There is a time for love and laughter, The days will pass like summer storms, The winter winds will follow after, But there is love and love is warm
The folk music of the Appalachian Mountains has roots deeper than the mountains themselves. In the 18th century, traditional English and Irish Celtic ballads crossed the Atlantic with immigrants and nestled into the Blue Ridge, Smoky and Cumberland mountains. Soon, like the accent and apparel of the mountain folk, the songs began to transform to fit the new world they lived in. The traditional fiddle was replaced by the banjo, an instrument brought into the region by African slaves. Songs of dance and European events kept their tunes but shifted lyrically to reflect the attitude of coal miners and the ruggedness of the Appalachian forest and seasons.
There is a time for us to wander, When time is young and so are we, The woods are greener over yonder, The path is new, the world is free
I love many things about the Appalachian Mountains, but what I love most is the woods. The truth is, if I found out I had a week to live, I wouldn’t return to the pines of my childhood, I would spend it wandering the Blue Ridge. I would trade voices and concrete for the sound of cicadas and the smell of earth. It is my favorite, favorite place. Last month, I returned to the mountains briefly. I missed the people. I missed the woods. I missed the creek.
Blackberry creek is a well-behaved little stream where it borders the curve of the Zap field. It spills in an orderly manner over smooth stones into shallow pools, sheltering crawfish and toads and shimmering pockets of sweet, Carolina sky. But behind zap, where it flows into the tangle of Appalachian forest and cuts deeper and deeper into the mountains, it grows wider and faster, fed by mountain springs.
I pulled an old pair of trainers over bare feet, stepped into the water and walked. My shoes filled instantly with gritty silt, cold and abrasive and welcome. After about a mile the smooth boulders that guide the creek through the valley rise into walls, towering over the creek, black and wet. I slipped down waist-high cascades, smashed my shins on the rocks below and pressed forward.
There is a time when leaves are falling, The woods are grey, the paths are old, The snow will come when geese are calling, We need a fire against the cold
After nearly two hours I reached a fallen tree that covered the breadth of the creek. I pulled the blade from my waistband and carved a jagged “S” into the bark as I stood in the center of the creek, the water parting noisily around my knees. Here the water no longer flowed. Here it was pushed. This was the farthest down the creek I’d ever been. I turned around and headed back upstream. I honestly can’t say what I was looking for back there. Maybe just a sign that it’s not over between me and the mountains.
You see, these last four years, the mountains and I have had a pact. Every time that I come back to zap, every time I come home, I trust this place to lift me up. That’s why I’m headed back at the end of this month to spend several weeks there before I run the Chicago Marathon. I need to be filled with mountain air again and in return I will sacrifice my time and body and heart into my training there.
There is a time for us to wander, When time is young and so are we, The woods are greener over yonder, The path is new, the world is free
After all, if the mountains have the power to change music, they certainly have the power to change me