wigs and mountain tops

Moths flutter noiselessly around the lights attached to the roof of the wooden wrap-around porch while the sound of the cricket’s and cicada’s raspy overture floats along the chilly evening breeze. Lights twinkle cheerily through the trees. But best of all, the smooth roll of Blue Ridge is unfolding before me in glorious spectrum. The massive mounds of earth slice into the fading sky, making it seem as if it’s just us, our rented log cabin, and the mosquitoes. In the middle of nowhere.

Montagnes. Mountains. The word would have the same meaning in any language.  It means winding roads, steep cliffs, beautiful glades, and views that take your breath away, tearing it from you, twisting it around, and carrying it off into the sunshine like crisp autumn leaves, or a certain wig that a strange neighbor that you don’t particularly like gave to you as a birthday present. 

 

Grandfather Mountain was, in a word, incredible. After strutting across the swinging, mile-high bridge, we scrambled along the top of the craggy cliff top. To the left and below, the winding road curled around like a lock of light blonde hair with highlights down the mountain. To the right, the ledge jutted out and disappeared in the grey, foggy, nothingness. 

Mile-high bridge

 

After walking down the trail to the parking lot while mom and dad drove with the little ones, and having an incredible encounter with a certain white tale doe and her fawn, we endeavored to undertake the Black Rock trail. I must say, it was quite a feat to behold, taking a hike with two three-year-olds, but it was worth it. There were viewpoints along the trail where you had to cling to the cable like a monkey and pull yourself along a ginormous boulder. To the panorama no words or pictures could do justice. But I will say that Marianne’s words for Sense and Sensibility came to mind:

“Is there any felicity in the world superior to this?”

Blowing rock was, although fun, a bit mediocre. I think the legend-person who jumped off like a million years ago died…there was not enough gust to support a very light feather- let alone a full-grown warrior…but that’s just a matter of opinion. The town of blowing rock was pleasant. So different from back home. Shops and cute cafés line Main Street. Residents congregate in the park and content customers loiter on cast iron benches as they happily slurp their pastel ice cream cones. 

For some reason, we always seem to gravitate towards mountains as our get-away. For some people, it’s the coast they turn to as refuge from life’s craziness, for others it’s the hustle and bustle of big cities they enjoy. But for us as a family (I mean, I think I’d enjoy anything), and I’m sure for many other people, we seem to feel closer and more at home when we’re in danger of slipping and plummeting off a cliff, or when we’re lying on our stomachs on a precipice, holding our faces out over the edge to feel the exhilarating breeze. Or when we’re standing a mile high at the top of a mountain; shut out from the rest of the world in a foggy cloud.

But good dreams eventually come to an end, and we begin descending the winding roads. Let the cow counting begin.