Waylaid in Western Carolina

So I almost signed a lease in Asheville.

I know. I know. The summer of wanderlust! And westward journeying! And committing to no commitments!

But then I arrived in this weird little town cradled on all sides by green, smoke-blown mountains. I summitted Mount Mitchell and went whitewater canoeing and lived in a tiny, book-strewn apartment within walking distance of the hip downtown area. I spent way too much money at what might be the cutest indie bookstore I’ve ever visited, Malaprop’s, which features nigh-nightly readings, community events and a “blind date with a bookseller” bookshelf. I was greeted with (permission-asked, non-creepy) hugs and the (turned-down) offer of free weed by locals.

And then I found an apartment that was literally over top of the spin studio and next to the yoga center. What can I say?

Asheville is the kind of place where people talk seriously, and at length, about the anthropomorphic universe — the one with a capital “U” who is anything but apathetic. Sitting in the open-air window at Dobra Tea, I watched a band of teenage hippies walk by on the sidewalk barefoot; the dreadlocked boy with a guitar slung over his back was a given, but the girl with a leashed cat sitting on her shoulder caught me by surprise. There are so many Subarus and Chacos here that if you made a drinking game out of sighting either, you’d end up in the hospital. I figure if I had signed the lease, I’d suddenly find both at my doorstep: welcome to Asheville, here are your sandals and your Forester. Standard issue.

This place totally engulfed my heart regardless. Driving west on I-240 toward the gym each morning, the sprawl of those foggy blue mountains broke me open, made me feel instantly at home; venturing further afield toward early morning hiking adventures, strange white flowers materialized like tufts of smoke along the highway. As the road wound through valleys and dales, the mountain fog would sit heavy over everything, too dense to see through — only to break into crystalline sunlight with no warning. I passed towns with roads named Old Field Place and Happy Dale Lane, towns who still have video rental stores, amazingly. I slammed the car door on crisp, cold morning air whose filtered sunlight and fir-tree scent made the world feel like one giant Christmas; later slammed my hiking boots together, watched them rain showers of quartz and mica like glitter.

I also got to hang out with some old friends from TPH staff days — Heather, Susan, and her boyfriend Tyler. We wandered around downtown and the arboretum (which is not pronounced “abitorium”) and saw a really awful film (don’t see “Foxtrot”) at a really adorable theater (read: there is a local art vending machine in the lobby at Grail Moviehouse). We climbed Lookout Mountain and hiked the Green River Narrows, diligently searching for the well-hidden trailhead to be rewarded by a totally deserted, stunning view of one of the most challenging rapids in the area. (Also I almost fell into the river. As in, I was hanging by one hand from a guide rope. Oops — and thanks again, Tyler.)

On my first Friday in town, I attended the Pritchard Park drum circle, a strange and oh-so-Asheville mishmash of jubilant old hippies making noise and stoic young hipsters viewing the event through their cell phones. Whole families, children and grandparents alike, arrived to beat bongos in blue jeans, looking like they drove in specifically for the occasion. A young man in cargo shorts and nothing else used purple sidewalk chalk to inscribe a mushroom on the concrete; a tall blonde woman put up with her boyfriend’s handsiness, cracking her gum and looking standoffish until a child’s ball came accidentally sailing her way. She bent to throw it back to him, smiling — like the one thing humanity can agree on is this: rhythm and movement and gathering against night’s darkness. Heartbeats.

So I tried out the idea in my mouth, announcing I was in the process of moving here to someone at the yoga studio. And it wasn’t just for the local introductory discount. My checkbook’s at home, but I took the cash out of savings. I’d snapped a photo of a print-out advertising clearance-priced mattresses on the gym’s bulletin board. Wandering is wonderful, but it’s hard not to feel the pull of community, of belonging somewhere more permanently. (Especially when that somewhere’s local book store has not one or two but eight different book clubs.)

I made friends with a boy here in town, Jack, who was raised in the hills just north of Asheville. He was the one who guided my whitewater adventure on the French Broad, and a week later we wandered out to one of the less-well-traveled waterfalls.

After a — literally — breathtaking dip in the swimming hole under the cascade, we laid on the rocks to dry out, eating locally-crafted hummus and fielding intermittent visits from the dogs other hikers had brought with them. I was supposed to be in town around three — to sign that lease, in fact — but after seeing how close we were to a set of cliffs Jack had mentioned, we decided we might as well take the extra hour or so to see them.

Jack said it would be about fifteen minutes driving the wrong way, but it was more like forty. After one wrong turn, we found the right trailhead, starting up an unmarked, unlikely-looking path that climbed through low scrub and ancient, fallow orchards.

After twenty minutes, I wondered if he’d misremembered. He’d said he hadn’t been out here in years. We met a turn-off and he stood for a moment, considering; was it this one, or one further up? My confidence was waning.

“Let’s just try this way real quick,” he suggested, as I mentally retraced my steps. I wanted to make sure I could find my way out if we were lost. Hesitant, but without many alternative options, I followed him up the offshoot pathway.

Suddenly, the trees withdrew; a few wildflower bushes appeared, so lovely and prim they looked purposefully planted.

And then.

This summer is going to be just like that, I think: requiring faith and patience and suspension of disbelief.

So when the signing was postponed and postponed, I finally cancelled, put the money back in the bank. Breathed, I’ll admit, a sigh of relief.

I’m not quite done wandering yet; the taller peaks of the west are calling. And who knows what wonders are waiting just beyond the curtain?