Four-Eight-Four [dot org]

It’s nearly 2:00 a.m., and I can’t sleep. All I can think about is the Appalachians in the state directly east of here.

I remember walking down Montreat Road towards downtown Black Mountain. Descending into the Hickory Nut Gorge on NC 9 just above Bat Cave. I-40 south of Asheville. Downtown Sylva and Bryson City. The valley between Andrews and Murphy. The Blue Ridge Parkway. The one-lane bridge where I took pictures in the fall of ‘05. The view from Mt. Mitchell. Driving on US 70 between Black Mountain and Asheville. Valle Crucis and Boone. The Seven Sisters covered with snow. The Broad River. The Valley River. The French Broad. Crabtree Meadows. All sorts of waterfalls. A dozen babbling mountain streams, with ice-cold water rushing over the oh-so-rounded rocks. More camping trips than I can count. The Moses Cone estate. Even the Andrews Geyser.

What is it about Western North Carolina that holds my attention month after month? I wanted to be there before I ever lived there, and now that I’m gone, somewhere deep in my soul I wish I could be back. (The Appalachians just west of the NC line in TN are just as beautiful, and I’d love to be there too, but … I’ve never experienced them the same way, so they don’t have the same draw. And yes, I know I’m still in Appalachia.)

I never wanted to be the kind of person who seemed to wish they were back where they grew up. And, in a sense, I’m not. I don’t long to be back in Wake Forest or Youngsville like I do Asheville.

Don’t get me wrong, Chattanooga is a great city, and I love it. I’m not going anywhere. I’m rooted to this house for at least 10 years, by golly, because moving is way to much trouble. I’ve said that I wouldn’t give up this house if anything remotely like my perfect Craftsman bungalow becomes available in the area. Rachel thinks I’m joking, but I’m not. Yes, Chattanooga is lovely city, and I don’t want to leave.

But, Western NC holds a place in my heart something like my old 1987 Fiero GT … I can’t get it out of my mind. It calls for me in my sleep; it comes to me in the early afternoon, whispering in my ear that it’s where I belong.

Tonight, I’ll go back to bed and lie there awake, wishing to hear the distant rhythmic rumble of the freight train, westbound after crossing the continental divide, passing ever so briefly through downtown Black Mountain. I’ll hear the horns blowing out at the Chickamauga Dam, and maybe a train heading through Lupton City, and I’ll be safe and secure, still happy to be where I am. But still, it won’t be the same.