We came to The High Country by way of Linville seemingly carried here in the mist and fog, a novelty I’d always loved and associated with the mountains we visited once a year on family vacation. But this time it felt like for keeps.
We had Mellow Mushroom Pizza, or was it flatbread pizza at a local pub? We walked the downtown Boone sidewalks and alleys and long stairways in the cold fog thinking we’d never grow tired of this–whatever “this” is.
Magic? Pain? Loneliness? Mystery? All of them settle in varying amounts up here on “the mountain” like a fresh blanket of wispy leaves–ever so softly muting and masking the distance of sounds. Winter masks the distance between you and the person next door making the nearest human feel impassible distances away.
Emotionally speaking those distances, if measured, would be comparable to those yards in a universe where yards were miles and where smiling and happiness would not thaw until spring.