I had meticulously planned for a road trip through Arkansas, as I’m trying to get to all 50 states. Plans fell through, however, with a family emergency and I had to plan on being in West Virginia during that weekend. I shrugged off my vacation, thinking that I would stay home and get some stuff done, but the bug bit a few days prior to the trip and I took off on my own.
Where to, was the question. The quickest route to WV was straight through Kentucky, but that wasn’t something I was interested in. I needed the mountains, which is something I’ve been craving more and more recently. Luckily, the Smokies are only a three hour drive.
I spent the afternoon chasing mountain tops. It was a drive I had done only once before, but it’s strange familiarity made it seem like home. Everywhere was speckled in brown and yellow, and the closer I got to the top, the more insignificant I felt. The road twisted up the side; gaps in the trees provided fleeting glances of the mountain, as if we were all driving straight into them. I spent the afternoon chasing the light as I reached the top; chasing some kind of dream of the idea of home that I have.