A Man of the People

It’s become a familiar story: With the creation of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park in 1934, early park bureaucrats attempted to rewrite history by presenting the land largely as a primeval wilderness instead of preserving the folkways of the bustling communities that had once prospered here.

In fact, much of that vibrant culture may have been lost if it weren’t for the diligent work of two men—Hiram C. Wilburn, an engineer by training whose first exposure to the park came while working with the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC), and park ranger Charles Grossman.

Tasked with developing a plan to preserve aspects of existing mountain culture, Wilburn and Grossman collected and interpreted noteworthy artifacts for curious tourists. Unfortunately the concept underlying their mandate was one based on falsity—to showcase “the complete isolation,” general backwardness, and “limited quarters” of mountaineers.

Fortuitously the pair, and Wilburn in particular, had an eye toward preservation. In that regard they contrasted sharply with many of their superiors, most notably J. Ross Eakin, the first superintendent of Great Smoky Mountains National Park, who had minimal interest in celebrating the area’s history. Thanks to Wilburn’s vision and tireless collecting efforts, vestiges of a vanished way of life survive.

Viewed through the lens of time, Wilburn should be reckoned something of a hero, although his background and training made him an unlikely one. Born in the crossroads village of Cross Keys in upstate South Carolina, he studied at Clemson Agricultural College (now Clemson University) and completed his degree in 1908. Details of how he came to live in the mountains of Western North Carolina are somewhat murky, although extant photographs and other evidence suggest he may have settled in the region as early as the first decade of the 20th century (photographs of Horace Kephart taken in 1904 or 1905, his earliest years in the Smokies, are often ascribed to Wilburn). At some point in this period Waynesville became Wilburn’s home and would remain so until his death in 1967. It was where he and his wife, Ara, raised their four children and became pillars of the community.

For a time Wilburn worked as a land surveyor in North Carolina and then, with the onset of the Great Depression, he became an engineer with the CCC. That, together with the fact that he had already established something of a reputation as a local historian, thanks to his research on topics ranging from Native Americans to old turnpikes, likely explains his choice to be part of the small team charged with handling whatever historical preservation would come with the park’s creation. Once on board with the GSMNP, Wilburn proved to be a veritable fount of ideas.

Some, such as his wish to turn Cades Cove into a sort of living outdoor museum demonstrative of mountain life “after the          Norwegian and Swedish manner,” were grand in scale and eventually adopted in part (though he is seldom, if ever, given credit for the concept). Wilburn also felt it would be a good idea to undertake oral history projects, an approach to studying the past that would not gain solid footing until decades later. The NPS never really followed his suggestion of collecting stories and personal accounts of mountain folkways from those displaced by creation of the park “before they moved from the area,” although fortunately Joseph S. Hall, in a series of independent visits to the region in the late 1930s and 1940s, did monumentally important work in this arena.

At times Wilburn could be prone to stereotyping mountain people, although he seemed to do so with no animus or intention to sensationalize. Rather, he stumbled into this minefield with good intentions but also burdened by something almost every “outlander” faced in studying Appalachian folkways; namely, he wasn’t “from here.” Even so, Wilburn managed to establish solid relationships with those displaced by creation of the GSMNP.

He took scores of photographs of local people and places, some of them beautifully composed and indicative of a man who was highly competent with a camera. He could not have obtained these images without having established a comfortable understanding with mountain folks. Even more telling is the manner in which he acquired artifacts—well over a thousand of them, including treasured items such as guns, from those being displaced.

Sadly, Superintendent Eakin ignored or belittled Wilburn’s endeavors. Reading between the lines of their correspondence, one senses the bureaucrat considered Wilburn a bothersome gadfly harping away on inconsequential matters. To Wilburn’s credit,      official disinterest—which at times approached disdain—in no way deterred him. He was a man on a mission and some of his extant letters to Eakin clearly show his exasperation. For example, he was furious when CCCs crushed a lovely old stone wall on Palmer Creek into gravel, and he peppered Sugarlands with plans for a “living” pioneer museum that would have allowed a few mountain folks to continue their traditional way of life. When he realized history was getting short shrift, Wilburn wrote: “Violence is being done and there might result damaging public criticism.” He even went so far as to encourage area newspapers to print articles favorable to his views.

At the time his efforts were pretty much to no avail, and the recommendations contained in a 63-page report he co-authored, “Report on the Proposed Mountain Culture Program for the Great Smoky Mountains National Park,” were largely ignored. To a certain degree, the problem persists. As park historian Margaret Lynn Brown wrote a decade and a half ago, the time has long passed when the park should “quit pretending that no one ever lived in the Smokies. The sacrifice of those who left can be remembered and honored.”

For decades the fruits of Wilburn’s labors gathered dust at Oconaluftee Visitors Center, stored in areas lacking proper temperature and moisture control or indeed much of any type of historical preservation protection. Similarly, access to archival materials, despite dedicated staff doing all they could to facilitate research, was made difficult by factors such as cramped space, storage issues, and lack of facilities for researchers. Thankfully that has to some degree changed with the construction of new display facilities at Oconaluftee and archival storage space in Townsend.

Without the devotion of Wilburn and a few others with a passion for the past, a window to that colorful and meaningful past would have been closed forever. Posterity owes Hiram Wilburn a lasting debt of gratitude.