A Man for the Mountain

Tim Line saw many scary, strange and remarkable things during his 40-odd years at LeConte Lodge.

The lodge, located near the summit of 6,593-foot-tall Mt. LeConte, attracts thousands of tourists, hikers, and backpackers each year and has been a legendary fixture in the backcountry of the Smokies since the 1920s. Line, who recently retired, worked as manager at the lodge for decades and thought he’d pretty much “seen it all” on the mountain. 

Most people hike to the lodge successfully, but over the decades, Line and his staff had to assist visitors suffering heart attacks, strokes, allergic reactions, falls, broken limbs and a host of other emergency medical conditions. He’d also seen torrential rains and flash floods wipe out trails, and experienced snow and ice storms that shut down the whole national park for days. An April 1987 snowstorm dumped four feet of snow on LeConte, stranding Line, his staff, and 17 guests for days on the mountain.

Additionally, he worked through screaming windstorms which felled huge trees across trails and facilities, and he gazed into the cold, windblown, and sweaty faces of thousands of hikers who plodded up the five trails to the lodge. He has seen looks of abject exhaustion and pain, along with expressions of exhilaration and joy. But the most fearful event he experienced in an adulthood of work on Leconte occurred on November 28, 2016, when to all the world it appeared that the historic wooden lodge on the most iconic mountain in the Smokies would be consumed by wildfires and burned to a crisp. It was frightful day and night for this mountain man. 

The wildfires that November—suspected arson—were fanned by 70 to 80 mile-per-hour winds, fueled by dead and dry trees from insect infestations and drought.

Line and the staff at LeConte Lodge had smelled the smoke near the Chimney Tops a week or so before the blowup, but that seemed to pose no immediate threat.

Things would change dramatically as those high winds pierced the lofty reaches of the Smokies, fanning the flames and launching embers to start new fires. It was the beginning of what was later termed “a perfect storm.”

On the afternoon of November 28, Line got a call from the concessions office in the national park advising him to evacuate the onsite caretaker at the lodge, which had already closed for the season. Line also got calls from his own staff that evening. “I was in Gatlinburg the night the flames started to spread and before I was able to get home to Wears Valley I had two people call to say they were watching a line of fire around the 5,000-foot level on Bullhead that appeared to be heading up the mountain toward the lodge,” Line recalls. “Both of those people said they didn’t think the lodge would be there in the morning.” 

That began a long night of worry. “It was the scariest time I ever experienced in 40 years of work with the lodge,” Line said. “We knew before the blowup that there was a small fire on Chimney Tops, located west of Mt. LeConte across the drainage of the West Prong of Little Pigeon River. We could see the smoke from that fire and smell it, but it appeared to be no danger to the lodge then. When I learned that the Bullhead trail, which connects with the summit approach to Mt. LeConte, had some active fires spotting up, I started to get concerned. The fire behavior I saw on November 28 was like nothing I’d ever seen in the Smokies, and I started to get really concerned for the survival of the historic lodge. I got a gnawing in my gut.”

Line sat on the edge of his seat as reports swirled of destruction from wildfires in and around Gatlinburg. It was an unfolding nightmare. 

However, salvation for the lodge came during the late evening and the next morning as rain began to fall. “It was a Monday night when the fire blew up on the flanks of Mt. LeConte, and it was Wednesday before we knew for sure that the lodge had been spared,” Line said. “It was an absolute miracle to me to have it saved at what appeared to be the eleventh hour, and we soon learned that people in the area had sadly lost their lives and that an estimated billion dollars worth of property damage was initially reported. Our happiness at saving the lodge was muted by the unbelievable human impacts. It was the saddest event that I ever experienced in a lifetime in the Smokies.”  

‘I never left the mountain’

Line had a visceral connection to Mt. LeConte and the lodge early on. He was born in Knoxville, some 40 miles from the mountain which would be the focus of his life.

“Growing up, my father and I hiked to LeConte Lodge on many occasions and stayed as overnight guests,” Line said. “Many Fraser fir trees adorned the mountain then, and I remember it always smelled like Christmas and wood smoke up there. I loved being in the mountains and continued hiking through high school and college. I’d hoped to work at the lodge upon graduation from college, but at the time they weren’t hiring. So, I ‘thru-hiked’ the Appalachian Trail in 1976 and was hired as a crew member at the lodge for the ‘77 season. After that, I never left the mountain for another job, ever.”

Line worked his way up in the lodge concession owned by Stokely Hospitality Enterprises, starting as a crew member, then assistant manager, and, finally, general manager/limited partner. He divided his time on the mountain and in the office, finding his life’s calling on a peak many regard as the premier one in the Smokies.  

Line said most who hike to the top over the years were well-prepared and dressed for the outdoors, though others looked like they just left work in city clothes. He said he’s seen folks hike to the lodge in street shoes or barefoot. For two days one man pushed a one-speed bicycle up the trail, while another tried to hike on crutches. Folks hike up in wedding clothes, and a few hiked at night in the buff.

Line said it was always interesting to have a popular lodge smack in the middle of black bear country. “Fortunately, there were no really bad or dangerous encounters with bears through the years. We had many nuisance bears that would try breaking into the cabins or scaring people out of their food on the trail or around the lodge. We’d always contact the Park Service before the bears became too big a problem. The only actual contact incident I can recall was a lady sitting at camp having lunch one day when a bear sneaked up behind her and grabbed her pack. She turned around and tried to grab it back. In the process, the bear scratched her arm. But that’s pretty much it.” 

Line had one personally significant event involving a bear.

“Two days before my wedding, a bear broke into cabin nine and stole a pack. I got the fire extinguisher from the kitchen and began chasing the bear up the trail—the sound of the spray scared them. After a short time, the bear cut off the trail into the woods, and as I              followed I tripped and was unable to catch myself due to the weight of the extinguisher. I punctured my eye on a tree stump during the fall. By the time I got back to camp my face was bloody and swollen. The crew thought I’d been mauled by the bear. I later started seeing double. After coming off the mountain the next day and before going to Cincinnati for my wedding, I went to the eye doctor to get it checked and the next thing I knew I was referred to a plastic surgeon and had to return to Knoxville the day after our wedding for immediate surgery. So, I had to wear an eye patch at the wedding and we spent our honeymoon at Baptist Hospital.” 

Not just a business

Most people drive to work, but Tim Line walked. He estimates he walked up Mt. LeConte some 1,500 times; a strenuous, winding hike up 3,000 feet or more. He hiked to work for decades through deep snow, rain and sleet, and sweaty heat, staying at the lodge and supervising the maintenance and daily operations for about 12,000 overnight guests every year and some 15,000 day-hikers. His work also involved supervising the renovation of cabins and the construction of a new three-bedroom lodge building, and other projects, including the enlargement of the dining hall.

He arranged for seasonal helicopter supply drops. He for two years also managed another backcountry lodge located about a hundred miles northwest in the Big South Fork country. That was tough, he said, as it involved lots of driving and time away from family. 

Working at LeConte Lodge impacted his life in many significant ways. He met his wife, Lisa, while working there. Obviously, their children spent a lot of time on the mountain.

Tim has heard the rumble of thunder and the crack of lightning reverberate across the Smokies hundreds of times from his mountain perch. He’s gazed across the blue-green heights at thousands of sunrises and sunsets from his early 20s into his 60s. He’s spent almost all his waking hours over those four decades on the preservation and maintenance of this collection of wooden cabins and structures situated on the high crest of the Smokies. It’s been much more than just a place of business. 

Tim’s years on Mt. LeConte have been challenging, but he said he enjoyed it all. But now he’s looking ahead. “After 41 years of working on the mountain and being on call 24/7, I’m ready for a break,” he said. “I think it’ll take me a while to reprogram myself to whatever comes next. I don’t know what it’ll feel like a year from now, but Lisa and I have four grandchildren in two states, and a very large garden. So, for now, I’m good.”

It’s fascinating how fate or destiny can lead certain people to singularly impressive work. For Tim Line, that destiny was LeConte Lodge. He had a dream of working in the mountains, and he crafted a unique life for himself and his family. In so doing, he also made significant contributions to the ‘National Park experience’ for hundreds of thousands of park visitors who wanted to experience the backcountry of the Smokies.  

It might be fairly argued that few people, in the broad array of Smoky Mountain history, can claim such a long-standing personal nexus to the backcountry of Mt. LeConte. He is, indeed, a man for this mountain.