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by Fay Powell The Leaf Lookers Versus the Porch Setters Dillsboro was overrun with tourists, and I was in the middle of all the busyness . I had visitors, and what do you do with visitors in autumn, but take them on the newest tourist trap—the scenic train ride. So here I was in Dillsboro on this sunny afternoon waiting to have my train ticket punched by the friendly, whitehaired conductor. He was as wiry as a wire-haired terrier in his efforts to placate the passengers, while guarding the entrance to the 1930 maroon Pullman car. Some children were so excited that he had to hold them off by their shirtsleeves to keep them from entering first. Finally, the engineer gave the signal, and the conductor shouted, "All aboard." The Great Smoky Mountain Railway excursion had started. Grateful to find an available seat, I was annoyed by the dirty window and promptly tried to pry it open. After jiggling and knocking it, I was able to lift it and let the crisp fresh air in. The car was smelly with smoke, oil, and dirt from many years of service. I wiggled 64 on the hard, upright passenger seat trying to get comfortable for the slow excursion around the mountains. My fellow passengers had settled down, and I remembered what the natives called these autumn tourists—"Leaf Lookers." The Leaf Lookers were all ages, sizes, and nationalities. Most of the tourists were from large, prosperous cities and, judging from conversations drifting back to me, they had never visited this part of the country before. They had little knowledge of the Southern Appalachian folk and the hardships involved in living in these mountains. Bryson City was thought by some to be a touristy type town with clever shops and gourmet restaurants. I wondered if anyone knew that Bryson City had the highest unemployment rate of the state and was the poorest county seat in North Carolina. The whistle blew several times to clear the tracks, and the train started its journey . The train tracks are laid beside the meandering Tuckaseegee River, and it follows the same trail that the Cherokee Indians took hundreds of years ago in their wanderings on the other side of the mountain ridges. The river was swollen up to its banks from all the recent rains, and the rushing water over lichen-covered rock croppings created large white caps that flashed in the sunlight. The click-clacking train wove in and out between the mountain passes in its route following the flowing water of the roaring river. While the train crossed an old trestle over the river, I held my breath until the train was safely on the other side. Glancing into the deep ravines of tall mountain laurel and rhododendron bushes, I imagined that brown bears must be harboring there. The mountains were fast changing colors, and the tall pines on the ridges were mixed with showy gold birches and red oaks. The sarvis bushes, along with the sumacs, had turned to dark wine. The dogwoods' withered leaves were hanging on their gray branches leaving the red berries for the winter birds. The Leaf Lookers were in their element, and they readied their expensive Japanese cameras with attached zoom lenses for the assault on the mountain landscapes. Every region has its particular colors, and the Leaf Lookers gloried in the shades of this special region as the train traveled through the coves and gaps on its way. There was an unexpected shock as the train passed from the vivid landscape and bright sunshine into pitch darkness. The train had entered a tunnel. The screams of the younger passengers were met with laughter by a few. This was the tunnel that men had lost their lives in while dynamiting through the hard rock mountain. Their bodies had never been recovered, and this tunnel was their tomb. The dark passenger car felt damp. Observing the rock walls as the train crept into the light again, I noticed water dripping down the moss-covered stone walls of the tunnel. An underground stream was also trapped within. At the village of Whittier, a ramshackled , two-storied house was sitting close...

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