A Higher Calling 5/24/2020

By: Jennifer Richardson Holt

From what I have gleaned growing up in the south, the majority of the population has one of two locations that are the typical vacation locale. Now, I am not talking about some special trek off to an exotic country.  Those are not the standards. For whatever reason, we southerners tend to go to one of two places when we need a respite from our typical everyday scenery.  Both places offer settings that are quite the spectacle to behold. We tend to journey to where the water meets the land, often in the white sand beaches along the turquoise waters of the Gulf of Mexico which I would argue are some of the most beautiful in the world. If we do not take this route, we travel north to where the land meets the sky. We go to the mountains, often the Great Smoky Mountains with its endless ridges of fading blue peeks.  While I do adore the beauty of the beaches, I am incurably and forever a mountain girl.

If you have been to the Great Smoky Mountains you are going to smile and nod and possibly look wistfully into the distance as I write this.  If you have never been I believe you still may look wistfully into the distance longing to learn of which I speak. I was not born in anything close to mountains, but my mother was and my family has always gone to these hills and my heart is indelibly etched with their mark. I don’t know how you could experience them and avoid it.

The Cherokee, the people that originally called these mountains home called it Shaconage, (Sha-Kon-O-Hey), or “The Land of Blue Smoke” and the settlers found it fitting enough that they let this description give this place its official name.  It does something deep and lasting to your spirit to see the smoke rise off of ridges that seem to stretch forever into the distance.  It is like the sky itself was so enamored with the view that the clouds had to settle in for a soft embrace.  Seeing heaven and earth kiss in such a way, you cannot help but feel that much closer to the One who created it all. He seems to me, to hover amongst the valleys and domes, inhabiting the mists.

I have stood in the great thick old growth forests of these lands. I am always fascinated by how the lush canopy makes the woods so quiet and allows the songs of birds echo as if we were in a great natural cathedral, but then, I suppose we are.  And the smell, oh the smell!  I can’t explain it but there is a sweet smell, to me it is a mixture of cinnamon and moss and time.  It is unmistakable and intoxicating.  I get absolutely giddy inhaling it deeply. If I could bottle the scent and take it home I would douse the entirety of my possessions with it.

In every season there is a distinctive beauty here.  There are the bright pink or milky white blooms of the rhododendrons and mountain laurel in the early summer that are nestled in shades of green so rich and deep that emeralds seem tawdry in comparison. The autumn is absolutely breathtaking with the entirety of the color pallet spilled over all those endless slopes. There are intensely yellow poplars and the fervent scarlet of the sourwoods. To see the glorious hues stretch until they fade into horizon is nothing short of spectacular. And as the season fades there are the silver-white dusty crowns on the peaks over the color that will progressively turn to magnificent full mantles of sparkling white that will cover it all.  The air then matches every stream, brook and waterfall that spouts from every corner of this place; cold, crisp, clean and breathtaking.

These mountains don’t even disappoint my historical infatuation.  You can witness the beautiful simplicity of the lives of the first peoples here.  I’ve seen the burning of trees to make canoes or hollowing of the river cane for dart guns.  To move on in time, a trip around Cade’s Cove is probably one of the most favorite things I have ever done and can ever do. If you have read my blog at all you know a gorgeous valley surrounded by majestic peaks filled with the remnants of homesteads, churches and cemeteries well over a century old is quite possibly the most me thing that there is.  That cove changes me every time I am there and always for the better. I cannot see it enough times.  I cannot take pictures of it enough times. I will always be disappointed at the lack of justice the photos do it but I can’t NOT try to capture it.  If you’ve been, you know. If you haven’t, go.

The first European settlers in these mountains were a great deal Scotch-Irish and these glens and slopes reminded them of their homelands. You can hear the Celtic lilt in the mountain music. They felt taken in and welcomed by this land.  I have to say I can feel it too though I have never lived in highland settings.  Like its people and its cultures and its vistas the whole of the scene takes you in.  You are enveloped in it.  There is some sort of tangible hospitality and familiarity here.

The great American naturalist John Muir was known for so many statements he made about mountains.  One of his sayings that resonate most deeply for me is this:  “Thousands of tired, nerve-shaken, over-civilized people are beginning to find out going to the mountains is going home; […]” Those who were here first understand this.  The settlers in this place felt this too and so they made this place their own. I’ve never lived in these hills, though I have visited more times than I can count. I too feel it though.  They call me back to them.  When it has been too long since I’ve been I ache for them.  The slow rising mist gets into your bloodstream.  The cool clean air permeates the membranes of your lungs and gets into your bones. Somehow I belong here. These mountains feel like home to me. They call to me and when calls the place where the veil between Heaven and Earth is as thin as blue smoke, I can’t help but answer.