Uncivilization: A Million Fiery Diamonds

I didn't start the day looking for anything spectacular. When Horace Lee Long is around though, spectacular is usually close by. Horace is a traveling artist in his fifties whom I met last spring. We became instant "old friends" and already have a few adventures under our belt.

This particular Wednesday, I had promised to take Horace around to talk to A few people about buying his art. He was also interested in finding an old mill or covered bridge suitable for his next painting. We got up early and left before breakfast.
Horace is one of those people who follows feelings like an eagle follows the wind, and you can never tell when he might change his mind. Before I knew it we were on interstate 26 heading west. "Something tells me we should go this way," he said prophetically. There's not much I enjoy more than a day of rambling in the mountains towards an unknown destination, so I gladly tagged along.

We stopped at a small cafe outside of Hendersonville, NC called Dixie's Diner and had breakfast. Horace asked the waitress about covered bridges and soon they were discussing his art. He had recently finished a painting of a bridge, and I told him he should bring in to show her. Before we left everyone in the restaurant stopped by our table to see the stunning piece.

I had not paid attention to the temperature earlier, but we stepped out of Dixie's into a frigid huff of air. Covering my ears with my toboggan, I looked up at the grey sky with a moment of mistrust in the weather man who forecast a cold front to arrive the next day along with a few flurries.

Horace asked where we should go. I told him if I had only one day to spend in the area, I would head through the Pisgah Forest up to the Blue Ridge Parkway. "Let's go," he said and we went. We stopped at Looking Glass Falls and Horace began to sketch.

Looking Glass Falls is right on the side of the road, so a bit of the wildness is lost but it still is a uniquely exotic spot. The Davidson River cuts left into a massive rock then turns at a slight angle back to the right as it falls about eighty feet into a dark pool. On the other side of the pool the river cuts back to the left again as mist from the cascade blasts up to thirty feet downstream. Lush, green moss drapes the wet, black rocks adding a fantastical effect. Looking closely at Horace's sketch, I noticed something about the falls I had never seen before. He was shading the water as if it were falling in a spiral. I glanced back at the falls and sure enough, the odd angle of the rock was causing to giant streams of water to twist. The artists keen eye saw through the white water illusion.

I snapped out of my amazement as saw Horace's hands trembling. It was freezing. We both marveled at the ten degree drop in temperature over the last half hour. Horace packed up his sketch pad and vowed to buy a postcard to finish his picture of the falls. We headed up the mountain.


Looking Glass Falls

When we reached the Parkway, I had lost all faith in the weather man. Big black clouds hovered over the mountain tops with the sun battling to shine through them. Neither one of us expected what we saw as we drove north towards Graveyard Fields. If we had one of us would have brought a camera.

The clouds rubbed across the trees of the high mountains, leaving frozen droplets on the tips of every limb. As we came around a curve, a patch of the glazed frasiers stood between us and the resurgent Sun. The result was a view of a lifetime. A million fiery diamonds beckoned us onwards. I was instantly happier.

A few minutes later it began to snow. Tiny, powdery flakes swirled across the road onto the rocks and into the rhododendron. We walked, no actually we ran down to the lower falls at Graveyard Fields. Out of breath from the high altitude romp Horace flopped down on a soft bed of moss. "It's amazing what this can do to rejuvenate you," he exclaimed as he leapt to his feet and tore off down the trail again.

By the time we got back to Horace's car the ground was white. On the way home the snow was heavy. Driving was treacherous, but we were in high spirits as we watched the quarter sized flakes zooming in front of the headlights towards the windshield. We were warping through the stars.

Horace left for his home in Texas the next morning and he gave me a print of one of his latest paintings "Eagle Harbor Lighthouse." He was supposed to stay longer and I was sad to see him go as usual, but like an eagle, Horace soars wherever the wind takes him, and you can never tell when he might change his mind.