Lake Lure is back to full pond and the beach will soon re-open. Chimney Rock Village is making a miraculous comeback. Once again, the rocky Broad River is the place to picnic, and wade, and walk on the rocks. The restaurants and shops and state park are thriving once more. Hallelujah!
To celebrate today, I share a memory from a few years ago. A memory of my favorite mountain stream. Are you ready? Come on and join me:
The clear mountain water caresses the ancient river rocks, then rushes onward. Soon the water will join a river and rush to the sea. But at this moment, this stream is healing me.
My upright aluminum lawn chair, balanced carefully between rocks, is my therapy couch. I sit and savor the healing power of a mountain stream. The smooth river rocks massage my aching feet, stiff and sore from sprinting through life. Chilling water revives my senses as it splashes onto my legs. I scoop a handful and splash it onto my face and bare chest.
“Honey, are you okay?” My wife, Kay, stands atop the bank of the creek bed, arms crossed. Her eyes are squinting with concern into the shadows.
“Yep, I’m good,” I smile, “And getting better by the moment.”
She nods, relieved. “I love you.”
“I love you, too, babe.” She stands a moment longer, shaking her head with an amused look. Then she turns and strolls back to our campsite.
For a musician, the symphony of sound around me is a balm to my weary soul. The stream’s low roar pulses with a bass ostinato to accompany the gurgling chords and the melodic zither of water slipping by. Birds in the oak trees lining the stream sing with the symphony. From the nearby campground, the laughter of children provides a countermelody. I close my eyes and become the audience.
“Hey mister, whatcha doing sittin’ out there?” I open my eyes to discover two 10-year-old boys staring at me, puzzled. Shirtless and barefoot, with worn cut-off jeans, they both carry mini fishing rods. One holds a small trout in his bare hand.
I smiled. “Oh, I’m just sitting here soaking up the wonder of this stream.”
They glance at each other, then back at me. “That’s weird,” one of them whispers. They turn and sprint away.
Kay and I have returned to Timberlake Campground outside Whittier, North Carolina. As a child and a teen, my family spent a week here every summer. Those days were rich in campground friendships with abundant adventures playing in this stream, swimming in the lake, or walking the mountain trail. Family day-trips to Cherokee and Gatlinburg, and tubing down Deep Creek were the super glue that bound our family together to endure challenges the future would bring.
But on this day, everything has changed. I am a father myself—a busy man with responsibilities piled on both shoulders. My world rolls around and over me with a crushing power that far outweighs the power of a stream. But this stream provides the healing I desperately need. In a moment of inspiration, I pull my new digital camera from the pocket of my Bermuda shorts and snap a photo. For years to come, I will stare at this photo and recall this day, and the healing power of sitting in the stream.
Nowadays, I’m a grandfather. My mom and dad have set up camp in the great campground in the sky. Kay and I retired and moved to a mountain near Bat Cave several years ago. There are mountain streams all around us. My new favorite is sitting in my old aluminum chair on the shore of Lake Lure Beach. Or dipping my toes in the Broad river as it feeds the lake.
I am home.