My wife and I spent two nights in the North Carolina mountains. She found this awesome new bed 'n' breakfast near the town of Boone. This trip was just the two of us − more accurately: two and a half. Our second son will be born in less than 3 months. This trip was our last chance to get away together for a while. We were celebrating the last days of being the parents of one child. According to the wisdom of Bill Cosby, parents with only one child are not really parents. He has a point. When something breaks, we know who did it.
I've always preferred the mountains over the beach. For the past several years though, I keep finding myself being dragged to the beach. The beach is great except for the bright hot sun, sand, blinding sun, heat, salt-water, and skin burning sun. Also the beach and the land near the beach is f-l-a-t. Flat terrain just depresses me.
Once we got into the mountains, I felt as giddy as toddler watching his chocolate milk being poured into his sippy cup. The air was balmy, breezy, and sweet. The inn was a log-cabin style house perched on a precipice overlooking a beautiful valley. All but the postcard view of the Blue Ridge was shrouded in trees thick with green. After checking in the first thing I did was open the windows, place a chair and foot stool near the windows and gave the scenery my fullest attention. Based on the standards of the modern world, I sat there and did nothing, and it felt wonderful.
I soaked up the air that floated in. I listened to the stream chattering over the rocks below. I looked at the many varied trees on the mountain side. Well, I shouldn't say that I "looked"; that implies action on my part. Rather, I simply opened my eyes and allowed the image to be cast in my direction. A deep pang welled up in me. I thought at first that this longing was borne from the fact that I miss this world. Most of my day is spent encapsulated in manufactured walls; I am a cubical-wight. But this yearning was much heavier than a simple hunger for a rare food. In fact the pangs only grew stronger the more I immersed myself into the Appalachian beauty.
Was it that I would know that I would have to leave in 2 days? Was it that I thought I would never be able to find this again? I knew these were not it. I used to live much closer to the mountains and I would often escape to the land that called to me. The same deep yen was ever present. I feel any description offered would not do it justice. It feels like a love lost. Yet, how can it be lost when I am standing in the middle of it?
Perhaps I am seeing a mere shadow of a greater beauty. My mind loves and is in awe of the beauty it sees, yet my spirit knows there is more, a greater love... beyond anything the mind can grasp. This is God's country.
The next day we went to popular natural attraction called Blowing Rock. It can be described in a variety of ways. The pragmatic: a natural rock formation atop one of the high ridges in the Blue Ridge Mountains. It has attracted tourists for many years for its uniqueness and legends. The brochure: Blowing Rock is a majestic pinnacle of stone that rises out of the Blue Ridge mountains towering over the lush Appalachian beauty below. At its base are gift shops filled with timeless keepsakes. This attraction is made more popular by the Native American legend whose story will certainly tug at your heart strings. However, I found the place to be a garden variety tourist trap.
We turned off the main road thru town, down a short road to a parking lot. Other than the trees bordering the lot, there was no sign of any natural beauty. At the far end of the lot sat a typical early 1900's Federal Park Service style building. It had a "homey" look to it, but was clearly not a domicile. In order to reach or even see the Blowing Rock, we had to pass thru that building, no other choice was available.
On the inside was a gift-shop. ("crap-shop" would be more fitting.) It had all the typical stuff: cheap film, t-shirts relating to the area, t-shirts with droll and cute one-liners having nothing to do with the area, over-priced-ultra-cheap kids toys having nothing to do with unique geologic features or Southern Appalachian culture, and toys and apparel representing Native American tribes that existed over 2000 miles from our location.
We each paid our $6.00 to go out to the rock. I was hoping to find the end of man-made features and the beginning of God made features. I was wrong. The paths were gravel and bordered with water-pipe railings and plants not native to the tops of Blue Ridge mountains. There was a constructed stream and mini-waterfall. The bed of this steam was white concrete. No attempt was made to even pass this off as a natural run of water. There was another gift-shop and a snack shop -- of course you had to enter the pay area to actually buy food. There were concrete and wooden platforms that jutted out from the steep mountains side. On one platform sat two of those hybrid parking-meter/binoculars. Nothing accents natural vistas like tall figures that resemble robots from a bad sci-fi movie. Buried in all this was a large grey rock that stuck out of the ground at about 45 degrees. At its base was a concrete block with a bronze plaque that had a graphic and a story that was probably written by Walt Disney himself. The legend had something to do with a Native American throwing another off that rock only to have the wind blow the person back up. If I am ever curious, I am sure I can find the complete story online. For now I will not burden Google with that request.
Blowing Rock itself looked like a caged lion in a side-show. The paths went behind it, around it, and even under it. There were tourists that milling about. I'm sure my wife and I didn't appear to be any different. People would pass the warning sign and climb out to the pinnacle of the rock to see and be seen. They would have their picture taken in various poses: sitting as if it were a bench, cautiously standing as if the ancient stone were about to move, striking a pose of conquest as if their foot were upon a freshly slain game, et cetera.
Like everyone else, I had my camera out. It was difficult trying to compose a shot that did not include tourists or man-made objects. The longest span of my waiting was due to a woman with an interesting set of priorities. She was upper-middle-aged, dressed for a mall or other indoor "outing", and wore shoes best suited for linoleum or carpet. There was nothing remarkable about her. Her husband was poised to take a picture of her on the apex of the rock. It took her forever to scale the few yards to reach the top. For most it took a combination of walking and climbing. The surface was varied enough, but still worn slick from the thousands of visitors. This Jane Doe however, could not use her hands. She was too busy talking on her cell phone. She would stumble and teeter about as she inched up the surface. The higher she got the more unsure of herself she seemed. Yet she never put that phone down, nor did she allow the conversation to be interrupted. I could not make out her words so it is possible that this conversation was vital to humanity's existence. When she reached the top she very cautiously stood up and smiled at her husband's camera. He took the picture and recorded a cliché American standing atop a formation older than history holding to her head a ubiquitous artifact of our technological age. I doubt it is possible for those that later view this photograph would be able to see a trace of God's country. I also wonder if they would see the juxtaposition of her talking on the phone while standing one step from her death.
I got a shot or two that I wanted. We then took one of the paths that lead below the great rock. It was refreshing to approach the underside of it. It seemed grander that way. As I passed under the looming outcropping, I raised my hand up to it. Without any conscious thought, I wrapped my knuckles on the surface of the stone. I did this no different than if I was furniture shopping and wanted to hear the sound of the wood. Of course, it did not make a sound. I felt just silly doing that. It was as if I was approaching Zeus himself and was asking for directions to the interstate. I got over my embarrassment and then just placed my whole palm on the gneiss surface. I pondered over how I was only touching a tiny fraction of what had to be a giant and ancient batholith. I felt very insignificant.
We returned to the top side again. There were less people around. I watched a couple more make the expected short climb to the peak and have their picture taken. Despite my contempt for all things touristy, I shrugged off my pride and climbed up to the top. The view really was fantastic. And for a second, I did feel like I was on top of the world. Man-made or not, touristy or not, this is all God's country. I turned back to face my wife below. I adjusted my posture and smiled as she took my picture.
J Ian Wilson
5 - july - 2005