Bonding On The Blue Ridge Parkway

Editor's Note: I've been missing my father a lot these last few months, so this essay has renewed meaning for me. What do you think?

I grew up in the Midwest, a place I affectionately called “Flat Land.” The landscape stretched out in one even level, with the rows and rows of yellow cornfields streaming endlessly in the distance. The closest I ever came to seeing a mountain came in the form of a giant dirt hill in our backyard with the occasional blade of green grass peeking through the black Northern dirt. The stories of the mammoth, towering Rocky and Appalachian mountains became folklore in my childlike mind. But that all changed the day my travel-happy mother announced we were taking a vacation to the heart of that mystery: The Blue Ridge Mountains. And since my father’s death four years ago, the memories from this trip linger more than ever in my heart and soul.

MORE JUICE AFTER THE JUMP...

xoxo,
Mel


My family’s embarked on countless trips, from taking in the crisp, cool air during the last days of summer in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan to frolicking on the white sands of the Gulf of Mexico. We had seen quintessential America, but the one piece to complete the travel puzzle was the East. As we speeded down the highway in the heat of the June sun on that first morning of vacation, my imagination charged ahead even faster. What would I find in these mountains? Is there really a blue ridge? Will we come upon a black mountain bear?

The next day, the view outside my window began to change. The flat green countryside sprouted little peaks and hills nestled alongside little valleys. Those hills soon turned into patches of rocky structures. Walls of rocks on either side surrounded us, almost as if we were traveling through a hollow passageway. And then I saw it, peaking up from behind the treetops: Tall, majestic mountains towering in the distance; their sheer sizes made it look like they were giants watching over the Earth.

We had finally arrived at the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains, so we stopped to take that first glimpse at one of many scenic overlooks. The minute I stepped out of the car, I could feel the change. The thin air blew cool on my face and fog dotted the rugged landscape. My mother, wanting to document every minute of the trip, whipped out her disposable camera and snapped a picture of us standing on the Tennessee/North Caroline line. That was the first time I stood in two states at once!

As we piled back in the car, I realized this trip would be full of firsts. Our little car chugged up the mountain. We were going higher and higher, and it felt like we were driving right into the clouds as we passed through the fog. A mile marker directed us to the Blue Ridge Parkway. Apparently, it was the scenic route through the mountains, so being an adventurous family, we quickly veered to the left and were on our way. The Parkway took us even higher with every mile. To our left was a dense forest of trees allowing just enough sunlight to highlight the lush green leaves. To our right, more mountains standing guard over a deep valley of green trees, which looked like miniature ornaments from our vantage point.
Every 20 minutes or so, a loud screech would come booming from the front seat.

“Stop! It’s another overlook, and I have to get some pictures,” exclaimed my mother. So my father would carefully pull over to the side, so the photographer could snap her pictures. I didn’t understand why my mother needed rolls and rolls of film of the same mountain shots, but she somehow saw the beauty and distinction in each view.
While my mother, sister and I could admire that beauty, my dad had to keep his eyes firmly planted on the road ahead. The Parkway, cut from the side of a mountain, was full of twists and turns, and from my window. The next day, my father’s muscles were even sore from all those turns!

In addition to the sounds of nature, our soundtrack for the drive was a classic ‘50s tape. To this day, those songs still take me back to that mountain view. As the music played, we all laughed and talked. My mother laughed in her loving way as I droned on about the high altitude, worrying it would cut off our oxygen supply. And we all listened to my father, who had a knack for making stories come alive, as he told us about the newest piece of equipment he was repairing as an electronic technician at our local university.

Just as the tips of the mountains were close to the blue sky, we felt as close as a family. As much as I look back on that trip and remember the thunderous mountains and dense fog, I treasure my family’s bonding the most. When I picture my father today, my heart yearns to be back on those mountains. They brought us together and gave us a sense of peace. In them, we found the sanctuary we craved, and I wish that Parkway could have gone on forever. I sometimes think my father’s spirit in still roaming atop Clingman’s Dome, the highest point in the mountains, drifting like the fog and watching over everything. And just like us during that adventure on the Parkway, something tells me he’s completely free.