Rough Ridge Photo Essay: A Sunset With Lyrics

In the months of gentle warmth and wildflowers, and in the months when the dying leaves breathe their last fiery breath of color into the hills, the path I take is overrun with throngs of impatient tourists. The relatively easy 1.2 miles from the Parkway to a quite literally "rough" ridge with a breathtaking view is a convenient stop for hurried travelers on America's Favorite Drive. But deep into the windswept, bitter expanse of January, there is only one other car in the parking lot. As I start out on the trail, the gathering mid-winter darkness reminds me I only have an hour before the sun disappears behind Grandfather Mountain.

"There's rivers to cross and hills to climb."

- Chris Stapleton (Starting Over)

The rocks cascading down the trail resemble a natural staircase to a place, in the golden light, that almost resembles heaven. As I emerge from the rhododendron forest onto the boardwalk, the haze from a nearby fire mingles with the mountains - turning the peaks into blue islands in the smoke. I am appalled when I realize that all that has separated me from this immense sea of jarring beauty was a mere 25 minute drive and the stubborn cadence of modern life, drowning out the inherent human cry to be astonished by something outside oneself.

"There's a feeling I get when I look to the West

And my spirit is crying for leaving."

- Led Zeppelin (Stairway to Heaven)

On this staircase to heaven, the sound of the occasional passing car and the lights of town recede into the flickering lights of a far off place. Instead, in the absence of civilization, I am faced with gargantuan hills and vast cliffs of stone, a dome of golden sky adorned with ribbons of soft pink and magenta, and the liberating realization my existence amounts to nothing. The world that humans have shaped is one where the individual is supreme. It revolves around what you must accomplish and what you desire, what you want to say, what you want to hear, and what legacy you want to leave when your time has run out. Somehow, we have imparted a peculiar amount of tangibility and authority to this world that is in its very definition - artificial. This human-centered world is not "civilization," it is a monument to humanity's pride and brokenness.

"Nobody knows how to get back home, and we set out so long ago.

Searched the heavens and earth below."

- The Lumineers (Nobody Knows)

"Sometimes there's things a man cannot know

Sometimes there's things a man cannot know

The gears won't turn and leaves won't grow."

- Jose Gonzalez (Stay Alive)

"Strike a fire,

hold back the night,

and see what remains

Of all I have

left

behind."

- Steep Canyon Rangers (The Mountain's Gonna Sing)

Watching the sun fall from the winter sky in a death of distinctive color, I am overwhelmed with the insignificance of my worries and fears, hopes and dreams. Looking upon the slumbering profiles of ancient mountains, I am overwhelmed with awe for the dirt, the wind beaten pines, the throb of power beneath my feet. The great irony of the human centered world is that it goes against all the natural world demands. The rugged cliffs demand patience- a dignified, quiet waiting that is so unlike the dizzying hurry on the highway of our days. The decomposing shards of autumn leaves scattered on the trail demand a reminder of death, the eternal darkness we so dutifully avoid. Yet, without death, we are left with little appreciation for each breath and each season, change, and even life itself. The Herculean mountains, draping their heavy forms for miles into the pink horizon, demand reverence for their greatness and consequent realization of my smallness in a world that prizes human accomplishment over humility. The beauty of nature rests somewhere within the wisdom it is whispering to us, on the evening breeze, in the forest and in the setting sun.