Escape toward the Mountains - Knoxville & Highlands
Sipping a cognac in a leather wingback chair the color of my drink I said to Kenny, “I’m so excited to get to the mountains.” We’d spent the last three days in Knoxville, Tennessee, Kenny on a business trip, and myself, tagging along and working from the hotel room. I could glimpse the mountains distantly between the Gothic Revival architecture of a nearby church and Knoxville’s golden Sunsphere. The Appalachians called to me, but silently assured me they were waiting patiently for my arrival.
Downtown Knoxville and I got to know eachother on my morning walks. The nakedness of winter revealed her skeleton composed ofindustrial grit and elegant buildings. The buds on the trees in World’s Fair park were swelling. I ran across the Tennessee River, its gray water churning below, while I tried to find the city greenway along its banks. On my final day, I stumbled onto the pre-industrial history of the area. I found the Blount Mansion, whose sleeping formal gardens overlooking the river made me weak at the knees (not good when you’re on your fourth mile), the dark log cabin known as James White Fort, the first home in Knoxville, and the crumbling ruin of a Victorian area mansion in a straightjacket of vines. Discovering these ghosts was the highlight of my exploration and made me feel like I got a peek at Knoxville’s old soul.
The next morning, following an expensive stop at REI, we headed off to Highlands, North Carolina and had chosen to take the long way through National Forest land Kenny at the wheel. He’d offered to drive, stating that he knew I’d want to take in as much of the landscape as possible. He’s right. That’s love for you. I started to salivate when we neared the greater wilderness .
Around every turn, my heart skipped a beat. We eventually found ourselves in the clouds, the trees and ridgelines coming in and out of view. Crows lingered near us at one of the pull-offs, only adding to the deliciously haunting atmosphere. I could have dawdled there for days being blanketed in mist, breathing in air that went into my lungs like drinking cool spring water.
We drove on, and as we neared the edge of the Cherokee National Forest, traffic slowed to a creep. At first, we suspected an accident, despite having now reached straighter roads and meadows among the trees, until we were awestruck by a majestic sight. A herd of 20-plus elk casually mingling on the side of the road. Glorious. So glad we took the long way.
We knew we neared our destination when we saw a sign welcoming us to Nantahala National Forest. The road narrowed significantly and the imposing jagged rock walls on one side dripped with minute streams of water and the guardrail outside my window looked like a questionable safety net. Needless to say my heart rate was little higher from both excitement and a hint of terror.
As we drove up the road to the lodge, Kenny and I were enchanted by moss-laden stone entrances to unseen retreats and fine homes with humble architecture that melted into the landscape. While the homes were numerous, they felt private and I can only imagine the magnificent sanctuary spring and summer’s green veil.
We reached Skyline Lodge mid-afternoon. The mid-century lodge was built by a student of Frank Lloyd Wright and was recently renovated. The rooms hug a cafe light lit courtyard complete with turf, vintage-style seating, and fire pits. When I entered our room however, I headed straight for the reason why I wanted to call this place home for a couple of days. Sliding open the glass doors opposite our entry I stepped onto the balcony and was greeted by the rushing sound of a hidden creek. It didn’t take long to pour some wine and sit on that balcony, sketchbook in my lap and listen to the shush of the pines as wind washed through their needles. My soul exhaled.
It was a short stay, but I fell in love with the area. The town itself was small but casually elegant. All of our meals, from the Nancy Meyers worthy Four65 Woodfire Bistro + Bar (hello duck prosciutto pizza bianco!), to the Blue Bicycle Cafe (Chorizo grit bowl), were delicious. The creme de la creme was the Oak Steakhouse at our lodge where we ate (deviled crab-topped trout in a sorrel beurre blanc with frisèe) watching the sunset through wisps of clouds gracing the mountain tops. Each night we unwound with cocktails by massive stone fireplaces lovingly tended to by the restaurant hosts. Talk about cozy.
To explore, and earn our meals, we went on a short hike (5:15 reservations don’t let you get too far). Our “moderate” hike took us through twisting storybook Mountain Laurel and past small waterfalls that were no doubt the literal trickle-down effect of the screaming rainstorm the night before. The wind ripped across the mountainside and we were grateful for the protection offered by the towering Oaks,Hickories, and Pines.
We didn’t encounter any sweeping views on the hike but, as usual, the little wonders caught my eye and intrigued me the most. The fallen trees with peeling bark, the way moss crept over a gnarled trunk, the mica sparkling among fallen leaves, and even the old fence posts from a time when the forest was still private land. The fusion of these details contributes to the grand, ancient spirit of the woods, something I’ve felt time and time again that brushes up against your spiritual being like a cat welcoming you home. It’s what I knew I’d feel when I was dreaming in our hotel room back in Knoxville, staring longingly at the distant blue giants. I feel complete in the Appalachian woods and I think part of me never leaves. John Muir once wrote “...into the forest I go to lose my mind and find my soul.” What truth.
