Tar Heel Memories
By Bill Weekes
Ode To
The Parkway
Phe writer offers plenty of reasons to celebrate the
Bine Ridge Parkway's 60th birthday this year.
О
nr fine «lav in early 1992 I
ami' across an intriguing
topographical «hawing that
made a natural, inan-niade phenome¬
non come to hie l«»i me — almost like
seeing it from an airplane. Soon there-
altei I visited this phr, lonienon. a
pl.ne I had pretty well ignoied lot 20
yeats. a pl.ne no more than 90 mill-
tiles Irotn home In car: tin- Bine Ridge
Parkwav.
Hie I’arkwav. which began life
(И)
years ago. immediately caught mv
fancy: her discreet denial of nnneces-
san "makeup.- like gaiiclx signs and
billboards: her fete hing abundanc e ol
grccnety. arching invitingly ovet
uncomplicated, clean-cut lines.
We became fast friends — fast.
T«> keep
«ни
relationship viable and
vibrant. I see hei often. We may meet
in Asheville, where she can lead me
uoitli toward Mitchell, oi south
toward I'isgah. We may uieei neat
I.inville f alls, when- I mav set sights loi
the ( )ld Dominion. Sometimes I board
her atop I'isgah Forest, above Brevard,
and turn ev es south. Whic hev«-r wav.
I ii >iii whatevei point, she iievei disa|>-
poiills me — alwavs siipplving some
siugulai highlight, alwavs revealing
some idiosyncrasy.
Tlioroughlv libei aieil. slu* geneiouv
l\ gives ol heisell: lestive lloweis in Sea¬
son: a diversity of birds (up to 100
specie's during spring migration) and
inammah lot all seasons. Willi lloweis
she's a Iretsome flux, certain species
dominating hot roadside one week,
others being queen of the hill the
next. With lur and feather, she pre¬
sents a meal of grazing «leer, hat leling
ground hogs. Mooting ruffed grouse
and soaring hawks.
Conliniiallv. she invites me. tempts
me. invokes me to a closer intimacy.
Stop and get to know me. she seems to
sav. her modest markers pinpointing
where most ol her 175 nature trails
uoss over, oi emanate Iroin this 169-
mile I’arkwav that encompasses 80.000
acres and runs from Waynesboro.
Yiigini.i, to ( Iherokee.
Sometimes I don't wait, hut rush to
hei heloie the break of day so as to get
the jump to a specific destination by
dawn's early light. Like on one August
Thoroughly
liberated,
she generously
gives of herself:
festive flowers in
season; a diversity
of birds and
ma mmals for all
seasons.
night. Night stimulates contemplation
and accentuates the Parkway's aura of
remoteness. Mv headlights, gliding
like a Ik-.icoii through the- inkiness.
lighten leaves and blanch branches
zipping past mv window. I'm gripped,
for an instant, by the* naive presump-
tion that I'm blazing some sort of trail.
But I know belter. This trail — now a
dark, vellow-siriped asphalt "carpet"
unfolding before me — was blazed
long ago by scores of engineers, land¬
scape architects and hand lalxirers.
The Parkway was bom out ol three
instances of fate: a Depression, a time
politicallv ri|M* for useful governmen¬
tal work projects: a general dream foi
a scenic highway to exist one clay that
would extend over the mountains
from Virginia's Shenandoah Valley to
the (heat Smokies; and the enthusi¬
asm engendered In a powerful propo¬
nent of the Parkway in a man never
timid about pushing new ideas:
Franklin I). Roosevelt.
By an act ol Congress, construction
on the Parkway Ix-gan in 1936. and it
was still being laid out in little spots
here and there until the completion of
l-inn Cove Viaduct in 1987.
Draped over the wheel one August
night, I ease* the car into a pocket of
fog. I he silhouette of a cottontail pops
up 1 reside the road. I would later spot
a loping skunk, the glow picking up its
stri|M‘s. During daylight hours
П1
spot
ground hogs galore, squeezing
between rocky ledges or dodging
behind mounds of grass as I slow my
саг
foi a better look-sec-.
Mile markers help pinpoint wildlife
habitats — like the roadside along
Mile 268 early one March, where I
flushed my first ruffed grouse, and
where I would lake photos ol it on two
subsequent occasions because I knew
where to slow down the next time (and
next) and lx- on the lookout.
An hour aftei seeing "('.rouse 268“
the first lime. I came upon a flock ol
turkeys streaming over the tree-tops
along Mile 249 near I-iiirel Springs. I
pulled oil and got out. and was able to
s|xit one gobblei high in a tree. The
turkey whittings and duckings contin¬
ued for some minutes. A few hours
later, as I returned to the same mile
marker. I slowed down, keeping my
eye peeled. Sure enough. I spied two
turkeys sauntering along a dirt trail,
the afternoon sun glistening off their
feathers as they ambled into the- deep¬
ening shadows of the forest.
For me. top wildlife billing goes to
The Slate/Junc im
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