The last light is just fading, the final rays casting a purplish hue against the line of mountains ahead—undulating ridges stacked up, over and over again, across the horizon—the cobalt above fading to charcoal, and soon all will be onyx.
It’s been a long day on the road, winding around curves, descending into big, broad valleys, and then back up again, coves calling to hollows (or, if you will, hollers). Behind are hundreds of miles of the South, and rich, fall colors, and ahead, twinkling lights, the promise of a warm bed. It’s the kind of beauty that sneaks up on you. Not the sharp, jutting, stretch-for-the-sky summits of the Alps, or hulk and heft of the snow-capped Rockies; the Blue Ridge is all soft edges and small towns and landscapes from a Thomas Wolfe dust jacket, telling you that you can’t go home again—at least not yet.
