North Carolina's Ashe County Is The Place Where My Soul Sings
From the high mountains of western North Carolina, a traveling spirit may continue eastwards until they come to an ocean or sound on the opposite side. From the Appalachian Mountains to Cape Hatteras and the Outer Banks, it has a lot to offer. My spirit soars not on the sand, but rather in those secluded mountains far from any other human habitation on the planet.
Ashe County, located in the northeastern corner of the state, is the farthest-northwest county in size and history. I'm sure to most, it's simply another ordinary area of the wilderness. Not a lot of major historical fights have taken place in or around that area. However, there are no world-famous celebrities who call it home or where they were born. As a state in its own right, it was once part of Franklin, which subsequently became Tennessee. My knowledge of its mysteries and legends may be the only reason I recognize its beauty. At least since the late 1800s, my family has lived in Ashe County, and my father still owns some acreage there, "through the holler and high up the mountain," according to the locals. To get there, you'll need a four-wheeler or a long climb up a steep hillside, and you'll need to have extra water for the duration of your stay. Despite this, it's the closest I've ever come to paradise.
Driving up, down, and back down an extremely small two-lane (actually one and a half-lane) mountain road with numerous hairpin turns and curves is the only way to get to my secluded little refuge. Some of these "crash curves" lead you to a little glade. Please do not blinked. Toward the front of the tobacco field is a small decrepit barn that has been neglected for years. Until recently, this was my great-primary grandfather's tobacco barn and afterwards my Pa-mechanic Pa's shop. As it has for many centuries, the New River may be heard babbling just on the other side of the field's back trees, cutting its peculiar northern current. Only a few cars and a tiny aluminum shed can be parked in the area to the right of the road. Here, we begin our ascent to the summit of the mountain In the event that we have a four-wheeler available, we dismount, load it up, and begin the short but arduous journey. Although it's only a quarter to a half mile from where we park to the top of the mountain, the grade is really steep. At times, it feels as though one is on the verge of tumbling backwards and plunging off the mountainside. The woods open into a clearing, and there we find our tiny haven just as our lungs and calves are about to explode from the ascent. The vista that awaits you at the end of the road is worth the effort, no matter how small. One can see the area's many Christmas tree farms as a rainbow carpet of colors in the fall. The carpet is a mix of red, orange, yellow, and even purple. In the summer, I can look down into the "holler" and see cows grazing on what was formerly part of my family's property. In winter, the scene is transformed into a paradise with the river glinting through the frozen banks. At the cottage in spring, my heart is full of joy!
In this place, my soul is able to be completely free, at home, and linked to all that makes me, me. The spirit of my great-grandparents can be felt here as they labored, planted, and endured to raise seven children on a tobacco farm during the Great Depression of the 1930s. My Uncle Freddie was probably out in the woods like this as a kid, long before he went to Vietnam and returned a different man. Nothing has changed, despite the fact that everything is brand fresh and vibrant. Even after I am gone, the mountains will continue to go through their cycles as they have for millennia.
