Uplifting Journey
by Alex McRae

The Book of Genesis tells us that, "In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth."

I wouldn't be surprised to hear He spent most of his time on the mountains.

Deserts inspire with their stark beauty, sweeping plains provide perspective, rolling seas calm the soul, but for my money, nothing lifts the spirits like a visit to the high country.

I envy those who live there and get to watch the sun prod the shadows from the valleys each morning and wave a pink farewell at day's end.

A recent weekend in the Blue Ridge Mountains reminded me of how much a change in altitude can change your attitude. New geography won't make your troubles disappear, but new surroundings can put your present problems on the back burner.

After a few hours in the hills, the hot spell back home was just a memory. Mountain morning temperatures flirted with the high forties and afternoon highs struggled to leave the seventies. The more precocious trees were already slipping on their fall foliage, dressing up for the coming flood of fall leaf-watchers.

Asheville was a pleasant surprise. I hadn't been in longer than I can remember, but it was easy to believe that whatever had changed had changed for the better. Buttoned-up professionals and gawking tourists mingled easily with the city's growing population of edgy young adults and new-age prophets.

Shopping surprises abounded, and the diverse mix of restaurants could keep everyone from a vegetarian to a steak lover happy for weeks without darkening the same door twice.

But while the village was quaint, it wasn't long before I was ready to hit the hills.

At mid-morning, the Blue Ridge Parkway was still bathed in shadows, a turning, twisting testament to the labors of those who scraped the mountainsides and blasted through solid rock to create a Depression-era project that became a national treasure.

Roadside viewing spots were frequent, and when the haze cleared, the never-ending vistas were enough to make your heart leap.

Some insist the Rockies are America's only "real" mountains. Not me. The Rockies are steal-your-breath beautiful, but remind me of rowdy teenagers eager to show off their muscles and spoiling for a fight, daring you to take them on.

The Appalachians are like comfortable friends who welcome you with open arms and invite you to sit a spell.

The Appalachians seem like home. It could be genetics. According to family historians, some time in the late 1700s, a group of McRaes who had worn out their welcome in the western highlands of Scotland, arrived at the coastal town of Wilmington, North Carolina.

Some stayed in Wilmington and made a go of it. Others sailed inland up the Cape Fear River. Others trudged west toward the mountains, settling as far north as Linville, where they purchased the land encompassing Grandfather Mountain, the highest peak in the Blue Ridge chain. Must have reminded them of the misty highlands back home.

My branch of the clan eventually wandered to southeast Alabama to take up farming, but I can see why my kinfolk loved those mountains so much. And why I feel so at home there today.

Psalm 121 says, "I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help."

I know how the author must have felt. All I can say is, "Amen, brother."