Appalachian Fall

I begin to cry; the natural beauty overwhelms me. Driving along the Blue Ridge Parkway south of Asheville, the mountains are like trusted blankets, whose gentle folds of gold and scarlet stretch across the Appalachian landscape. I imagine there is a kitten underneath, scampering and causing the rounded peaks , the oldest in the world, to rise. They remind me of their gentle cousins to the North—the Catskills, whose rounded peaks of bluish hue are like hunched over men, growing old together in the sky. I’d drive along the Blue Ridge paved road that winds through many tunnels along its 400 mile route. As I need the warnings to turn on my lights, I am grateful to the strong men who carved through these rocks to build tunnels eight decades ago as part of the Roosevelt –era Civilian Conversation Corps.

Mountains evoke serenity, while the sea invites possibility. Come, they beckon me; we will wrap you in an afghan and hold you close to our hearts

Today I feasted on a crab sandwich and fries at 5,000 feet, on Mount Pisgah, then drove through a forest that was once owned by George Vanderbilt. (How can any one individual stake a claim on this much natural beauty?) The National Forest Service paid him $5 an acre to carve out the national forest that cradles a majestic waterfall called Looking Glass.

Headed back to Asheville from tiny Brevard, I see dark blue outlines on the horizon, the majestic southern Appalachians.

When I return to Illinois, I see clouds on the horizon and imagine, just for a few seconds, that they are mountains.