north carolina
You once told me that I should live here. I’m not sure if you were concerned about my happiness or you wanted to be rid of me. I heard your voice in the mountains. It’s where you came from, and I feel as though it’s where I belong.
I drove South to Mt Pisgah, but my modern attachment to technology failed me miserably. I found myself on a dirt road, only to find the end with a DEAD END and a malicious looking handwritten sign that read “THIS IS NOT THE ROAD TO MT. PISGAH”. Already out of signal range, I slowly found my way back to a road that at least was paved and had lines on it. I kept driving on a hope and a prayer that it would lead me somewhere. I drove up a tiny, twisted, and seemingly endless road buried deep within the forest. I spotted a sign for the Blue Ridge Parkway and I meandered on. I looked over to my side and saw the most beautiful sight- miles and miles of blue and gray mountains with the colors of fall already sprouting in the trees. My first reaction was nothing more than a profaned “holy fucking shit”. I stopped at a secluded overlook. I stumbled out of my car and collapsed onto the soft ground and started crying. How lucky we live in a world with mountain top roads. How lucky we live in the South, with all of its idiosyncrasies, that can provide such a scene.
There is a definitive sound that comes from the mountains, more so there’s a storied silence at 6,000 feet. Mt. Mitchell is the highest point in North Carolina; it was a 5 mile drive north even from the crest of the Blue Ridge Mountains. It was a good 15 degrees cooler up there, and my southern comfort to temperature hasn’t waned from 75 degrees. I drove away from the crowds and found myself in a secluded area with nothing but a few picnic tables and dead trees.
It was nothing but silence. The wind was blowing, yet somehow it made no noise. It’s the most welcome and solitary feeling. Time didn’t exist, and I don’t remember how long I stayed. It’s a feeling that I want to chase- the sounds of the mountains.
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.