Monday, September 6, 2010
1978 and we were going to Virginia. Again. And we went to Rock City in Tennessee. Again. But this time I did cross the Swing Along Bridge. Hanging on for dear life, but I did cross it. I was 16 years old and about as uncool as a teenager could be.
What has always been cool, though, is mountains.
From southeast Canada to Alabama, the Appalachian Mountain range runs the entire length of our country’s eastern seaboard. Running the northern stretch are the Alleghenies, the Berkshires, The Poconos, the Catskills, all sounding like mountain resorts, places where families used to go for month-long retreats. In the southern section, the mountains have names such as Blue Ridge, the Great Smokies and Shenandoah. Romantic names, mysterious descriptive names.
The Rocky Mountains in the west rise rugged and majestic from the plateau below. But if you've seen one rugged, majestic mountain, you’ve pretty much seen them all. The mountains in the east, though rising not nearly as high, seem to have more personality. They change colors and moods throughout the day. Their forests are dark and mysterious, almost foreboding at times. Mists rise from the hills in the morning. You always have the feeling as if someone – or something – is watching you from the trees.
Next to our rig in the Allegheny Mountains