The land in which I landed

I’ll never forget the drive, and the first time I saw the Appalachian mountain range’s purple waves while heading up the highway from Spartanburg, S.C.

I was raised in the hot, sauna-summers of West Georgia, where the land is flat and the heat builds and steams from the roads. We rarely got snow, maybe every five or so years, and we had such thrills when it arrived and coated us in that glorious white wonderment that’s on our mountain menu most winters. 

While I was in college at the University of Georgia in 1987, my then-boyfriend who’d gone to Asheville School, suggested we visit the mountains one cold and clear-skied winter afternoon. 

As we drove, rising and beautifully layered ranges seemed to hug me and whisper sweet and soothing words to my soul: “Come live here. This is where you’ll find your personal Utopia.” I was 25 at the time, and knew without a doubt that the mountains would be where I’d live, work, retire and then pass into the next world. 

Unlike some of the region’s more adventuresome “transplants,” I wanted to get a job before moving, so while we were on our visit I went to Belk, bought a dress, waltzed unannounced into the Citizen-Times offices and all but begged for a reporting gig.

“We have no openings, but will in three months,” an editor said. I drove back to Spartanburg, having taken a temp job managing a health club and teaching those ancient, Jane Fonda-type aerobic classes. 

My persistence following up with the paper paid off, and three months later, I rented a U-Haul and moved everything I had—which no longer included the boyfriend—into a charming apartment behind the Manor Inn on Charlotte Street. My house was like a little Swiss cottage with hardwood floors and two claw-foot tubs.

Within a week of my March arrival, a huge snowstorm hit, giving me more thrills than a child discovering Disney World. Though it was breath-robbing to see the mountains—green, purple or shadowed in shades of grays and blacks—viewing them capped with snow tripped my joy switch. In my 27 years living here, the snow always has brought about my childlike glee upon getting out of school for a day. I bought a sled, something we never needed in Georgia, and in time, I learned about the different trails for hiking and picnicking. 

Whenever I had problems—and I had plenty during the years of marriage, divorce and illness—the mountains proved my protector, my source of comfort. In her book “The Provence Cure for the Brokenhearted,” writer Bridget Asher says, “This mountain, the arched back of the earth risen before us, it made me feel humble, like a beggar, just lucky to be here at all, even briefly.” 

My relationship with the mountains has lasted while my belief that I was a “beach and ocean” kind of person did not—at least not long enough to make it my permanent home. I’d worked in Myrtle Beach, grown tired of the party scene for which it’s known, and quit my job after a couple of years to move to St. John in the U.S. Virgin Islands. St. John is located about 4 miles from St. Thomas, and the landscape features hills and valleys, much like Asheville and Western North Carolina but on a smaller scale. The highest peak is Bordeaux Mountain at 1,277 feet. While there I lived in a yurt for a short stint, eventually ran out of money and couldn’t find a job, which prompted my return to the mainland. Now my family and I frequently return to the island on vacation.

We love St. John because it reminds us of home, with more than two-thirds of the island protected by the National Park Service. Just like in the mountains, trails for hiking and climbing offer huge payoffs once reaching the top. The only real difference—besides travel time and the price of going—is the gorgeous turquoise sea, an artist’s palette of every blue and green hue imaginable. 

Even with its similarities, the mountains call me homeward like a mother ringing a dinner bell at dusk. I know my heart belongs to the Blue Ridge, and I consider myself a local. I’ve earned my badge with all these years here to say I’m a Western North Carolina woman. And every day I give thanks for finding this niche of Nirvana.