The most famous man in the Smokies, as far as visitors are concerned, is
Wiley Oakley. He is called “The Roamin’ Man of the Mountains.” He is 55,
and all his life he has just wandered around through the Smokies.
He is a natural woodsman, with a soul that sings in harmony with the
birds and the trees and the trees and the clouds. His English is
spectacular, and on many things he is as naive as a baby. But on other
things he almost shocks you with his meticulous knowledge.
He has a house in the hills, and a rustic-craft shop in Gatlinburg. Most
of his life he has made a living as guide to hunters, and later to
tourists. There are industrialists by the score in America who worship
at Wiley Oakley’s feet after a few days in the mountains with him.
He is a famous teller of tall tales (but he won’t tell one on Sunday).
He has been on the radio, and on one trip to New York was offered a
contract. It scared him so badly he took the train home without saying
goodbye.
Throughout his wandering, Wiley has dropped past home often enough to
raise a dozen children. They are all grown now, except one.
Wiley himself has run the same cycle as his beloved mountains. In the
beginning they were virginal, untouched, natural. But now they have
become public characters—both the mountains and Wiley—before the curious
eyes of a million people a year.
Maybe they have both been changed a little by it; a little
professionalism has come to them both. But that’s all right. For what
good would the Smokies be, or Wiley Oakley either, if they remained
under a bushel?