Back in the Mountains

By Miranda Allan – 2014

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You can take the girl out of the mountains, but you can’t take the mountains out of the girl.

Nothing sets me on edge like when people criticize rural living. I lived in southeast New Hampshire for eighteen years and I look forward to the day that I will settle there again. I can promise that a country lifestyle is the farthest thing from boring. My hometown (population 4,000) is situated within an hour or two from the mountains, the ocean, and the great city of Boston. Rural communities are plentiful with outdoor activities such as hiking, camping, swimming, boating, rock-climbing, biking, and snow and water skiing, to name only a few. I miss the variety of recreation in the suburbs, so when I found myself in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, I felt like I had found a place where I belonged, though for only a short time.

I didn’t realize that I had been craving the mountain life until I was back in it. The mountains weren’t exactly new to me, but in the best way. I had the unique experience of adding new places to my travels while also feeling as if I was going home.

My sense of newfound nostalgia peaked as my group members and I drove up to Jump Off Rock in Hendersonville. Dustin, our driver, was enjoying the breakneck turns too enthusiastically for me to fully take in my surroundings, but what I did see was comparable to some of the most beautiful vistas I’ve ever experienced. I carry with me a vivid picture of the morning sunlight breaking over a ridge and spilling into the valley of an impeccably rustic golf course. From our vantage point on the road running serpentine along its rim, I could look down onto the oak trees punctuating the greens. Though it was a very brisk morning in the foothills, I could easily see the temptation that draws golfers back to the course time and again.

I also have a great fondness for mountain people. If I may impart a generalization, I think that those who perform good, honest labor tend to be good, honest people. The wonderful thing about the mountains is that usually people visit or live there out of genuine desire to do so. I did not come across anyone in Lake Lure or Lenoir suffering from cabin fever; everyone seemed genuinely pleased to be a local. I’m not pretending that this is always the case; certainly there are those who are stuck in a situation they can’t avoid, but generally speaking the mountains have a higher concentration of content inhabitants and tourists.

Mountaineers are rugged, warm, and utterly lacking in affect. You simply don’t see people putting on airs for each other in a town like Bat Cave. Maybe this is because smaller towns feel more familial. No one wishes to compete with or belittle their neighbor in such tight quarters; it is only logical to treat each other with respect and kindness. Perhaps I’m cheesy (one could make a very strong case that I am) but in my opinion there is a distinction between a municipality and a community. It was my heartfelt pleasure to visit these friendly communities along Highway 64.

Or perhaps it is the vitalizing quality of the mountain air that breeds goodness. I have a longstanding belief (founded on virtually no actual knowledge) that clean, chlorophyll-enriched air is good for the constitution. It’s possible that I’ve read too many Jane Austen novels where Victorian young ladies escape from stuffy sitting rooms to the countryside to improve their health, but the fact of the matter is that fresh air makes me feel cleansed. There is nothing more gratifying than taking pure, brisk air into your lungs when you have been breathing climate control for weeks. So yes, mountain air makes me feel good.

On that frigid morning atop Jump Off Rock, I felt a twinge of that sweet sadness that signals a small wave of homesickness. The tableau may be cliché: a displaced country girl waxing nostalgia as she gazes upon a distant mountain ridge. Still, I would be a negligent travel writer if I didn’t report on my Highway 64 experience in such detail. Honestly, nostalgia is a welcome feeling sometimes. I was happy to be reminded of a thousand childhood memories that could easily have taken place in the foothills of North Carolina, under different circumstances. Home is a plane ride away but I’ll never be more than a short car ride away from the mountains.