Boone Companions

April 12-13

The ride to Boonesborough would finish a trip that I made a few years ago. I had found that Interstate Highways 78 and 81 roughly follow the route that the Boone family took when they moved from Reading, Pa., to somewhere in North Carolina.

The western end of U.S. 58 in Virginia follows a section of the Wilderness Road, which began in North Carolina, crossed southern Virginia and then passed briefly into Tennessee to reach the Cumberland Gap.

The gap was as far I got into Daniel Boone country on that first trip. I wound up heading into Davy Crockett territory and discovered the weird magic of Pigeon Forge and the Smoky Mountains. But that’s another story.

Daniel Boone crossed the gap many times to hunt game in land that the British government had reserved to the Indians. 

Boone had run-ins with Indians from time to time, but nothing too violent.

Then he was hired by the Transylvania Company to widen the trail that runs through the gap into Kentucky. That was the origin of the Wilderness Road. 

Boone led a group of settlers through Cumberland Gap in 1775 and they eventually stopped at a spot beside the Kentucky River, possibly on April Fool’s Day.

I had heard so many fascinating lies about this place and about Boone when I was a kid that it has permanently damaged my mind. When I was about 11, I learned that one of my father’s distant ancestors was a distant relative of Daniel Boone.

Wow, the shock to the system must have lasted a month or more. I walked around referring to Boone as “Uncle Daniel.”

So when I found that there is actually a Fort Boonesborough Park in Kentucky, that determined the direction I’d take on this trip. Once I left Morgantown it was all new territory to me.

Stonewall Jackson Lake, the Kentucky Folk Art Museum at Morehead State University, craft beer—they were all icing. The cake, at least on the first half of the ride, was Boonesborough. Uncle Daniel, I was coming to visit.

When I got to the park, I was almost disappointed. I had seen photos that showed people in a log stockade and period costumes. But I didn’t see any sign of that.

The visitor center was closed so there was no help there. 

What I did see was a stone wall surrounding a coffin-shaped monument. It marked the site of the original fort. 

Nearby is an obelisk with plaques honoring “that gallant band of axemen, pioneers, and Indian fighters who at the risk and loss of life opened the doors of destiny to the white race in Kentucky and the West.” That was put up in 1934.

Not far away is a largely dismantled miniature golf course that still includes a cigar store Indian.

Across the road from the white race monument is a sign marking “Sycamore Hollow.” Sycamores still grow there.

When Boone’s party arrived there they began to build log shelters on the lowest part of the river bank.

Boone was a hunter who camped in this territory all winter long every year and survived. Maybe he had a touch of April Fool Fever when he got here. Who can say? 

He should have known better than to build a permanent camp on what had every appearance of a flood plain.

Col. Richard Henderson, who had organized the venture and had hired Boone, showed up three weeks later on the 20th and insisted the settlement should be built on higher ground a hundred yards or so away.

That’s where the monuments are.

Beyond the Sycamore Hollow today is a campground (on higher ground) that was loaded with trailers and RVs. The store there was open. A lady at the counter explained that the replica fort was up the hill and had a separate entrance. I needed to go back to the highway and turn left.

It was late in the day, but I got to spend an hour there.

It’s a high log stockade with blockhouses at each corner. There are cabins representing homes and displaying tools and crafts. In one blockhouse, a woman in a bonnet was making corn husk dolls. 

In one of the cabins, I startled a lady who had been making candles and had begun her end-of-day cleanup. 

A man who had been with the doll-making lady joined me in another of the blockhouses which was filled with Daniel Boone memorabilia. 

We chatted about that.

Some of the books I had read were there. So were lunchboxes, comic books, records, posters, VHS tapes, and pen knives. Much of it familiar.

Another cabin has historical artifacts. Still another cabin has iron tools. The man briefly demonstrated the use of the wood vise and a treadle lathe.

Both use foot power. Pressing a pedal brings the vise down to hold a workpiece. Pumping the treadle of the lathe pulls a rope that turns the piece being carved. A spring overhead (in this case a flexible length of wood) brings the rope and the treadle up again.

Then he asked if I’d like to toss a tomahawk. God, I’m going to play Daniel Day-Lewis in “Last of the Mohicans.” Sure, I’ll sign a waiver or anything if it lets me throw a tomahawk.

He showed me how to do it: Stand with your right foot forward, bring your right forearm forward to about 10 o’clock, and just open your hand.

He must have shown me well, because the first tomahawk hit the target and stuck. It was laugh-out-loud time.

He taught me well, but I wasn’t as good at remembering. My next three tries were all misses. One hit the axe that was in the target, another didn’t hit the target, and the last hit backwards and bounced off. 

I dunno. Maybe that’s a promising start for somebody from New Jersey.

The fort is about a half hour from Richmond, Ky., where I checked into a La Quinta Inn.  

I had dinner at a local craft beer bar called Madison Garden. The selection was all right but none of it was on draft. 

Well, there was a vanilla porter from a Kentucky outfit, but that’s like a dessert, not a beer. The other taps were mainstream commercial lagers and lights.

I had a few bottles over the course of a couple of hours. Two were from the West 6th brewery in Lexington: an OK amber a little on the light side, and a much better IPA that was nice and bitter with a bit of fragrance.

I had to try one brew because of the name. The bartender, a lady in tattoos, told me it’s a big seller for that reason. The brewer is Country Boy, also in Lexington, and it’s a blond ale called Cougar Bait. It wasn’t too sweet, and that was good, but it was way too light to follow an IPA. 

Truth, a red or amber IPA from Rhinegeist in Cincinnati, had a bit of perfume and a complex flavor. Red IPAs in general are among the most interesting beers that I’ve had.

I checked into the hotel for two nights. I was getting tired of having to pack up every morning and be out by 11 or noon.

It gave me a chance to plan the rest of the trip. I reserved tickets online for two tours at Mammoth Cave. I sorted out my notes and recollections of the previous couple of days, and sent a report on part of them.

Richmond isn’t a big town and I was running short of bars to hop. I wound up for dinner the second night at an Irish bar called the Paddy Wagon. 

I hadn’t eaten all day, so I took the bartender’s suggestion and had the bangers and mash. I needed it. The gravy may have come from a jar for all I know, but it was dark brown and savory.

Go-withs included a stout from West 6th that was good and unexpectedly dry, almost like an Irish stout. 

So that’s how I spent my Friday the 13th. 

Good luck, all.

Harry