How?

The easterly hills of the southern Appalachia is where my life of wanderlust began. Think Rosman, Brevard, and finally the entire Asheville land. I wasn't born there, but I got there as soon I could. I did not get there all at once either. First came Salem, Carolina. I wasn't even aware of the great stretches that lay out of sight to the north of the Cherokee Foothills as I sped west from Traveler's Rest, the high reaches above veiled by the night fog. From my first morning in Salem creek -- wading in, tasting the water, not even thinking of the mountains (that were SO close!) from which it came -- I knew I wanted more. Cleaner, purer, from a greater altitude. But not yet.
Next came Lake Jocassee, the clearest water in South Carolina. The lake was beautiful and blue along with the small mountains that contained it. Still I did not imagine my mountains. I had lived in this state my entire life. I never knew of rivers and lakes such as this. The most I had seen is black-water of the Pee-Dee and sediment-laden dinge-water of Charleston harbor. All this time, how wearily my soul must have been searching for my body: Wandering the empty vales of the lower Blue Ridge Mountains, spending blustery nights atop Balsam Range, adding its howls of thousands of other lost souls of the wind, winding up and down the Parkway hitching rides countless times, wondering while overlooking the gentle foothills from NC-281.
After a few days of Lake Jocassee, my soul beckoned. It called me up SC-130. When I hit Whitewater Falls just beyond the border, I thought I knew why. I walked further up the state road past the falls, and climbed down a hill and sat by the river under the bridge. While walking back to the car, I caught sight of a clearing of trees. I just sat there and pleasantly contemplated the scene. The impression was unmistakable: You will come back to this spot. I would not see it again until three seasons later. I woke up to the morning horizon outlined in red behind the pines where I was, camping near the head of a trail that leads to the same waterfall. A mile up the road my body and soul found each other. I walked up to the small clearing of trees, and held this same view, but it was softened with the coolest purple and red airs. It felt like home. I felt a gentle warm emotion that the land is all for my joy, that I've known it all along.
With the afternoon came Brevard. I was charmed with the city, mountains seemingly tall from the viewpoint of the valley town. It was a precursor to Asheville. I then turned on the radio and heard bluegrass, and continued to hear it during my drive into Hendersonville. From that point on, the memories of the mountains and the sound of bluegrass banjo pinging my ears like the cold wind were swirled together. All I need to do is listen to that old lonesome music, and I'm back in the Blue Ridge.