My own personal Appalachia
Why do some places feel like home, although home is far away? I live in the Midwest, but Appalachia always feels familiar. The climb that begins on the interstate east of Nashville quickens my senses yet eases me all at the same time. Makes me reboot my happy rockin’ playlist and crack the windows a bit, not caring about tangled hair. My spirit home is a waterfall cloaked in laurel and pine. My personal space is a stone outcrop on top of a blue mountain. I mourn the slow death of the hemlock trees and the gray space they create in tender blue spring and blazing golden autumn. I make it to Appalachia, maybe, once a year yet I always see a black bear, or four. I speak the language. I never tire on the trails. The forest enfolds me and the peaks let me fly. The rivers smooth all that is jagged. When I'm waiting in line, when I trapped in duties or slow conversation, the window of my mind is often open to the Blue Ridge. Why do some places feel like home, when home is far away? I call this photo My Appalachia. Made these friends in the Tennessee Smokies.
Copyright RC 2017
*For more information on the hemlock infestation, contact The Nature Conservancy or federal and state forestry divisions.