The Foothills Corridor:
Forgotten by Design, Fierce by Nature
By James Thomas Shell
Western North Carolina isn’t just mountains and tourist traps. It’s not Asheville’s breweries or Boone’s college kids. There’s a stretch of land here—my Foothills Corridor—that’s been the working backbone of this region for generations. It’s not a name you’ll find on a map, but it’s a region you’ll feel in your bones if you’ve lived it. It runs west of Interstate-85, north of US-74, east of the Blue Ridge Parkway, and south of US-421. This isn’t a city or a county—it’s a way of life, a place defined by its people, its pride, and its quiet struggle.
The Corridor spans towns like Hickory—the heart—alongside Lenoir, Morganton, Marion, Rutherfordton, Newton, Lincolnton, Valdese, Taylorsville, Maiden, Claremont, and Granite Falls. It stretches east to the Yadkin River Valley with Statesville, Mocksville, and Winston-Salem, north along US-421 to North Wilkesboro and Boone, and south to Gastonia, Shelby, and Kings Mountain. These are places built by calloused hands, fueled by mills and factories, and bound by a shared history that’s been overlooked for too long.
A Chosen Land
The Foothills Corridor didn’t happen by accident. The Scots-Irish, Germans, and others from Europe’s old valleys settled here for a reason. They weren’t chasing rugged peaks or coastal sprawl—they wanted balance. East of the Parkway, down the slope of the Blue Ridge, they found a climate and terrain that echoed their homelands: the Piedmont of Italy, the Rhein Valley of Germany, the flatlands of Austria. Fertile soil, gentle hills, four seasons without the brutal isolation of the high country. This was a place to build, not just survive.
They brought a work ethic with them, turning farms into factories—textiles, furniture, tobacco, fiber optics. By the mid-20th century, the Corridor was a quiet industrial powerhouse. Hickory churned out furniture that filled American homes. North Wilkesboro had Holly Farms, a poultry giant that fed the nation. Winston-Salem smoked the country with RJ Reynolds. These weren’t flashy places, but they were vital—the engine room of Western North Carolina.
The Fork in the Road
Then the 1990s hit, and the Corridor slammed into a wall. Global trade deals—NAFTA, WTO—ripped the rug out from under us. Hickory’s furniture plants shuttered as jobs sailed overseas. Textiles followed. Fiber optics couldn’t hold the line. Up north, Tyson bought Holly Farms in ‘89, with Bush-Clinton-era policies favoring megacorps over local roots. It wasn’t just a sale—it was a betrayal that stripped North Wilkesboro of its identity. Tobacco crumbled too, leaving Wilkes County’s small farmers with empty barns and pride that couldn’t pay the bills. Even moonshining—the outlaw economy of the hills—was squeezed out by regulation.
Asheville, once Hickory’s sister city, took a different path. Back in the day, they grew on parallel tracks: modest, working-class towns with steady promise. But when the trade winds shifted, Asheville pivoted—leaning into tourism, arts, and outdoor vibes to become the cosmopolitan darling of the region. Hickory didn’t get that chance. No one handed us a rebrand. We got hollowed out instead. Boone, propped up by a university and ski slopes, drifted toward Asheville’s orbit. Winston-Salem, a bigger mirror of Hickory, scrambles to redefine itself with healthcare and tech, but its outer edges still bleed poverty. North Wilkesboro? Too far off the beaten path, too proud to beg, too broken to bounce back.
The Soul of the Corridor
What ties the Foothills Corridor together isn’t just geography—it’s a way of life. These are working people: factory hands, farmers, grandmothers raising kids on faith and grit. They mow their own grass, fix their own trucks, and pray before dinner. They’re not loud. They don’t march or shout. They show up, day after day, even when the jobs dry up and the promises fade. Church steeples outnumber stoplights here. Independence runs deep—sometimes too deep, like in Wilkes County, where it’s both a badge and a burden.
This isn’t Appalachia proper, with its rugged myths and federal grants. It’s not Charlotte’s urban hum either. It’s a middle ground—literally and figuratively—caught between eras. The Corridor’s towns once thrived on making things you could touch: chairs, clothes, cigarettes, chicken. Now, they’re left with civic fatigue and a quiet dignity no one outside notices. They’re not mountain folk or city people—they’re foothills people, settled where the land was manageable, the seasons made sense, and the work was honest. They weren’t looking for escape—they were looking for stability.
The Forgotten Fight
The Foothills Corridor has been forgotten by design, not by fault. Hickory didn’t collapse because it lacked vision—it collapsed because global trade gutted its base. North Wilkesboro didn’t fade because it gave up—it faded because Tyson and Big Tobacco left it no choice. Winston-Salem stands, but it’s a shadow of what it could be. This is a living region failed by policy, not people. The factories once roared here; now, the silence feels like an insult.
The people deserve better. The factory worker who lost his line job. The young person with no reason to stay but no way to leave. The man with a worn-out toolbox and a voice no one’s asked to hear. They’re not asking for handouts—they’re asking for a fair shot, a seat at the table, a chance to rebuild what was taken. This region doesn’t have a tech hub, a PR firm, or a champion in the legislature. But it has me—and maybe it has you. If you’ve ever looked around and said, “Why does no one care what’s happening here?”—you’re part of the Corridor too.
A Voice for the Future
The Foothills Corridor isn’t just a place—it’s a story. It’s about what happens when hard work meets hard luck, when pride meets neglect. It’s a region overlooked because it doesn’t scream for attention, but it’s fierce by nature. There’s still life here—still talent, still grit. The question is whether anyone’s listening.
I call myself the Spokesperson for the Forgotten, rooted in the heart of the Foothills Corridor. This isn’t about me—it’s about us. From Hickory’s mills to North Wilkesboro’s hollowed streets, from Winston-Salem’s fringes to Lenoir’s quiet corners, this is our turf. West of I-85, east of the Parkway, north of 74, south of 421—it’s not on a tourist map, but it’s on mine. We’re the backbone. We’re the builders. We’re the people who stay.
We’re not shouting from podiums. We’re speaking from the ground—where the real work happens, where the real people live. We’ve been forgotten, but we’re not gone. We’re not done. This is our voice, and I’m here to make sure it’s heard.
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Shell Cooperative Notes:
“If you want to follow my work, you can find me on the Hickory Hound blog and the Hickory Hound YouTube channel.
Follow me on X at @Hickory Hound. Back when all of the censorship was going on and the lawfare and such, I kept getting these 24 hour bans and got a 72 hour ban and had to erase some really mundane stuff to appease my San Francisco critics. I wear that as a badge of honor. Well I dropped the Twitter Channel and lost all of my connections there. So if you are on X formerly Twitter, please give me a follow,
Patreon is coming soon, and I’ll be sharing more details as that gets finalized.
Feel free to shoot me an email anytime at HickoryHoundFeedback@gmail.com—I do read what comes in. And if you stop by YouTube, please like and subscribe—it really does help more folks see what we’re talking about here.
The Paperback cookbook “A Book of Seasons” is hopefully going to available in a couple of days. You know I am doing this all myself, but AI is assisting me. The spine of the book has to be perfect and I was a little off.
So I gathered and collated all of this stuff and all of my life I have had to procure everything, prep it, cook it, assemble it, and deliver the product and yeah I have to tell people what it is.
When you go through life and have to
do about everything yourself… well it will wear you down sometimes… when things
don’t go like you want because of stupid mistakes when you get in too much of a
hurry and the perfect little people in their perfect little worlds decide to
cut you down… Well that’ll leave you a little jaded.
Heck… The first person that says I ever said I was perfect is a dishonest
person. I just try to survive… too live to fight another day
And after I should have died in that car wreck back on September 27th, I try not to take my days for granted, because not a day goes back that those moments during that wreck don’t flash before my eyes.
I’ll be honest… I haven’t done a great job promoting this project over the years. Self-promotion has never come naturally to me—but I believe the information matters, and it’s time I start sharing it right.
I appreciate your time, your attention, and your willingness to hear things that don’t always get said. I’ll see you next time.”
