Ourland

There is magic in Haywood County. Real magic. No one can convince me otherwise. My wife, Caitlin, and I lived from early 2018 until this past April. During those first months after our arrival, I drove backroads that wound through the county like rattlesnakes, from Cruso to Waynesville to Fines Creek and everywhere in between. I was awestruck by the beauty up every tight mountain road, down every shady holler. Haywood felt like a wonderful secret hidden from the rest of the world. A secret we’d stumbled upon by sheer good fortune. 

I’ve spent a lot of time in the Blue Ridge Mountains, mostly around Roanoke, where Caitlin grew up. But there’s something more grandiose about the mountains in Haywood. These are the Smokies, after all, a name simmering with mystery and power. It calls to mind early-morning fog rolling through the valley, wrapping log cabins in a misty embrace. The Smokies are simply more foreboding than the comparatively rolling hills of the Shenandoah Valley (our new home), where there are significant stretches of openness, and the mountains, though quite large, often feel far off. Not so in Haywood. Living there, you become the mountains. There’s no other choice. They’re right there in front of you no matter what part of the county you’re in. They burrow into your veins the moment you see them, nuzzle close like grandmother to grandchild. The warmth I felt when I first saw them never dissipated, merely solidified into reverence. I’ll doubt I’ll ever stop being moved by their beauty.

The warmth I felt when I first saw them never dissipated, merely solidified into reverence. I’ll doubt I’ll ever stop being moved by their beauty.

I’ve never felt more isolated yet synchronized with the universe as I did while wading the wide pools of the Pigeon River in the Shining Rock Wilderness. That was my first Haywood love. The rocks are smooth and slick up there, the water cold and pure, even during muggy Appalachian summers. There would be many more Haywood love affairs to follow. The winding drive through Fines Creek towards Max Patch was another one. We eventually bought a home out there and met the kindest neighbors we ever could’ve asked for. The views in that part of the county are stunning. There’s one stretch of road going toward Waynesville where you descend a large hill and all of a sudden a perfectly-framed vista of far-off mountains appears before you like a mirage. I was stunned the first time I saw it. It seemed like an image that could only be seen in the American West. Yet here it was, five minutes from my home. The drive from Waynesville to Canton on 276 gave me that same kind of heady feeling, too. Like this was a lush green wonderland where sprites floated silently in the treetops. Like residing anywhere else meant missing out on all this surrealistic wonder. Like Haywood was the heart of enchantment.

I had to pinch myself. I couldn’t believe we lived in such an idyllic place. A place that boasted the likes of Max Patch and Black Balsam Knob, those wide-open balds at great heights, untouched panoramic mountains on all sides like lush green waves frozen mid-churn. The ancientness (500 million years old, give or take) so close yet so unfathomable. And Caitlin and I standing dumb in the middle of it all, tiny yet grateful.

Why, then, did we move away? Here I am professing my undying love for Haywood County, yet we departed after only five years. That’s not nearly enough time to start calling ourselves locals. That takes, on the short end, 30 years. Even that might be an underestimate, considering some families have been here for generations.

Like so many things, our decision boiled down to life circumstances. Caitlin and I have a toddler, Conley, and no family close to Haywood. We made some friends in WNC, of course, but being six hours from family, especially with a child and my mother-in-law in bad health in Virginia, was taking a toll. In 2020, we bought a rancher on 16 acres in Fines Creek. We were sure we’d found our forever home. I daydreamed of playing with Conley on the mountain behind our house as he grew up. We’d make so many memories there. He’d come to appreciate the rustic magic of his childhood home. It was set in stone. This is how the future would unfold.

  

We were sure we’d found our forever home. I daydreamed of playing with Conley on the mountain behind our house as he grew up.

Within two months, we were living in Staunton, Virginia, a quaint town of 25,000 in the Shenandoah Valley. The move happened so quickly I still haven’t fully processed it. Caitlin got a rare job opportunity. Better paying, closer to family. One interview, two interviews, a third. All of a sudden she had the job. Are we really doing this? Uprooting our entire lives in a month? Alright then. Pack up and make arrangements. No time to reflect, just move. Find renters for our not-so-forever home. Find a new place to live in Virginia.  Don’t think, just do do do.

The flurry of cold logistics left me numb until the day before we were supposed to leave. The house was an empty shell of the home it had once been. The moving guys were arriving in less than 12 hours. When they arrived they’d toss cardboard boxes full of memories onto the back of a Uhaul. This was the house (the home) we’d brought Conley back to after five weeks in the NICU, mush baby that he was back then. I thought about the great times we’d had in that house. The bad times, too. About how Conley would watch bugs crawl on the big picture window in the front room and say “Stinky! Stinky!” 

Standing in the kitchen washing dishes, surrounded by invisible memories of that empty home, I broke down. Full-on ugly-cried. It started as a trickle and became a flood. The emotions I’d been suppressing for weeks burst forth uncontrollably. I don’t cry often, so Caitlin was concerned. I tried to explain to her what I was feeling, which only made me sob more. The gist of it was that I didn’t want to leave, even though I wanted to leave, even though it was for the best, because look at the life we’d built here. Look at the Smokies outside our picture window, the way the fireflies twinkle over the pasture on warm summer nights. Are we really choosing to leave all of this behind?

Even now, four months after the move, I still consider Haywood home. This relocation feels more like an extended vacation. Like any day now we’ll return where we belong, on those 16 acres in Fines Creek. The image of Conley, now 8, now 14, running through the woods like a ghost. I have to pinch myself. We’ll return eventually, there’s no doubt about that. But Haywood will never be home again. At least not in the foreseeable future. I’m struggling with that truth more than I expected. Those mountains really did burrow into my veins.

We don’t regret going back to Virginia. I’m sure Staunton will feel like home one day. Like everything, it takes time. The mountains in the Shenandoah Valley are whimsical in their own way. Being closer to family has been nice, too. Yet I can’t shake the feeling that Haywood will always feel like the one that got away. A lover we’ll idealize in our memories, even if we have the chance to visit her every now and again. Even if we see her passing by like a ghost on a foggy Smoky Mountain morning, like some enchanting dream born only in our imaginations.