The Blue Ridge Parkway is, quite simply, driving at its
best. I picked up the parkway at
Asheville, North Carolina, on one of its little connecting turnoffs marked with
a discreet sign, and at once entered another world. There are no streetlights on the Blue Ridge Parkway,
no towns, no shops, no trucks, no billboards; there is only the perfect
two-lane country road curving gently through the bosom of Appalachian mountain farmland,
on and on, at a steady contemplative 45 mph.
“Parkway” is the perfect word for it, as the whole experience is well-arranged: turnouts for views are solid, frequent and labeled, campgrounds and
visitor centers appear regularly, various “attractions” are provided on the route like reconstructed
log cabins and mills from the 19th Century. It's a bit artificial: no matter. The experience is the
drive, and the soft hum of tires through a lace of shade on the smooth blacktop,
as on the right another vista opens over the Blue Ridge mountains in oceanic pastels,
and on the left a hillock meadow appears like the smooth green skin of a grape,
reminds you of why we have cars in the first place. Sometimes you have to exit the parkway and
return to regular roads—for food, for gas.
You don’t want to.
As far as mountain drives go, the great quality I found in
the Blue Ridge mountains was quietness.
Where the Sierra Gordo of Mexico seemed newly reared from the Earth and almost
still in motion, the wooded ridges and valleys of Appalachia speak of the peace
of long immobility. These shapes are
here, they seemed to say, and will be for a long time. The range reminded me of a room of furniture put
under tented green cloths for long storage.
The day of their renewed movement is not yet come.
Car note: the Blue Ridge Parkway is a dream drive for a convertible,
and I’ve never seen so many out on the road.
Mustangs, BMWs, Audis, Porsches, little GM roadsters, all with their
tops down and drivers’ hair blowing in the 70-degree Labor Day sunshine—plus enough
Miatas to form a club. I had a Miata
conversation at one overlook with some guys who pulled their silver NB Mazdaspeed
in next to me; they commiserated over my dent.
This is to say nothing of all the motorcycles—and, yes, bicycles. You need to bring the right car to the Blue Ridge Parkway, and I was glad I had one. By Monday evening my open-air company was mostly all gone,
and on Tuesday Pepin and I practically had the vistas to ourselves.
It was nice to set up my tent and camp again!
My campground, at Daughton State Park, in the morning
The Mabry Mill, one of the Parkway attractions
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