On the night before Thanksgiving in 1915, a group of 15 men boarded a bus in the parking lot of Atlanta's Posh Piedmont Hotel. November 1915.

The bus set out down rough roads moving east. These men had been summoned by their new leader,

William Joseph Simmons. Previously, Simmons had been a Methodist minister, but he'd recently

set his ambitions on something new, something bigger. That's what tonight was about.

As the men traveled beyond the Atlanta city limits, the bus rumbled through the darkened streets of the small town of Decatur. And after Decatur,

their destination came into view. Stone Mountain. I've told you about Stone Mountain before.

It's a single, oddly shaped mountain that rises up out of otherwise flat land, about 15

miles east of Atlanta.

A giant hunk of granite, sort of in the shape of a turtle shell.

Back then, it was privately owned, but today it's a state park. You can hike to the top

in about an hour. When the men arrived at the base of Stone Mountain, it was late, around 10 p.m.

As they shuffled off the bus, they were struck by a cold winter wind. Tall pine trees

rose all around them, total darkness. Being so far from

Atlanta, there was no electricity out here. With flashlights in hand, they began their hike.

Step by step, the train of men slowly made their way up the steep and rocky face of Stone Mountain.

Few words were spoken. This was a solemn occasion. The men, now breathing heavily, had a general idea of their purpose that night,

but only William Joseph Simmons knew the details. Earlier in the day, he'd prepared the scene.

As the men approached the summit of the mountain,

they could now look back over their shoulders to the west

and barely make out the lights of downtown Atlanta in the distance.

At Stone Mountain's highest point, the terrain flattens out.

The top of Stone Mountain is strange, not a lot of vegetation or soil,

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