The Smokies Only Dude Ranch
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Maybe it was the small, closely-knit communities we passed through on our way to French Broad Outpost Ranch that told us we had ventured back in time—the ones that sold handmade Indian blankets and produce from small wooden buildings that clearly needed attention but more than made up for it in ambiance. Communities where folk still walked down town and met outside the barber shop on a rusty old bench to gossip and talk about the weather.
Everyone waved to my girlfriend and me as if they knew our names—not from systematic reaction, but in a sincere, simple way.
But it wasn't until we passed the green draw bridge that was shrugging off paint like a piece of whittled wood in an old man's hand that our epiphany had come true. We crossed some cosmic time barrier into the simple Deep Southern life where the Smoky Mountains bellowed campfire fragrances of burning poplar and beech in a misty fog that lowered its tentacle-like fingers down the range and settling into the valleys.
White-capped mountains towered over us as we snaked down the dirt road toward the ranch. To the left was an elevated train-track, which we later found out was still guiding trains every few hours. The train pulled 49 cars of cargo.
On the right, the French Broad River swiftly passed by, untouched by time, seemingly peaceful and beautiful and housing more memories then anything unable to tell the stories should.
The trees opened their arms at the end of the road, revealing a rustic four building complex that looked sleepy and peaceful, as if an artist had brushed a replica of a gold-rush town. Behind the office stood two buildings butted against the side of a mountain. One of the buildings contained a dining hall on the first floor that transformed into a square dance floor later at night and the second floor was a saloon, complete with barstools made from horse saddles.
Cool mountain air makes you sleep great at French Broad Outpost.
The building to the left of the dining hall housed the sleeping quarters for the weary traveler. There were four rooms in the building, each with bunk-beds and a main bed with head-board and foot-board made of wood.
A black and white cat scurried in front of us as we pulled up to the office, holding a prize in the form of a field mouse in its lips.
The smell of the wooden building illuminated our ideas of a peaceful weekend as ranch owner, Shawn Gannon greeted us in traditional fashion—firm handshake and smile peering past a cowboy hat attached by a long dangling string that hung down his chest. His was old-worldly and simple with a Confederate-style ten button shirt, jeans and boots that rapped of golden days when the spurs jingled as he walked, but yet educated and understanding of people and personalities other than his own.
His wife charmed the area she walked in with a vibrant smile and soft spoken voice that made the whole experience feel more like a visit to distant relatives than a two-day squat around strangers.
Dinner was said to be at 6 p.m., so with a few hours to kill, we dropped our bags by the room, grabbed some amazingly large carrots and headed out to the numerous fenced in areas where over 50 Arabian horses were kept.
The horses were amazingly tame and trained to the sight of the carrots as they all converged, heads stuck over the fence praying for a taste. They were a collage of colors and sizes and mainly female.
Surprisingly free, our walk never uncovered a closed door or keep out sign, but it did reveal some very friendly goats and dogs, one hobbling on a bad leg, but curiously pouncing forward looking for a good rub behind the ears.
We rendezvoused at the dining hall after the dinner bell was sounded, where we all sat down at the same table and stared at a feast of food. I learned Shawn was vegetarian and had been since the early '80s. "I don't believe in killing animals and eating them," he said frankly, as he rolled what looked like soy meatballs onto his plate.
The other workers of the ranch were introduced to us. Jade, the 18-year-old fellow that another guest had so correctly stated his looks as a carbon copy of Billy the Kid, grinned and tipped his hat in a shy manner—spoon full of food. Jade, I later learned, hailed from Texas and had spent more of his teenage years traveling the country during the summer and working at various ranches.
Our cook, Scott, was from Colorado and made the most amazing homemade bread I had ever tasted.
There were two other couples on that evening, one from Kentucky who owned a few horses and was living the cowboy dream but was there as a Valentines Day present to the husband. The other couple was lively and exuberant, neither being an avid rider but served as comic relief the whole weekend.
We retired to our respective rooms after dinner—all couples tired from their drive and ready to wake up in the morning and ride some horses.
Breakfast was at 8 a.m., consisting of eggs, bacon and biscuits. Shawn told us he started the ranch because he couldn't part with any of the horses he had and after acquiring so many, the ranch came to him as a means of financing the upkeep on the horses.
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John Ross, Jetsetters Magazine Correspondent – Read Jetsetters Magazine at www.jetsettersmagazine.com To book travel visit Jetstreams.com at www.jetstreams.com and for Beach Resorts visit Beach Booker at www.beachbooker.com
About the Author
John Ross, Jetsetters Magazine Correspondent. Join the Travel Writers Network in the logo at www.jetsettersmagazine.com Leave your email next to the logo for FREE e travel newsletter.