State thirty-one. North Carolina.
The Franklin Terrace Bed and Breakfast was built in 1887 as a school, which Paul the owner-chef confirmed over breakfast, along with the history of the building changing hands and the unit next door that he doesn’t rent because the soundproofing situation is a work in progress. Nine rooms in the main building, a detached cottage where I was staying, busy most of the year and very busy in fall going into Christmas. He mentioned that some of the staff have found gemstones in the driveway. Franklin sits on some of the richest gem deposits in the state, which explains both the ruby drop on New Year’s Eve and the improbable concentration of jewelry stores on a main street this size.
He cooked breakfast. I stayed forty-five minutes after finishing it, talking. That’s the review.
The Waterfall Plan
The itinerary for the day was ambitious: Kuza Falls about eight miles out, then Dry Falls, then Bridal Veil Falls, then a possible detour to Silver Run Falls near Cashiers, then Toxaway Falls, then the drive to Highlands. Six stops, two counties, one short January day with light that disappears around five.
The first rule of travel itineraries: they will change. The second rule: be okay with that.
What I can tell you is that the stretch of road between Franklin and Highlands in early January, with light snow still on the higher ridgelines and clouds building in the afternoon, is exactly the kind of drive that reminds you why you do this. The waterfalls in this part of North Carolina are the real thing — Bridal Veil Falls runs directly over a road you can drive through, which delights every part of my brain simultaneously. Dry Falls drops sixty-five feet into a gorge and has a trail that takes you behind the curtain of the falls themselves, which I filed under “impossible to photograph adequately but worth every second.”
I said at some point during the day that I need to do this drive in the fall. I mean it. Put it on the list.
Highlands
The town of Highlands sits at about 4,100 feet and has the energy of a place that knows exactly what it is — an enclave of significant money, significant scenery, and a police presence that I noted as the most concentrated I’d seen in thirty-one states. Charming, expensive, well-maintained, and apparently determined to stay that way.
I checked into a place called The Outpost — a taxidermied deer head in the room, which I photographed and texted to Denise who was back in West Palm Beach keeping an eye on Penny. The deer and the room are the kind of thing that is either charming or alarming depending on your relationship with taxidermy. I landed somewhere in the middle.
The drone tried to go up when I arrived and a pink and orange sunset was doing something worth documenting over the ridge. The wind had other plans. I aborted, brought it back, and went to find dinner instead.
Corey and Courtney from Clemson
At dinner I ended up talking to a couple who introduced themselves as being from Clemson but living in Greenville. Both C names, both beginning with C, I’m fairly confident on Corey and Courtney but I wrote it down at the time and naturally can’t find it now.
They were there with their kids, overheard what I was doing, and we talked through most of the meal. He’d worked with a law firm overseeing construction of a new lodge in the Greenville area. They’d stayed at the Hampton Inn in Greenville on some meaningful occasion — wedding night or rehearsal dinner or close enough. They gave me recommendations for where to go.
They subscribed to the channel before we left. I hope the videos hold up.
This is the thing about dinner at a small table in a mountain town. You talk to people. You find out things about the next stop on your route from someone who has been there. You leave with a shorter list of wrong turns. That’s worth more than any itinerary I’ve printed.
Tomorrow
Greenville, South Carolina. The drive takes me out of the mountains and back toward the piedmont. There may be rain. There will be a Hampton Inn where a couple from Clemson apparently spent a meaningful evening, which is the kind of coincidence that travel keeps producing.
More on all of this later.
