"LEAF"ing

As I left for Asheville and the gentle Swannanoa Valley, the introduction to "Down in the Willow Garden" would not leave my head. I exulted in the grand morning warmth and took pictures as I devoured the light with my eyes. My moped rode strong and my heart ran happy. Later on, this morning my heart sang out the melody to "Wagoneer's Lad" but with these words:
The wind it is howlin' / And the night is so cold / And your mind it is doubting / As you stray from the fold / Oh, The road it is long, now / and the rain is unkind / and wind blows without mercy / But you'll make it somehow / Your hands they are trembling / As you struggle up the hill / You wonder of your fate / If your desires you'll fill / What you see at the hilltop / As first light meets your gaze / Will leave you hungry / For the rest of your days / The road it is long now / What you see along the way / Will still leave you hungry / For the rest of your days /  The sun -- she shows her glory / From the dawn until the night / And her rhythm will be with you / For the rest of your lives
I went up to a multi-cultural festival in Black Mountain, North Carolina. It was a weekend of spiritual renewal, re-commitment, and the setting of new personal goals. How I viewed all the beautiful people is painted in my companion blog "Lord, I Would Follow Thee." I will now tell of my journey back.
I prayed to make South Carolina by nightfall. I began in Black Mountain. I headed south through Asheville down to Hendersonville, just missing the rainstorm I saw to the west. The mountains grew more worthy of lore and folk legend the nearer dusk came. Their deep purple passed to my right with sunset whites and yellows of clouds. Keeping along at a good 40 mph, I felt myself sinking further towards the escarpment. I did so suddenly as the 178 dropped dramatically and brought me into Saluda, North Carolina. It was so quaint and lovely (they even had an organic farmer's market) that I said, "I would like to live here for a growing season or two". Never has a town grabbed my heart so quickly. I continued along the 178, running nearby the Saluda grade (railroad), claimed to be the steepest in the United States. And with all the braking I had to do, I believed it. I often looked behind me, and saw the same cloud colors I had seen an hour previous. I had left the mountains and entered the escarpment, and discovered an experience few may ever realize: A double sunset. The rich deep forest of trees and bushes showed their moist vibrant greens, growing heartily on the exposed eroded slopes. I made one last passing glance at the mountains unexpectedly. After Tyron, NC, right before all color faded from the sky, I came across the proverbial last ray of sunshine. The trees opened up as I crossed a power-line and ambient near-dark became brighter haze. This haze nearly enveloped the lines as they moved out into the distance, and I saw a far mountain ridge enveloped in a halo of gentle crimson. My heart stretched outward in that direction, much like the power lines. Just as much energy, just as much tensile strength. As I departed, the mountains called out to me . . . one. last. time. And they knew they'd get me. Read on, you'll see.

Back in Them Mountains

Long ago, some friends dropped me off in downtown Asheville, I purporting to go home with nothing but my own two feet and hands -- feet that could hop a train, or hands that could hitch a ride. I realized I was entering a new period in my life after that, and determined that I would not visit these hills until after I returned from my 2-year mission in California. I returned in May, going to a music festival, and I got there on my moped. It was the free-est I have been in a long time, singing "No more a wanderer, no more a refugee -- A mountaineer is always free," taking pictures, parking the moped in awe of the landscape, taking pictures. There was not a moment of it that was bitter. All was sweet. I was excited like a pure child, not even 10 miles away from my point of departure, hopping off and taking pictures of green wild-growth of an undeveloped business plot of land (these are some of my favorite things to take pictures of, explosions of life popping  before your eyes. Much better than a grey place of commerce, if you ask me) shining bright and florid in only the way it can in the first hours of day. My second time up here, I found my way to Franklin, NC. I am involved in a WOOFF internship at the Coweeta Heritage Center. I am helping the owner in exchange for organic food and shelter. We have gone kayaking, searching waterfalls, and going out to eat (on rare occasions), as well as sweated it out planting tomatoes, beans, onions, picking basil, kale, squash, and sawing logs and catching fish.
I have traveled to these hills countless times, the mountains of western North Carolina. Not too long ago, I told my friend Kelvin, "Always travel. But travel with a purpose, with a specific end in mind that will elevate you spiritually and further your purpose in life." My journeys in the west and California were prime evidence of that advice in my own life. The beauty of this place is something that not only impresses the eye, but coddles the soul and teaches a gentler, higher way. Earlier this week, we went kayaking, and it was a good work out going up, but very sweet and cool on the way back. We moored at a bend in the river that had a beach and grass knoll. I climbed it to see an outstretched meadow! After a limited view of the sunken river, the grass and fresh clouds and hills seemed so new. It was a hallowed experience. I sat for a moment facing the hills. I then turned around and laid my damp hair in the dense grass towards the sun. The grassy-smelling ground breathed warmth on my face as my eyes took in the sun breaking through the bright clouds above and I reveled in the perfect peace of it. Today, we went for a ride out to dinner and running errands, and I see a bed of yellow wildflowers on the side of an entrance ramp, with greens behind, and the forever-blue mountains piled further and further way. Yellows, greens, blues all laid the foundation of a pure white sky, drifting off to deep grey, promising healing moisture, further to the north. Later, the sun shone through this rain and made everything glitter. Rainwater, worth its weight in gold to the humble farmer. Oh! And a few days earlier, we visited a friend of Paul's (who runs the Center), whose plot of land was strikingly different to ours. the CHC is heavily wooded in a hollow, with steep river runs heading down the valley. This friend's land was open, with a large pond with trees lining the driveway along it. Horses lazed along the opposite pond side. It was sublime. On our drive back, the hills faded to blue-white, towering over one another, a perfect backdrop to the emerald and saffron hills, grass green and hay yellow. The largeness of it was something I hadn't felt since the sun-drenched Santa Rita winter hills of California. The winding road turned like the land did my heart.