This morning somewhere between the fading grey of pre-dawn and the
first impact of the morning’s sun upon my eyes, I had sat down to
write a few paragraphs for my novel. After having done so, I was
thinking about various settings and places in the real world that
really could provide some breathtaking view.

I don’t know how many of the people that follow the goings on of this
community have ever been up into the Appalachian Mountain Chain,
specifically the Blue Ridge Mountains, that spring up with foothills
somewhere along the border of Alabama and Georgia, but it used to be
one of my favorite places to visit, especially right around this time
of year.

If you road-trip like I used to (solo, cross-country, and all in one
day), somewhere between Little Rock, Arkansas and Nashville, Tennessee
your mind starts to wander something fierce. The drive on I-40 across
eastern Arkansas and Western Tennessee is about as exciting as
painting a wall and watching it dry. The land is flat, desolate, and
right around Memphis, truly smells like the brimstone lined ground of
the sixth ring of hell might. It is dull, and a dry mental exercise
such that without the assistance of massive amounts of Mountain Dew or
No-doz, one simply feels like one’s brain will crash and burn.

Road hypnosis has one trapped inside one’s own head, and if it were
not for the wonderful tan and brown state troopers of Tennessee with
their eye-opening blue Vector light bars punctuating the road, the
possibility exists that one could end up driving forever, simply
shocked by the massive expanse of nothing.

After passing through Nashville, however, the landscape changes. There
are more trees, the ground is not simply flat anymore. The car seems
to rock as if cresting waves and riding them back down from the peaks.
The air turns a bit cooler as the general elevation of the land rises,
and for me, this is when the smile crosses my face.

Five or so hours later, my face usually breaks into a big grin as I
can finally get one of my favorite soft drinks, Cheerwine, in a
convenience store in Johnson City, right along the eastern edge of
Tennessee, and my last stop before heading in to the Appalachians
proper.

Of course, the directions to get to Boone are deceptively simple:
First go east to 321, then take 321 north. Boone is about 40 miles
northeast on 321. Simple. Deceptive. If one makes it to 321 anywhere
before five in the afternoon, that forty minute drive is likely to
take two hours.

321 is a mountain road, true to the idea that most movies inspire. It
is one lane, each way, almost all the way up the mountains. Like I
said before, if the rubber soles of the vehicle hit that road before
five in the evening, just plan on two hours. Usually, this is because
at one lane, each way, one ends up stuck behind an eighteen wheeler at
some point. The first time I travelled up this road, it happened five
minutes into my drive, and I spent three hours on the mountain road,
with no cellular service, and nothing to do except stare at the 8′x5′
ass-end of a big rig.

The road itself is the issue, the big rigs are stuck near third or
fourth gear (out of fifteen), because the grade is 15-20% in most
places. Going up that mountain is pure hell for one of those guys, but
it sure gives a guy a lot of time to think. The leaves on the trees
are turning red-orange-gold, with the wind whisking a few of them here
and there, swirling around the disruptions in the air.

A person has time to sit back, relax, and wonder about all of the
little mountain towns that he or she may pass through. The smattering
of brown leaves is just staring to appear, and if the windows get
rolled down for a smoke or a breath of fresh air, the chill that
arrived on the journey through eastern Tennessee turns into a
remarkable bite.

Of course, this place makes me happy. I have never known why. Perhaps
it is the freshness of the air, perhaps it is the unique chill that
always invites me to keep travelling, but for whatever reason, even
being stuck for two hours behind a tractor-trailor as the light
dwindles can not bring me down.

Whenever I arrive in Boone, the city always deceives me. I never quite
remember why I come. The light from its natural source is hidden
behind that of the artificial and inhuman streetlamps. That and Boone
itself is home to Appalachian State University, and it is as much of a
college town as any that panders solely to students, and has sprung up
in the middle of a virtual nowhere. For Texans, think College Station
in the mountains.

For me, there was always a bit farther to go. I never really enjoy
staying in college towns, so I truck myself to a view overlooking most
of Boone, to the Broyhill Inn. I discovered it my first time visiting
Boone because it was the only place that allowed me to make
reservations on-line. Checking in around 9pm, or later (because I
added an hour in there somewhere), after a day of driving that started
somewhere around 5am, I never really had much time to think. Simply
order a quick bite from room service and collapse into blissful,
non-driving slumber.

The first day in Boone is always the best, walking out and around the
Broyhill gives you such a perspective and such a glorious view of the
surrounding area and the town below, that the smile that had probably
been on my face through the previous night’s slumber probably, if
impossibly, grows even more.

The splash of color and the impact of the cold morning air is amazing,
and that, my friends is what really does it for me. Breathing cold
mountain air on a brisk fall day, while the sky is a blazing, electric
blue and the trees are every shade of red, orange, and yellow that any
painter could ever imagine mixing.

Breakfast on the first day, for me, is always quick – I never want to
be in town long, and I am usually awake before the College students
are. It means, for me, to stop at the world’s only two story
“Wendy’s”, and then off to explore the Blue Ridge Parkway.

The Blue Ridge Parkway is pretty much my life when I’m visiting Boone,
it gives me access to all of the sites of interest I care about, and
one could spend a day just driving it, and looking out across the
mountains. I usually make a stop and spend a day hiking along the
Appalachian Trail, one of the shorter loops, just outside Boone,
taking pictures and mostly just admiring the world around me.

I visit Blowing Rock, at least once, which I have no real description
for. One must simply visit and experience it. Blowing rock is not a
whole-day trip for me, though, so I usually do that in the morning and
head to Grandfather Mountain in the afternoon. Grandfather Mountain is
the highest peak in the Blue Ridge Mountains, and in my opinion, the
best thing about it is the bridge hung between the two peaks. The wind
is always blowing, and the bridge is always rocking back and forth -
which could be why it is called “The Swinging Bridge.”

Heading back to Boone about four or five in the afternoon, after a
long visit out and around the area, I am usually once again exhausted,
but enjoy the experience of seeing the sun set, and the long shadows
of the mountains make the drive dark, but the sky bright. The shadows
echo through the sky and you can always trace them back to their
beginnings.

I usually don’t make any effort to find food on the days I hike or
take long scenic drives, but simply stop at whatever restaurant is
convenient. Toward the end of my visit, though, I do make one special
effort – Visiting the Dan’l Boone Inn. The food is limited in choice,
but superior in quality, and anyone who loves a good country dinner is
well-fed and happy by the time they leave. They don’t take
reservations, but beware arriving too late, because the wait can be
atrocious.

Leaving Boone, when I do, never makes me sad. I know I will return,
and feel the same way I do once again. The people in and around the
town remind me of what Texas lost when the big northern companies
moved here, and Dallas became urbane and much more cosmopolitan.

I never miss Boone. I can always see it in my heart when I’m searching
for a breathtaking view.

My nemesis (nemeses, perhaps) are Embraer regional jets – specifically the ERJ-135, 140, and 145s that American Eagle flies. It’s not that they are bad jets, really – it’s just that more than any other plane other than the DC-9s that Northwest still flies, their cabin configuration is just horrid. With a 2+1 seating arrangement and so little space between the seats that my knees are firmly set in the back of the chair in front of me before I even finish sitting, it’s no wonder that these little jets are the bane of my existence.

The fact is, though, that I’ve rarely been on a full flight. I think once I saw one at 75% capacity when I flew to Lexington from Dallas, but usually they’re half full – or less! Earlier this year I flew from Chicago to Ottowa, and there were three whole passengers on the flight. Sadly, I know exactly why American doesn’t reconfigure the planes: there’s no way it would be cost effective.

Of course I have no way of knowing what the cost would be to reconfigure the planes, exactly, but I can guess that there would be the cabin redesign, with figuring out how many seats to remove and how to reset them, the time and materials for doing it, the storage for the excess seats, and then the service rotation for the planes while the cabin is changed over. Even for one plane, that’s a chunk of change. After that, they’d need to configure the planes back for the end of lease cycle or for sale.

All of this, the logical knowledge of why something has not and likely will not be done really does not help my knees, though. I’m sure that with the time I spend in the air, and the raw, unadulterated affinity for capitalism shown by airlines, even the ones that I love to fly, there will be a solution.

I’m betting it comes in the form of $6 for a couple of extra-strength Tylenol served as an optional part of the beverage service.