The opportunities for photographing fall foliage were as good as I’d hoped they’d be. The wonderful thing about taking pictures in the Blue Ridge Mountains is, if your not happy with the amount of color that’s showing, just drive to a different elevation!
In the process of traveling nearly to Tennessee, nearly to Virginia, and getting lost in and around Asheville, a number of experiences left strong impressions. I’d like to share three of them, about a road, a residence, and a restaurant.
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The road is the Blue Ridge Parkway, the most unusual strip of asphalt I’ve ever been on. It angles across the western part of the state, following the Blue Ridge Mountains well into Virginia. It has no highway number and is thinly drawn on all but specialty tourist maps. On Google Maps, it’s visible only under very high magnification. I can think of just one reason why it gets such obscure treatment: it’s not considered a road! It’s actually classified as a “linear park” and, in fact, it’s maintained by the National Park Service.
Work on the Parkway began in 1935. The project was shared between private contractors and a number of New Deal agencies. It wasn’t until 1987 that the full 469 miles of it were open. I think we might have driven half of that, and in all that distance I saw no roadside services whatsoever. No gas stations, no restaurants, no rest stops with toilets. So if you haven’t been advised to pack a lunch and pull off at Information Centers (for non-informational emergencies), you have no choice but to exit the Parkway from time to time. And there’s another rub: it’s not all that easy to get off. Sometimes there are dozens of miles between exits. Furthermore, if you’re not from the area, you get off blind. That is, you have no idea what services you’ll find, if any, when you exit. It would be different if commercial placards were placed near exits, but they are also disallowed.
There are reasons, however, to smile at these inconveniences and think of them as tradeoffs. For example, I saw no speeders because taking the Parkway is the worst way to get anywhere on time. I saw no patrol cars or tour buses, no trucks or commercial vehicles. There was only the trees and the mountains and dozens of scenic overlooks. In the end, I became a believer: the road really is a linear park.
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The most popular attraction in Asheville is Biltmore Estate, a property of 8,000 acres that includes a mansion (modestly called Biltmore House), a French garden, an English garden, a conservatory, farmlands, woods, a pond, and a lagoon. The house is gargantuan, the largest privately owned residence in the U.S. It has 250 rooms that cover just under 180,000 square feet. In driving through the woods toward the house, I could only think, “This is the forest primeval, the murmuring pines and the hemlocks, bearded with moss, and in garments green, and some rich bastard owns it!”
When you park in one of the remote lots and take a jitney to the house, the driver reels off a good deal of information about the estate and its creator, George Washington Vanderbilt II, but he does not and cannot address the most interesting question of all. Why? Why does any person use wealth this way? I feel sure that George W. thought himself a “prince of a man,” literally, but that’s hardly an excuse for such a grotesque use of money.
I suppose the answer must have something to do with the context in which the estate was created. George W. was from a family afflicted by the need for ostentation. His seven siblings all built gaudy homes. You might even think they were in competition. It wasn’t long after George W. started building that his oldest brother, Cornelius Vanderbilt II, implemented plans for The Breakers, a 70-room mansion in Newport, Rhode Island. Beyond the family context, there’s the historical context. This was, after all, the Gilded Age, the time when a class of superrich Americans emerged. Erecting a “summer cottage” in Newport was a statement that your family belonged to this class. A sociologist might conclude from this phenomenon that when huge concentrations of personal wealth develop, the imbalance expresses itself in acts that are crass and socially irresponsible. Thankfully, those days are well behind us now. May they never return.
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About 50 miles northeast of Asheville, no more than a stone’s throw from the Blue Ridge Parkway, lies the small town of Linville Falls. Its proximity to the Parkway makes it an excellent base for leaf explorations. The only problem is, it’s not Asheville, where you can get breakfast at the Waffle House, lunch at Applebee’s, and dinner at T.G.I. Friday’s. In Linville Falls, there’s only one place to eat, a roadside diner with the unlikely name of Famous Louise’s Rockhouse Restaurant.
Louise’s is very nearly an eyesore, a ramshackle building with flagstones on its sides (hence the “Rockhouse”). According to our innkeeper, it dates back at least 80 years, when Louise’s father bought it. On the two nights we ate there, our hostess was Louise’s daughter. The famous Louise did not put in an appearance.
When we entered on the first night, I had the sense that a large family celebration was in progress, but I didn’t feel like an intruder. We were seated not far from the fireplace which, according to literature at the table, was at the exact intersection of Avery, Burke, and McDowell counties. I wondered whether this fact had any cosmic significance. Perhaps my fried trout would be delivered through a wormhole. No, as it turned out. The waitress brought it, along with three complimentary hush puppies. (I later discovered that all entrees come with complimentary hush puppies.)
The trout was delicious but the baby back ribs on the following night were out of this world. I ordered them with sweet potato fries, which seemed the perfect side dish. Linda ordered the same, as did a woman at the next table. As I was enjoying my meal, I saw her reach to her right and produce her own personal bottle of honey. She removed the seal and drizzled honey all over her fries. I wonder how many North Carolinians pack their own honey.
Toward the end of the meal, I had to clarify something that had been bothering me for two days. When the waitress brought the check, I asked, “Is Louise famous in her own right, or is it really the restaurant that’s famous?” “Well,” she said, “The restaurant is famous, and Louise is famous, too, because of the restaurant.” OK, I thought, this is a case of a misplaced modifier. For a second, I considered discussing it with Louise’s daughter, but then I thought better of it. If you’re ever in Linville Falls, be sure to give Louise’s Famous Rockhouse Restaurant a try.
Here are the pictures I took on the trip.
The Scratching Post 