Ambrose never did decide what to do with The Pike. He only visited it twice after that- the clouds of war over Europe and the Pacific made any decision about what to do with his folly in Alabama seem completely superfluous, and Sunday, December 7th, 1941 put the nail in the coffin of any thought of opening The Pike to the general public. His son-in-law had quietly contacted the United States Department of War to inquire if they could use it in any way, but other than ordering a fence erected around the site no decision was ever made. It sat there behind a tall metal fence in the middle of “nowhere northern” Alabama, forgotten in the daily confusion of a world at war.
Ambrose Meredith Bunting II died on May 19th, 1943 from a heart attack. He had no warning, and didn’t suffer. A few months later his son Anthony was declared missing in action in France, leaving behind no heirs, and Meredith was busy taking care of her mother, who had developed what would now be called early-onset dementia, possibly exacerbated by the loss of her husband and son within a year. After her mother’s death in 1945, Meredith and her husband and son moved to Rhode Island, to be closer to his Vanderbilt family, and they all mostly forgot about her father’s huge, expensive, totally useless playground, now fenced off from intruders, covered with ivy, hidden behind trees and masked by thick overgrowth. Even the locals forgot about it.
The Pike was swallowed up by nature, an unmourned victim of World War II.
An aerial surveyor was flying over the dense overgrowth that made up much of what was now the property of the Americana Land Company. This section had nothing planned for it, other than to be left as a wildlife sanctuary. It was too far away from the site of the new theme park that was being built to be of any value other than as a buffer from outside development.
“What the hell is that?” the pilot said as they approached a huge, towering mound of ivy and what looked to be some trees growing hundreds of feet higher than they should have been.
“I have no idea,” his co-pilot said. They flew around this bizarre growth, hundreds of feet taller than the surrounding forest. They could see something metallic reflecting through the greenery. “Maybe it’s a radio tower? Wasn’t there some abandoned army base around here from World War II?”
“That must be it,” the pilot said. “The map said something like, ‘military zone- restricted,’ but when we checked with the local army reserve office they didn’t have any records of it. The Americana Land Company claimed possession of it based on the property being abandoned.”
“Look down there, at the bottom of that tower,” the co-pilot said as they circled around the area. “There was something down there, something big. Look how you can see straight lines where the trees are growing on something, like buildings.”
“It looks like pictures I saw in National Geographic when they discovered those cities down in Central America.”
“You mean the Mayans?” the co-pilot asked. “They didn’t come this far north...did they?”
“I don’t know,” the pilot said, “but we won’t find the answer up here. They’ll need to send a land team in to check it out. Have you got our GPS coordinates marked?”
“Yep. It should be no problem for the ground teams to get here and figure out what’s down there.”
Looking at the thick green undergrowth of the forest beneath them, the pilot said, “We’d better tell them to bring their machetes. They’re going to need them to chop through that mess.”
The ground crews needed their machetes- and chainsaws and GPS trackers and several days to carve their way through the dense overgrowth permitted by decades of abandonment. They discovered the perimeter fence, the one the U.S. Army installed to protect the new training base that they never actually used. Once they cut their way through the fence and discovered what was behind it, the ground surveyors realized that what they had found was no abandoned army base. It was not a long lost Mayan city, or anything they had ever seen before, but they got their first clue when they nearly walked into a solid brick wall, painted bright red underneath the thick covering of ivy that cloaked it. They followed the wall southeastward (which they could only know by using their compasses) until they came across what looked to be a huge, golden arch, almost completely obscured by the thick blanket of ivy. They pulled aside as much vegetation as they could, and discovered two things- first, a doorway, leading into what must be a huge building, and second, a plaque on the wall, darkly tarnished by years of exposure to the elements but still legible (after some brushing off of layers of dirt and ivy roots).
After a few moments of stunned silence, one of the surveyors quietly said, “Either we’re in the Land of the Lost, or this isn’t supposed to be here.”
The newly-discovered Pike was located nearly three miles from the site of Americana 1900. A massive exploration and stabilization project was started to uncover this lost world’s fair, nearly on the doorstep of a theme park dedicated to America’s history. Some of the buildings were in remarkably good shape- the overgrowth had caused some minor structural and cosmetic damage, but nothing that couldn’t be repaired, and had actually protected much of the infrastructure. Others didn’t handle the passing of the years and the ravages of the elements quite as well. Interestingly, the older structures had survived the abandonment of all those decades better than the “newer” buildings. Regardless, The Pike that A.M. Bunting II had created was still there- forgotten, overgrown, but still there. It was as if The Americana Land Company had been gifted a city from nearly exactly the era of their park! How lucky could they be?
"How unlucky can we be?” Blaine Hinkley, one of the main designers of Americana 1900 moaned as the design team met to evaluate the discovery.
“Why?” one of the other designers asked him, not expecting this response.
“It’s three miles away from the rest of the park! How are we going to get people over there? We’ve already started construction on Americana- we can’t just move everything three miles!”
“Why not?” A stranger stood in the doorway of their meeting room, a man dressed in an obviously expensive, tailor-made suit, wearing a navy blue silk tie and perfectly-shined black shoes.
“Who are you?” Blaine asked, surprised that a total stranger had somehow gained access to this facility and had just walked into this meeting.
“The name’s Andrew Bunting Vanderbilt,” he said, entering the room and taking a seat at the table. “I’m the owner of The Pike.”
The room got deathly silent, then someone said, “I thought it had been abandoned by the Army during World War II and the Americana Land Company acquired it.”
“Yes, well, there’s been some confusion about its ownership, but if you want to call Charles Cambridge, the Chairman of the Board of the Americana Land Company, I’m sure he’ll confirm my claim.” He didn’t seem especially arrogant, just very confident in himself. Perhaps it was the name Vanderbilt that lent him an air of importance- and the smell of money.
“I think I’ll do that,” Blaine said, reaching for his phone...and realizing that he had absolutely no idea how to directly contact the Chairman of the Board. Fortunately for his pride, Jack Cahill, the creator and Founder of Americana 1900, chose that moment to come into the conference room.
“Andy, you beat me here!” Jack said, coming over and shaking his hand. He then grabbed a chair and asked people to move over so he could sit next to Mr. Vanderbilt. More than one of the half-dozen members of this design team sat there stunned, a bit overwhelmed, and in Blaine’s case completely embarrassed.
“Did you tell them?” Jack asked Andy.
“Yes, and I think I got them a little bit excited,” he said, smiling at a noticeably red-faced Blaine.
“Everyone,” Jack said, addressing the team, “I’m sorry I didn’t have a chance to tell you about this. We just found out about it ourselves yesterday. In case you’re wondering, Andy here really is the owner of The Pike. Andy, do you want to explain the story to them, or should I?”
“Let me tell them,” Andy said. “I’ve heard about your explanations, and I have a plane to catch back to Philadelphia in four hours.” Jack laughed, the only one in the room to do so. Everyone else was still confused.
Andy explained the history of the creation of The Pike and how it found its way to northern Alabama- and into the middle of Americana Park. Andy had inherited the property upon his mother’s death, but it had been so long since anything had happened with the property that everyone had forgotten about it- except for Andy. He remembered it, more like a vague childhood memory than an actual place, but when he started getting legal notices about property transfers, eminent domain and the building of some kind of amusement park nearby, he had his lawyers do some research to find out whatever happened to that vague childhood memory he had of a special place down south that his grandfather had created.
“And that’s how Andy Vanderbilt owns The Pike,” Jack jumped in, “but not for long. He’s agreed to sign it over to Americana for a small sum and a place on the Board.” Andy and Jack looked at each other, and everyone in the room knew that the “small sum” was probably an understatement with lots of zeros after it.
“Mr. Vanderbilt,” Blaine said, having regained his composure, “when you first got here and I said we can’t just move it three miles, you asked, ‘Why not?’ What did you mean by that? Are you serious?”
“Completely serious,” he told him. “Every one of those buildings has been moved already, from wherever they were built to where they are now. They can be moved again.”
“And they’re going to have to be,” Jack added. “We’ve got some long-range plans for that area, and having a collection of original world’s fair buildings, some over a hundred years old, doesn't quite fit into the plan.”
“What are you- I mean we- going to do with them?” a rather Goth-looking woman designer with a faint German accent asked.
Jack stood up and went over to the map of Americana 1900 that hung on the wall. He took a black marker from a table next to it, drew a large rectangle directly beside State Fair, and said, “We’re going to put it right here.”
“Oh my gosh,” a designer named Johnathan Havoc, a man who rarely used God’s name except when praying, whispered. “We’re adding another Township to Americana 1900.”
“Yep, and it’s going to be magnificent,” Jack stated confidently.
“Jack, Mr. Vanderbilt,” David Branson, a designer from Denver who had enough personal confidence that speaking directly to someone named Vanderbilt didn’t bother him, asked, “have you seen those buildings? They only have the overgrowth off of half of them so far. Some are in fairly decent condition, but others are ready to fall down. I’m not sure they can handle a strong wind, let alone being picked up and moved three miles.”
“Have you ever heard of AEDOC?” Andy asked David.
“I’ve heard of it,” David said, sounding a bit hesitant as if he was about to get caught not having done his homework in school.
“Do you know what the letters stand for?”
“Uh, American Exploration and…” he tried to work out the name from the letters, but Andy stopped him.
“American Exposition Design and Ornamentation Corporation,” Andy said, rescuing him from any further embarrassment. “My grandfather founded the company in 1893. We did the original construction of most of those buildings, and we moved them all to Alabama. Saint Anthony Construction out of San Antonio is building most of Americana 1900, right?” he asked Jack, who nodded in agreement. “AEDOC is taking charge of The Pike. It’s a lot more specialized than what you’re doing in the rest of the park. AEDOC will disassemble the buildings that my grandfather moved here, save as many as we can, replace the rest with whatever this design team chooses…”
“With my approval,” Jack added quickly.
“Yes, with Jack’s approval,” Andy chuckled, then continued, “and we’ll build your new land.”
“Township,” Jack corrected him. Andy looked at Jack, a bit confused. “Township. We call them ‘Townships’ in Americana 1900.” The designers all suppressed smiles- Jack’s penchant for using the right word to describe the different areas in Americana was famous in the design and construction worlds that were building “America’s Grand New Theme Park,” as the publicists were pushing out to the general public.
“Township,” Andy said. “Right. Anyway, we move what we can to the new site, fill in the gaps where we need to, and in a year or so you have another…” he looked at Jack, and pointedly said, “...Township, better than new.”
“But what about what’s going inside the buildings?” someone asked. “I heard they’re all empty.”
“They are,” Jack said, “and that's all for the better. We don’t have to throw out any moldy display cases from a hundred years ago. We get these brand new...well, not really new, but partially new...anyway,” (and he turned to share his excitement with Andy) “we’re lining up some corporate sponsors for some attractions, and my senior design team here is going to come up with some terrific ideas to utilize them in brand new ways. It’s gonna be great!” Jack practically gushed with his enthusiasm for the potential greatness of The Pike.
“And that’s why we’re going to move it,” Andrew Bunting Vanderbilt said simply.
And they did...at least they moved what they could.
Not every building was relocated. A few were not moved for several reasons. Some were too badly deteriorated to be salvageable. Others were not especially important, either architecturally or historically. One, everyone agreed, was just plain ugly (“I have no idea why Grandpa liked it,” Andy said honestly.) Those that were not restored and moved were replaced with replicas of other buildings, some of which AEDOC had constructed over their decades of exposition and other architectural design work, while others were not exposition buildings but were still of historic or architectural importance. As much as possible, though, materials from the original Pike structures were used in their ornamentation, or as decorative features in the Sunken Gardens that filled the center of The (new) Pike.
Jack and Andy stood silently on the balcony terrace atop the Transportation Building, now called St. Louie’s Ragtime Music Hall, and gazed upon The Pike. It was, as a contemporary once tried to describe the Louisiana Purchase Exposition in St. Louis, “indescribably beautiful.” The soaring spire of the Electric Tower; the wedding cake ornamentation of the San Francisco City Hall dome, balanced precariously atop the steel framework that had survived the San Francisco Earthquake (not part of Grandpa Bunting’s original Pike, but still a breathtaking sight); the massive, rustic yet majestic Forestries Building standing a thousand feet away, anchoring the south end of The Pike (and now housing the loading station of the largest scenic railway/roller coaster in the world). Acres of dazzlingly-beautiful flowerbeds and fountains filled the Sunken Gardens that stretched from one end of The Pike to the other, and the centerpiece of the entire visual experience? An elephant. A six-story tall elephant, a recreation of “Lucy,” an architectural folly from a seaside resort in New Jersey that Andy’s own six-year-old grandson Jackson had seen in a book and insisted would be fun to have in the middle of the Township...and he was right, just like Jackson’s grandfather Andrew Bunting Vanderbilt had been right on that warm July day in 1941 when his own grandfather asked him that fateful question.
“Andrew, what do you think we should do with it?”
“Can I bring my friends to see it?”