Mountain goodbyes are always sad

Faced this morning with the prospects of leaving the mountains after two relaxing and awe-inspiring days, my daughter appealed to her parents: Wouldn't you like to take Monday off and stay another day? The cottage at Montreat had worked an extraordinary change in her children — they slept nine or 10 hours after a couple of long, sleepless nights. Their parents and grandparents likewise relaxed to the point of limpness. Whether it was the serenade of the cicadas or the mist floating between the mountain peaks or the view of sunlight dancing off the mountains while all below was in shadows or the cozy screened porch with views across the valley, it had been a truly relaxing couple of days. Regardless of age, from 1 to 61, we all hated to leave.

As I shifted our car into a lower gear to hurtle down the steep Appalachian slope just east of Asheville, my wife in the passenger seat noted that this stretch of interstate with its frequent warning signs and runaway truck ramps always saddens her. It means she's leaving the mountains. Although we've lived east of Interstate 95 for 30 years, we still love the mountains, and this weekend, when we went to Asheville for a family reunion, reminded us just how much we've enjoyed our lifetime of visits to western North Carolina and western Virginia. A hike at Linville Falls Friday and another at Montreat Sunday invigorated us. The air is different there, and the light filtering through hardwood leaves is different. To stand on a mountain peak and look back on the valley where you'd begun your hike carries a sense of accomplishment too often missing in modern life. To see the thick forests and rock-strewn paths of the Appalachians unites us through some genetic memory connection to our Scot-Irish ancestors, who found the ridges of the Appalachian range reminiscent of their Scottish Highlands. Those ancestors fell in love with these mountains and valleys, and our own passions are infused with that love of place.