High Point

This is the highest point east of the Mississippi. Morning light. To be here at dawn you have to have slept here, or followed headlights up a winding road.

We used to camp under the summit as kids. Mom was a master. Dad slept in the car. Who could blame him? The weather blew in at all hours. Sleet in summer. Downpours. Hail. The car radio made static. No tents, just tarps we learned to stake. Our sleeping bags were cotton. When it rained, they were rain. When the rain stopped, they were still rain. There were bears, of course, and, hardest to discourage, skunks. While dad slept in the car. I loved him so, but I was busy proving to my mother I could make it through the night.

The drop off you see here is gentle. That’s how the Appalachians roll. When I took this picture, the balsam were starting to come back from a fire. I remember those trees—those particular trees. I was sure they’d outlast me, and then they were gone. I’ll be gone when the new ones get as tall. Trees take a while, though as a child, in a wet sleeping bag, I thought I knew everything about forever. But forever is just being here, lucky enough to have made it through the night.