My younger brother and I go camping, well, whenever we can. We have been to the Appalachian mountains of North Carolina, to Santee lake in South Carolina, and some other places in between. He purchased a new boat, a Tahoe, a few years back. He was anxious to take it somewhere close to his home in Greensboro before we took it on a full camping trip.
So he checked a few places online near there. And then drove to this place called Badin Lake. It's a beautiful hydroelectric-dammed lake in the Uwharrie Mountains in the North Carolina Piedmont region. He landed his boat and checked it out. And loved it.
He called me later that evening and it was on. That was our next camping destination. He mentioned there were some islands out there too. We love island camping. So you're pretty much assured of no rednecks or dirty hippies camping next to you.
Well, we went camping. We landed the boat, loaded the boat, got a beer and away we went. Island searching a bit. We were pushed for time, so we were limited in our search to the main body of the lake. We found a very small island and made camp on the hill. A term, my Dad had coined for us from his military days when he camped with us.
The next day as usual, after fire, coffee and breakfast, (yes in that order as it was friggin' cold), we tooled around in the new boat and explored our surroundings. Plenty to do. Descent fishing. Short drive. Although we are more into catfishing now, and haven't landed one yet here, they ARE here. "Our new heaven on Earth."
We started camping there, thereafter. We took his kids on the next one, invited our youngest brother and our Mom and some friends from time to time. We started learning about the area and its history. One particular story caught both of our, interest. Though not well documented, here is the short version of the local folklore that goes on about it.
One night during WWII, two pilots from the area were flying this plane during the war to another base somewhere to get it ready for duty. Apparently they had girlfriends too. They decided to circle the area around the lake (as that was where their girlfriends and their families were from too, and "tip" the wings to them in this BIG-ASS bomber plane. The weather was pretty bad. So as you can guess, this didn't work out too well. They crashed. Into the deepest part of the lake: Right before the dam. It gets to depths of over two hundred feet there and the water is absolutely some of the murkiest there is. Not to mention the remnants of some trees that were down there when they flooded this valley.
The military and several other private groups since then have tried to recover this monster and the bodies with no luck. Now, not to be gross, but some of the state's largest catfish live here. So finding the bodies was hopeless. But this plane is huge. Most accounts say it ripped into pieces when it hit. Then the submerged trees, which are by now hard as rock, took care of the rest. All they have found so far are a few seats and some gear, etc.
Of course, my brother and I have searched the woods near the crash site looking for anything to no avail. But it's fun and leaves some wonder to the imagination about the place. Even a sense of mystique that we camp in a special place.
Some links to look up: Salisbury Post Small Mention, The History. The rest came from talking to folks around the area when we came there. Some are quite angry about it and will not talk. That's their sons that died, you know?
