A Secret Cigar in the Blue Ridge Mountains

I was recently in Cashiers, North Carolina, for a meeting at a private summer club. If you’re not Southern or a deep-pocketed golfer who keeps a Top 100 course list in your wallet, you probably don’t know about this delightful little town in the Blue Ridge Mountains.

Located two and a half hours from Atlanta, Cashiers and its neighboring towns are where wealthy Southerners have been summering for the past century. When it’s ninety-six degrees and the air is stale in Atlanta, it’s in the mid-seventies and breezy in these hilltop villages where golf reigns supreme.

Bobby Jones hit the ceremonial first shot at Highlands Country Club in 1928, but there’s also Wade Hampton Golf Club, founded by members of Augusta National, and picture-perfect Mountaintop Golf & Lake Club, all with six-figure initiation fees. Several other private clubs grace the area as well.

Natural beauty abounds, homes are in the millions, and it’s a mecca for outdoor pursuits, be it fly fishing, mountain biking, or hiking. And if you’re into waterfalls, they are E V E R Y W H E R E. During the off-season, these bucolic enclaves have populations under 1,000; in neighboring Highlands, there’s just one K-12 school.

Anyway, I had lunch with a gentleman who, like me, enjoys cigars. We spoke for two hours while I enjoyed views of a tranquil lake and a mountainside covered in fall foliage. I felt like I was living inside the pages of Southern Living.

I was given a cigar hand-rolled by a fourth-generation Cuban cigar maker. If you’re into cigars, you know there’s a “feel” to them. Smoke long enough, and your fingertips instantly recognize craftsmanship. It’s the same in the haberdashery trade when sorting through fabrics. Good cigars have a distinctive feel: not too tight, silky, but brawny. Suffice it to say, my fingers knew what they were holding.

The next day, I sat on the porch with Hunter Thompson’s Gonzo Diary, Vol. II and gently lit this work of art. I’ve smoked a LOT of cigars, and my taste buds can sense the depth of the ensuing love affair within seconds. But with this stick, I was ready for a full-blown affair! I’ve been loyal to Davidoff, Ashton, and Rocky Patel, but it’s time to kick them to the curb and give these babies a key to my house.

So, this obviously leads to the question: who makes this cigar? And that, my friend, is a secret. Why, you ask? Well, it comes down to economics. You may not believe me—frankly, I wouldn’t if I were told what I’m about to tell you—but they cost five dollars.

Yeah…five bucks. Hand-rolled by a fourth-generation Cuban. They taste exquisite and burn symmetrically for an hour. I’d have no problem paying $25 for one—none at all! But they’re only five dollars.

All I’ll say is this: they’re for sale in the mountains of western North Carolina. That’s it. I can’t say more because cigar aficionados would buy them all. Since they’re made by one man, I can’t let the cat out of the bag. I just can’t—I’m sorry. In fact, I promised the gentleman who gave it to me that I’d keep it a secret.

This is the honey hole, and if you’re a fisherman, you know good and damn well these things must be kept a secret. That said, if we ever play golf, I’ll bring a few and spill the beans—but it’s got to be a Top 100 course.