Day 16: Sunday, October 15th 2017.
Another glorious autumn morning in the land of the free. And we are enjoying the freedom. Not that we’re in shackles at home particularly, it’s just the feeling of being completely away from the familiar, the ‘normal’, the regular. Corners not turned before, roadsides never passed, people unknown, landscapes untouched by our gaze; and in this ancient landscape (4 times older than the Alps we’re told) the excitement is hightened as if we are discovering a prehistoric landscape for the first time, which of course we are. A road never travelled is always exciting to me, whether that ‘road’ is outside the back door or a thousand miles away from home. Thinking about it, I guess the ‘road’ is forever at your feet, wherever you are? The world in a grain of sand, infinity in the palm of your hand and all that. William Blake was ahead of his time in the Mindfulness game (an oxymoron that somehow works?)
Our host Dave is thankfully still at liberty too and gives us advice on where to go today, so we set off back to the mountains in search of Roaring Falls Furnace and Eagle Rock; more locations where gunslinging desperadoes once hid from the law no doubt. In my mind at least.
The satnav takes us alongside quiet, roadside meadows where telegraph wires give us a helping hand as they swoop and dive like a rollercoaster alongside us.
I rather miss telegraph wires. As a small boy I used to think that the wires were actually moving in time with our car as we drove along, leading us to our destination like some kind of tethered satnav. Another theory that didn’t bear close scrutiny but sometimes maybe it’s best to just to go with it. I’ve always been rather mistrustful of certainty.
We’ve found one or two alternatives to country rock on the FM dial thank goodness and now Aaron Copeland obligingly gives us the perfect soundtrack to the journey.
We arrive at the Roaring Run Falls Trail car park; not exactly the lawless, desperado vibe I had envisaged, but the ‘restrooms’ are handy. We’re now deep in the woods and the hot sun is streaming through the dappled shade. There’s a man sitting alone at one of the big, wooden park tables – he tells us his family is arriving later for a Sunday afternoon get-together. He’s not particularly communicative and I wonder how much he’s looking forward to it. Is he the black sheep of the family? Is this a long-lost reunion? Will that annoying cousin who always gets drunk be coming? Will his sister insist that he’s nice to his brother? Might there be a gunfight that becomes part of the area’s folklore – ‘Massacre at Eagle Rock’? Maybe I’m over-thinking it again? We set off on the furnace trail in only slightly inappropriate footwear, as befits the English abroad.
It’s a bit of a hike up the mountain and we’re not quite certain which colour trail we’re on – the 30 minute one or the 3 mile loop – which ordinarily wouldn’t be too far but in steep, rocky terrain on a hot day wearing only sandles is problematic. There aren’t many people around but we bump into a nice man and his young children, none of whom are wearing crampons or carrying bulging rucsacks, which is reassuring, and they advise us on the route. One of his daughters says she likes Jane’s necklace, she’s probably about 8 or 9, our granddaughter’s age at the time. Having studied children’s psychological development as part of my counselling training and also observed my six grandchildren growing up, my view of nature versus nuture has swung more in favour of nature over the years. Young girls (in fact most females) are habitually drawn to another female’s jewellery, and will readily compliment the wearer in an act of quiet bonding that’s foreign to most of us males, whose preferred bonding technique is usually more guarded to say the least. I used to think that the now ever-present, mostly pink-coloured consumer monster that lurks in every corner of the world was responsible for young girls’ fascination with shiny, celebrity-sponsored bling. But now I’m not so sure; the behaviour seems too artless, too natural. We walk on.
The furnace is suitable impressive; a pre-civil war iron smelting furnace that, at the height of it’s working life, burnt up an acre of woodland in an hour. It now stands alone, hidden in the trees like some neolithic shrine, and it’s hard to imagine the sweaty industry that once echoed throughout the forest.
We returned to the picnic area where the man and his family were gathering. No-one had drawn a Colt 45 yet so we drove on to the Peaks of Otter. On the way, we passed a school where a baseball game was underway in the hot, lazy Sunday afternoon sun. We parked on the roadside, high above the ground, which gave us a great view to the mountains beyond. Below us the teams looked like miniature, toy figures playing in some sort of dream sequence, exaggerated by the sultry, listless heat haze.
There was a smattering of people watching on the sidelines, umbrellas protecting them from the sun. Another scene in our own, bespoke movie; they built it, and we came.
A few miles more on the Blue Ridge Parkway and we arrive at the Peaks of Otter visitor lodge where we book to take the 1.5 mile bus ride up to Sharp Top Mountain. We could walk, but time, footwear, heat and lazyness make it an easy choice. And it is very steep.
We buy a coffee in the small, wooden gift shop as we wait for the bus driver. There’s a sign outside warning us of the perils of leaving food around. Bears!
We sit outside and drink our coffee where a young couple and their two children are finishing up their lunch. I don’t know how quickly bears can ‘swoop’, if indeed that’s what they do, and although no-one seems concerned, it’s probably best to keep maybe a quarter of an eye on the woodland behind the cafe seating area. I think bears probably ‘lumber’ rather than ‘swoop’, which would give us time to run to the cafe if one should take a liking to the dregs of my Americano. There’s a heavy-weight, bear-proof trash can just outside the cafe which needs two deft, humanoid hands with opposable thumbs to open it. It also proves to be Jane-proof.
Our bus arrives; it’s one of those big, old school buses of the type I imagine Rosa Parks boarded back in the 50s. It’s got a reassuringly heavyweight, clunking manual door handle that the driver can operate from his seat and I wonder how many college kids, all looking like the cast of ‘Grease’, have bounded up those steps over the years.
The engine coughs into life and the bus trundles across the car park. The driver is a big, friendly giant with a big, friendly sense of humour. Gallows humour. Which proves appropriate as the bus lurches and sways up the narrow (at some points impossibly narrow) gravel track. He tells us he only just started the job, he’s not quite sure of the gears and this is his first run up the mountain. Ho ho. How we laughed. Nervously. (Mental note to sit on the inward side on the return journey, away from the perilous drop – as if that would make a difference in the event of us tumbling down the mountainside?)
We all arrive safely at the top and the views are stunning. The air is clear, the sky is blue and we can see all the way to forever.
There’s a boulder perched on top of an outcrop which serves as a lookout point and selfie-spot. Seems a bit cheesy but we’re extremely unlikely to ever be this way again on such a day, so I persuade Jane that we have to scramble up the side and have our picture taken. Of course I am completely fearless and will probably do a handstand on the boulder, which only looks about a foot across but quite secure. It’s probably been there for at least four million years so it’s going nowhere soon. On the other hand, nothing lasts forever, so at some point it’s bound to detach itself and plumm…..Anyway, deep breaths, let’s do this. As if attending some kind of character-building, corporate away-day designed to improve staff morale, Jane is helped up onto the rock by some of the other tourists, probably the sales team from Midlands Division (east). Not being a natural ‘bonder’, and of course being a man, I make my own way up onto the boulder. It’s spectacularly worth it. Adrenalin provides its own feeling of achievement as we pose for our photos and feel on top of the world. Yay! Go sales team Midlands Division (east)! Wisecracks aside, it was a very special moment.
The return journey down the mountain is just as perilous as momentum and gravity play their part. Rosa Parks was undoubtedly brave beyond measure but I bet her bus didn’t have to negotiate such a winding, vertiginous, shale track?
On the way back to Roanoke we stop off at one of the viewing points along the Parkway where turkey vultures glide effortlessly above us on the thermals.
I lift my camera to take a video of them, and bang on cue to complete the scene, the six motorcyclists I’d booked earlier to put on a show for us, cruise past. Perfect, makes me smile out loud.
Stopped off at Walmart on the way home for gas and grub: Caesar’s salad, muffins and wine for supper. Tomorrow, Ohio and the Amish. Crazy.
Jane Conner