We own a very small piece of property on the top of a mountain in North Carolina. It's beautiful there. Lush green trees cover the winding roads that lead up to the top. The first time I was there it had nearly impassible, narrow, overgrown, weedy and we had to use a four wheel drive vehicle to get there. But when I got there I was hooked.
Off in the distance there are more mountains. The colors change the farther away it is. Way, way, in the distance they were almost a deep purple. All around me the sounds and sights of nature flooded my senses. The deep earthy smell of fallen branches and leaves released with each step I took. My big black dog sat there like the king of the mountain, now tired from chasing rabbits or whatever other wild creature he found. I knew then and there I was at home. It just hit me, the beauty, the quiet, the isolation, and the feeling that I was a small part of all of this overwhelmed me.
I felt a sense of stepping back in time. I wondered if I had stepped on the same soil that someone years ago had walked. They must have walked because I doubt that a horse could get up the steep inclines. Or maybe they followed trails made by animals. Had anyone ever had a cabin up there? Possibly a trapper lived there with his wife. Gnawing a life from from the land, having children, loving, and living. I was awed at the thought of it.
Of course anywhere in the mountains of North Carolina is like stepping into the past.
So that's when I knew it. I was home. Someday god willing I will be able to build a home there, living with the ghosts of the past and hoping they will share my mountain and let me make history too.