victorious, road builders and designers were left with little instruction on exactly where to put the Parkway aside from a few general mountain ranges. They embarked on a year-long reconnaissance mission through the mountains, arguing over which mountain ranges to pass over within the otherwise broad parameters of connecting point A and point B.

“Nobody came to the Parkway with a blueprint,” Firth said. “The design evolved and you can see it evolving as you read the correspondence and debates.”

Abbott didn’t set out to chase one panoramic view after another, fearing the high-elevation vistas would grow monotonous.

“Too much of any one thing becomes very boring,” Myers said. Even breathtaking vistas from mile-high mountain tops.

Instead, he brings the road to the cusp of a sweeping view, lets it hang there for a moment and then retreats, perhaps diving into a rhododendron tunnel or ducking behind a grassy boulder-strewn knoll. The compression and re-emergence of vistas creates surprise and intrigue.

“The physiognomy of the eye dictates that your eye has to be constantly scanning to stay alert. The Parkway does that very well,” Myers said. “Within each quarter mile, you have a variety of scenery. There is a sense of anticipation of what is to come.”

But when passing through the Craggy mountains and Plott-Balsams in the final 100 miles of the Parkway, Abbott was forced to get creative to break up the tedium of vistas. The best asset became the rock cliffs themselves, with the road often passing so close that it seems you can reach out and touch them from the passenger seat.

And, of course, tunnels.

“The tunnel produced a wonderful drama when you emerge from it,” Firth said.

The majority of the Parkway’s 26 tunnels occur on the southernmost section, starting in the Craggy Mountain range and continuing through the Balsams, where sheer rock faces leave few other options for passage other than boring into the mountain itself.

Tunnels preserved the natural contour of the ridges, avoiding a massive excavation that would gouge up the mountainside and mar its silhouette from a distance.

“When you travel in the valley below and look up, you don’t see the Parkway,” said Carlton Abbott, the son of Stanley Abbott, who, like his father, became a landscape architect.

Geology occasionally posed an impasse, however.

“They started to excavate tunnels and the roof collapsed,” Firth said. Some tunnels were abandoned and the mountain subjected to significantly more excavation instead.

When it came time to tackle the finer points of Parkway design, Abbott and his team worked in 10-mile sections, walking each one and staking three potential routes before picking one. Then they drew plans for each quarter-mile section, detailing every inch of the landscape for the 469-mile road.

Up to 50 landscape architects, many of them students, worked under Abbott to hone the drawings. They diagramed split-rail fences and rock walls. They mapped out how many trees and shrubs to plant and of what species. They labored over the placement of boulders and how wide the grassy areas should be before giving way to the tree line.

Gary Johnson, the chief resource ranger at the Blue Ridge Parkway, often consults those maps — 850 sheets in all — as the guiding management vision.

“It is a landscape that is very labor intensive,” Johnson said. “You can’t just let it go back to nature.”

Ironically, images of Appalachia were one of the most highly orchestrated elements of the landscape. Abbott’s vision of varying landscapes relied on pastoral farm scenes — not merely in the distance, but enveloping the road with split rail fences, rows of corn and grazing cattle. The National Park Service certainly couldn’t be tasked with farming hundreds of acres along the roadside, but nor could the land be left in the hands of farmers for fear it would one day be sold. So the Parkway bought the land, then promptly leased it back to farmers for $1 a year to keep on farming it as they had been, giving rise to the practice of agricultural leases still used in 400 sites along the Parkway today.

To complete the idyllic scene, the Park Service rounded up log cabins and put them on display as if they’d always been there.

“It has been criticized for being such a selective view of Appalachia,” Firth said.

But the distortion was deliberate, intended as a powerful symbol of American ingenuity and self-reliance during the Depression when a reminder of human perseverance from days gone by was an important message.

The scenes of early Appalachia on the Parkway look like archetypes, according to Ted Coyle, an anthropologist at Western Carolina University.

“There was a time in American history when we made these kinds of scenes,” Coyle said. “At that time in history, we wanted to mythologize our past. I’m not saying that because it is false we should get it rid of it, but it is important to point out that it is not the actual history.”

It was a departure from most national parks, however, including the nearby Smokies that attempted to wipe out signs of human presence on the land in favor of nature. Once again, Parkway designers made a conscious decision to set up landmarks such as old mills for future generations to see.

“They were concerned if they didn’t, this fragile image would disappear from the landscape,” Carlton Abbott said.

That farm scene has changed. Tractors have replaced the draft horse and plow. The hand-baled haystacks that once stood as sentinels along the Parkway are gone, with tight, machine-rolled bales in their place.

The notion of Abbott penning the Parkway’s design in one fell swoop is far from the truth. Abbott plugged away dutifully from 1935 to 1944 until he was called into service for WWII. By then, only two-thirds of the road had been completed. Construction resumed immediately after the war and continued in sections until 1967.

“It is amazing it was completed because everything had changed so much after the war,” Firth said. “But the Parkway was always a blue-eyed boy and got certain preferential treatment.”

The final missing link around Grandfather Mountain wasn’t finished until 1987. Given the duration of road building that long outlasted Abbott’s tenure, it is amazing that the Parkway design retained its unity.

Abbott briefly took up the reins as the Parkway’s landscape architect following the war, but it was Ed Abbuehl, Abbott’s one-time college instructor and right-hand man in the Parkway’s early stages, who remained at the helm another 20 years.

“You find him saying ‘This is the way we have always done it, and this is the way we should do it.’ He was one of the forces saying ‘Let’s keep the original design going,’” Firth said.

The job of chief landscape architect continued to be passed among co-workers and handed down to apprentices for four decades—providing a continuous line from Abbott’s founding philosophy well into the 1970s.

“Apprenticing is the traditional way landscape architects learn,” Myers said. “It’s the design knowledge being transmitted from one generation to the next.”

Bureaucratic institutions like the National Park Service also served to protect the continuity of parkway design over the years.

“People work there for a long time — you don’t have radical changes,” Myers said.

Tim Pegram, a former park ranger who has hiked the Parkway, likens the scenic motorway to Michelangelo’s statue of David.

“The day it was finished is the finest it will ever be,” Pegram said.

The statue of David was subjected to the elements for three centuries. His base was struck by lightning, angry rioters broke off his left arm, and a mad artist took a sledgehammer to his left toe. Even conservators tasked with the statue’s care erred terribly by washing it in hydrochloric acid and gooping it up with protective wax.

“The same thing has happened to the Parkway,” Pegram said.

Views are being undermined by development, landscaping carefully selected by Abbott 75 years ago is showing its age and rockslides continually reduce sections of the road itself to rubble.

“It is being chipped away a little a time,” Pegram said. “Even the Parkway managers have messed it up in places.”

The Parkway is a labor-intensive landscape and lacks the workforce to keep pace.

“If you really look closely, you can tell we are not maintaining the Parkway as we once did,” said Parkway Superintendent Phil Francis. “Overlooks are growing up. The mowing along the road shoulders is not as wide or manicured as it once was. Many of our historic buildings are suffering from neglect.”

The Parkway blames federal funding shortfalls. In the past decade, the Parkway has watched its maintenance staff shrink by more than one-third.

So they make compromises—the most striking is not keeping trees cut at overlooks. Many are so grown up they are hardly overlooks at all. An old signboard telling visitors about a view beyond the tree branches is the only clue it was once a vista.

“The number one, primary reason that visitors come to the Blue Ridge Parkway is to be able to look out from this table where they can see the mountains and drink in the views,” said Gary Everhart, a former Parkway superintendent in the 1990s. “It comes down to a simple little thing called dollars. Unfortunately the Parkway has been struggling with enough money to do all the things that need to be done.”

Ornamental trees and shrubs planted by CCC workers 75 years ago are now dying, and the Parkway must embark on a round of new plantings. Some specimens even require pruning by hand.

“Things change gradually,” Francis said. “It is like watching your kid grow. If you are the parent, it happens incrementally.”

Another challenge is rockslides, which are endemic to mountain roads, particularly those with the Parkway’s elevation. A year rarely passes without a rockslide or two, some knocking out sections of the Parkway for months during major slope repairs, while others may take just a few days to haul off a pile of debris.

There have been close calls — a boulder landed in a woman’s backseat — but no deaths or injuries from the slides, Francis said.

The constant barrage of minor repairs to Parkway infrastructure requires extra thought. Maintenance crews keep a stockpile of weathered and gray fence posts for repairing split rail fences. When the roof of an historic cabin springs a leak, park rangers spend their days splitting logs to make wooden shingles that will match.

Gary Johnson, the chief of resource management on the Parkway, is often torn between stop-gap measures versus more costly but permanent repairs. When a stone wall starts to crumble, he can slap some mortar in the holes and stuff the falling rocks back in place. But in the long run, the wall needs to be rebuilt on a better foundation.

A batch of federal stimulus money is allowing the Parkway to rebuild 31,000 feet of rock wall this year, which posed its own dilemma: balancing the historic character of the stone walls with a modern safety design. At two-feet-high, the rock walls aren’t terribly effective as guard rails, but Johnson is debating how high to make them without compromising their charm. The other question is whether to use traditional, dry-stack techniques versus super-strength mortar.

Park managers have learned to balance aesthetics with safety. For example, the historic wooden guardrails along the Parkway are reinforced by steel banding on the back that are not visible from the road.

When Johnson came to the Parkway in 1994 as its chief landscape architect, he was humbled by the footsteps he followed in. Nothing is taken lightly, he said.

“I often have the thought when we are making a design decision and are doing something differently than in the past I think, ‘What would Stan do?’” Johnson said. “Afterward I think, ‘I hope Stan is not up there somewhere looking down and thinking ‘Boy they are really messing this thing up.’”

Why we do it

“You’re getting up when?”

“You’re going out in this weather?”

People who have a passion for the outdoors and revel in the beauty and the subtle and not-so-subtle intricacies of nature are accustomed to these questions and their accompanying incredulous stares. The questions give me pause to wonder if the questioner has ever watched the sun, dripping red, crawl out of the blue ocean at dawn or ever seen the dappled light of the morning sun, like spotlights on the forest floor or ever sat with back against a solid oak and watched the last milky wisps of fog ascend from the mountain side after a sudden summer shower.

There are certainly grand and exotic places, beautiful and intriguing creatures and vistas to die for around the globe. But so often that “ah-ha” moment in nature comes simply, suddenly and without fanfare.

We were on the Blue Ridge Parkway last Saturday (May 1) for the Haywood County Arts Council’s annual “Birding for the Arts.” We had ambled away from our cars, peering into the gray but greening windy woods trying to put some corporeal shapes to the invisible warbles emanating from the forest. We turned to walk back to our cars and Joe Sam Queen called out, “I’ve got a scarlet tanager!”

We followed Joe Sam’s finger to a large maple at the edge of a clearing. At the end of a branch, surrounded by burgeoning maple leaves and waning flowers, framed by the overcast sky, was a most exquisite orange-variant scarlet tanager. Now scarlet tanagers are beautiful birds in their standard dress — deep scarlet front and back with jet-black wings and tail. But on this bird the scarlet was replaced with a soft, lush pumpkin-orange. And the soft light from the overcast sky let you drink in all the subtle shades and tones and admire its intricate hues.

The next day, Sunday, May 2, I was again on the Parkway in search of neotropical migrants. I was with Chuck Dayton, Sara Evans and some friends of theirs from Minnesota and Asheville. The blustery wind was making it difficult to get good looks at birds when and if we could find them. We were hearing chestnut-sided warblers regularly but having no luck at coaxing them up for a gander. Then at one overlook, a fresh male suddenly popped up from the underbrush and flew into a small, mostly bare tree, not 20 feet from the edge of the overlook.

He seemed oblivious to the nine pairs of binoculars focused on him as he serenaded. He turned, first right profile and then left profile – showing us the rich chestnut sides he is named for as well as a bold black eye stripe and black chin streak. His yellow pincushion cap gleamed in the sunlight. He faced us, threw back his head and sang with gusto — “pleased, pleased, pleased to meetcha!” Next he turned his back to us and threw up his head. From his nape, down the middle of his back, he fairly glistened a yellowish green, interspersed with deep black lines.

And that, my friends, is why we do it.

Don Hendershot can be reached at This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it.

A bill before Congress could help save views along the Blue Ridge Parkway by setting aside $75 million over five years to buy adjacent land threatened by development.

Blue Ridge Parkway Protection Act was introduced in honor of the 75th anniversary of the Parkway this year, and out of growing recognition that the disappearing viewsheds along the Parkway are undermining what makes the scenic journey special.

“The Blue Ridge Parkway offers some of the most spectacular mountain views in the nation, and this legislation will preserve those views for our children and grandchildren,” U.S. Rep. Heath Shuler, D-Waynesville, said.

Shuler cited the important role of the Parkway for locals, who use it to reach recreational outposts and favorite outdoor spots, as well as its source of tourism revenue.

“It is imperative that we protect it,” Shuler said.

The funding should be enough to protect 50,000 acres. Land would only be bought from willing sellers, allowing the Parkway to buy land when it goes up for sale rather than seeing it get snatched up by developers.

An economic study by professors at Warren Wilson and UNC-Asheville directly linked declining views with a drop in Parkway visitation, and in turn a loss of dollars for communities along the Parkway’s route. The Parkway is an economic driver for the region, generating about $2.3 billion in economic activity in both states annually.

“This legislation calls for a wise investment in the long-term health of the Parkway and the tourism economies of communities near this national treasure,” said Reid Wilson, executive director of the Conservation Trust for North Carolina, which works to protect land along the Parkway.

The act was supported in the Senate by Senators Richard Burr and Kay Hagan of North Carolina, as well as a Virginia delegation and other House representatives from both states as well.

A 1,488-acre tract along the Blue Ridge Parkway in McDowell County has been protected from development thanks to a conservation agreement with the landowner, a railroad corporation.

The long, linear tract is owned by CSX, a rail shipping corporation. A rail line on the tract will continue operating, but the property can never be developed or logged. CSX got $3.67 million for placing the property in a conservation agreement with the Conservation Trust of North Carolina. More than half was state money from various conservation trust funds, while the rest was raised privately. Land conservation philanthropists Fred and Alice Stanback and Bill and Nancy Stanback, all of Salisbury, were among the major contributors.

In addition to preserving Parkway views, it contains state Natural Heritage Areas and Catawba River headwater streams. The property also includes about 1.5 miles of the Overmountain Victory National Historic Trail, the route followed by mountain militiamen during the American Revolution on their way to the pivotal Battle of Kings Mountain in South Carolina.

The Eastern Band of Cherokee Indians played an integral role in the creation of the Parkway. The Parkway was envisioned as a scenic motorway connecting the Great Smoky Mountains National Park with Shenandoah National Park in Virginia.

To reach the doorstep of the Smokies, the Parkway needed right-of-way across tribal lands, but securing the route in the 1930s was not easy.

“The battle for this right-of-way started in 1935, and it did not get settled for five years,” said Ray Kinsland, the director of the Cherokee Boys Club, who shared a brief history of the Parkway’s arrival during a torch passing ceremony last week.

Many in Cherokee were resistant to the taking of tribal land to make way for the Parkway.

“A lot of people did not trust the federal government because of history,” Kinsland said. “I don’t know of any other people who have struggled for their land and freedom as the Eastern Band of Cherokee Indians.”

However, some Cherokee leaders at the time recognized the important role tourism would play in the tribe’s future.

“And for tourism, you needed roads,” Kinsland said.

A tug of war ensued within the tribe over whether to give up land for the Parkway, and if so, what the tribe was due in return. The chief and vice chief at the time were on opposing sides of the debate.

What is known is that the Cherokee Reservation is not a reservation in the true sense. The government did not grant the block of land to the Cherokee people. Instead, the Cherokee people pooled their resources and purchased the land over time and placed it in a trust, known collectively today as the Qualla Boundary.

“We had to buy this land with our own money after it had been taken away from us,” Kinsland said.

So when the Department of Interior wanted Cherokee to deed land to the federal government for the creation of the Parkway, the tribe resisted. Their land was taken once, they bought a small sliver of their once vast homeland back, and many balked at giving up even an acre.

But tribal leaders advocating for the benefits tourism would bring eventually won out.

The federal government at first wanted the tribe to give away the land for nothing, but ultimately agreed to give the tribe two other parcels known as the Boundary Tree tract and Ravensford tract in exchange for the Parkway right-of-way. The tribe signed the pact for the right-of-way in 1939.

Two years later, however, Congress decided not to give the tribe the Ravensford tract after all.

More than 60 years would pass before the tribe eventually got its hands on the long-promised Ravensford tract. The tribe negotiated a land swap in 2003 with the park service to gain title to the Ravensford tract to build a new school. The tribe bought 218 acres bordering the Parkway near Waterrock Knob and swapped it for the Ravensford tract, a flat piece of land close to town.

Tribe members were frustrated that it took three tries to buy back a tract of land that was rightfully theirs to begin with, Kinsland said.

The tract now houses the campus of a new $140 million K through 12 school, which opened this fall. Kinsland said the government going back on its word 60 years ago during the Parkway right-of-way negotiations was a blessing in disguise. Under park service control, the Ravensford tract had remained free of development. If it had belonged to the tribe all these years, “it would have been campgrounds and motels,” Kinsland said. “We wouldn’t have had anywhere to put our new school. We see it as a win-win-win.”

A Cherokee elder presided over a ceremonial torch passing from the Great Smoky Mountains National Park to the Blue Ridge Parkway last week.

Standing at an overlook along the Parkway outside Cherokee, Elder Jerry Wolfe performed a “smudging” to open the ceremony, waving a feather and burning sage over the four corners of the land.

“The grounds and our souls are all cleansed,” Wolfe pronounced.

The event marked the beginning of the Parkway’s 75th anniversary and the closure of the Smokies 75th anniversary.

“Just a word of wisdom, slow down and enjoy your year because it will go by very, very quickly,” Smokies Superintendent Dale Ditmanson said to Parkway Superintendent Phil Francis.

Cherokee is stationed between both parks, marking the southern-most entrance to the Blue Ridge Parkway and eastern gateway to the Smokies. The ancestral heritage of Cherokee people is rooted in the mountains and scenery embodied by both national parks.

“Our DNA runs deep here,” said Perry Shell, a tribal council member. Archaeological excavations have shown 11,000 years of continuous occupation by the Cherokee.

The Parkway stretches from 469 miles from the Smokies to Shenandoah National Park in Virginia, passing through 29 counties along its route and dozens of communities. The scenic drive attracts more than 17 million visitors every year.

When the Parkway was conceived in the 1930s, a great tug of war ensued over where the Parkway would go. Tennessee hoped to route the Parkway through Knoxville and Gatlinburg. Asheville — along with Waynesville, Maggie Valley and Cherokee — would have missed out on the $2.3 billion economic impact the Parkway has today.

The Parkway is a tourism engine, responsible for 27,000 jobs and $508 million in payroll in the state.

“Certainly our forefathers when they had the vision for the Parkway were right on target. It has done exactly what they intended it to do,” said Lynn Minges, director of the N.C. Division of Tourism.

Much like the region fought to secure the corridor past its doorstep 75 years ago, it must rally today to protect the Parkway, said N.C. Ray Rapp, D-Mars Hill.

“How can we preserve the national treasure we have here for future generations?” Rapp said. Rapp said the viewsheds are integral to the Parkway experience and must be protected.

Parkway Superintendent Phil Francis echoed the theme.

“The Parkway didn’t happen without a lot of support from a lot of people,” Francis said. “To preserve the Parkway for future generations will take all of us working together.”

The torch was passed from the Eastern Band to the Smokies superintendent, then to the Parkway superintendent, and finally back to two Cherokee children.

“The future of the Parkway is in your hands,” Francis said to the youth.

Bo Taylor, a cultural heritage specialist with the tribe, reminded the crowd gathered at the overlook that the Cherokee connection with the land lives on.

“We are not the past, but the present as well. We are also the future. We are fortunate to have young people picking up our traditional ways,” Taylor said.

The Blue Ridge Parkway will kick off its 75th anniversary celebrations this month with several historical, symbolic and entertaining events, even though the official anniversary isn’t until next year.

• A program called “Natural Resource Stewardship – An American Indian Legacy and Model for Our Future” will be held at 6 p.m. Thursday, Nov. 12, at the Cherokee High School. The talk will be given by Gerard Baker, superintendent of Mount Rushmore National Memorial who was featured in Ken Burns recent national parks documentary, along with former and present superintendents of the Parkway, Dan Brown and Phil Francis.

• Ceremonial Torch Passing will be held at 10 a.m. Friday, Nov. 13, on the parkway outside Cherokee. A torch will be passed from the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, which celebrated its 75th anniversary this year, to the Parkway. Both park superintendents and Eastern Band of the Cherokees’ tribal leaders will deliver remarks. The Warriors of AniKituhwa dancers will perform. Park at the Cherokee Transit Lot on U.S. 441 just outside the entrance to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park to take a shuttle to the site of the torch passing.

• Guided history tours in partnership with the Museum of the Cherokee Indian will be given by Cherokee storytellers at noon on Friday, Nov. 13, with several stops along the southern portion of the Parkway. Cost is $20 per person and includes a boxed lunch. 828.497.3481.

• Parkway History Day will be held on Saturday, Nov. 14, at the Folk Art Center on the Parkway outside Asheville.

There will be craft and music demonstrations and special exhibits. A panel discussion at 10 a.m. will examine the history and lasting impact of the decision to route the Blue Ridge Parkway through Western North Carolina. An interactive session will be held from 1 p.m. to 3 p.m. on Parkway issues, challenges and initiatives, including design guidelines for adjacent lands and preserving view sheds.

• A concert by Nanci Griffith will be held at 7 p.m. on Saturday, Nov. 14, in Asheville. There will also be a performance of the one-time-only collaboration of The Blue Ridge Bluegrass All-Stars showing their support for the Parkway, including renowned musicians: Doyle Lawson, Sammy Shelor, Bryan Sutton, Tim Surrett, and Jim Van Cleve. The Cherokee Warriors of AniKituhwa will also perform, and the entire evening will be hosted by Asheville’s own Grammy award-winning musician David Holt. General seats are $35 and patron seats are $75. Tickets available at Ticketmaster.

The Great Smoky Mountains National Park staged a reenactment this week of President Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s dedication of the newly created park nearly 70 years ago.

Roosevelt’s trip to the region in 1940 is still remembered by many. Throngs of people lined the main streets of Waynesville, Bryson City and Cherokee for a chance to see the heroic President roll by en route to Newfound Gap, where he would speak at a dedication ceremony for the new park.

“President Roosevelt was next to God,” said Henry Foy, who watched from the side of Main Street in Waynesville. “He was in the backseat and held up his hat and waved it out both sides.”

As is often the case with big milestones, anyone alive at the time seems to remember where they were when Roosevelt’s entourage drove through town.

“That was the biggest day of my life,” said J.C. Freeman, 81, who watched from the roadside in Bryson City. “He was in an open topped car. They roped the roads off. I was holding the rope as close as I could get. I thought that was one of the greatest things that could happen to a boy.”

Joyce Patton of Canton, just 7 years old at the time, was most excited at the prospect of seeing Roosevelt’s black Scottish Terrier pup named Fala.

“[Roosevelt] was waving with his cigarette in the holder. I saw right away that he didn’t have the dog,” Patton said, recalling her disappointment. Patton’s parents, who were park supporters, made the long car trip up to Newfound Gap to hear his speech. They were seated near the front, close enough to see Roosevelt getting out of his car into a wheelchair.

“At that time nobody knew he was paralyzed. They lined the ramp going up to the lectern with Secret Service and Park Rangers so most people couldn’t see him in the wheelchair,” Patton recounted.

While the park was officially created in 1934, Roosevelt’s dedication happened six years later on Sept. 2, 1940. By then, the Civilian Conservation Corps had carved trails, campgrounds and roads into the park, including the overlook at Newfound Gap. There Roosevelt stood with one foot in each state while delivering his speech in front of the newly finished Rockefeller Memorial, erected as an homage to the family that donated $5 million for the park’s creation.

Commodore Casada, 99, caught a ride up the mountain from Bryson City to witness the big event. Although like many, his interest was in seeing Roosevelt — not honoring a park he resented.

“I hadn’t accepted the park yet. It just always seemed to me like somebody was taking something that was mine,” said Casada, who grew up on land seized for the park. Although he added, “Now I’m glad we gave it.”

Roosevelt’s speech was laden with references to the brewing war in Europe, calling for the need to protect America’s great landscapes and natural history as well as the nation’s freedom.

A driver on the Blue Ridge Parkway last November witnessed a group of hunters and their dogs corner a black bear against a rock face and shoot it in stark violation of the no-hunting policy of national parks.

With a massive die-off of hemlock trees all but imminent in the mountains, Ranger Chris Ulrey is putting faith in a handful of high-elevation hemlocks along the Blue Ridge Parkway to be the species’ saving grace.