Their Mountains are Older

“The Great Smokies are the largest single mountain range …”

So begins a quote from the Smoky Mountain News of Waynesville, NC, February 14, 2003. The sentence widens my eyes and a major objection commences in the back of my Colorado throat.

“… in Eastern North America.”

While calmed by the qualifier, I still roll my eyes at the tone of the claim.

The quote kicks off a mystery novel I just started, High Country Fall, by Margaret Maron.

Maron’s mysteries spill beyond the genre into literature. She has a way of capturing the modern rural south (no, it’s not an oxymoron) which makes you feel like you are there. When the primary character, Debra Knott, swelters in a North Carolina summer, the sweat drips down my back. When she chats with neighbors at a large community picnic, my mouth waters for the ham, fried chicken, and biscuits they eat.

I “did time” living in the south, pursuing my graduate degree 20 years ago, in Richmond, Virginia. To say perspectives vary between regions of the country is an understatement. For example, I couldn’t get used the Virginian reverence for war heros – I’m talking about the Civil War, which was fought over 140 years ago. Even in the artsy, hipster part of town called The Fan, Monument Avenue is dotted regularly with magnificent statues of Confederate generals. Stonewall Jackson was less than a block from my apartment. To hear some (not all, to be fair) Richmonders discuss the war, you’d think they were talking about events which happened to them personally. The bitterness against the North is, for some, as fresh as if the “the war of Northern aggression” were still being fought.

When I lived there, I bristled at being called a Yankee. I am from the West. My state didn’t exist during the War Between the States. That anyone from outside is considered a Yankee, no matter where they are from, relegated me to the status of foreign visitor. While always treated with courtesy, I would never outlive my outsider standing.

Not that I was always a paragon of tact and tolerance, myself. I didn’t make any friends by saying, for example, “The war is over. You lost. Get over it.”

The quote about the Smokies reminds me of my reaction to hearing Virginians extol the virtues of their own Blue Ridge Mountains.

Though technically not yet a Coloradoan, I looked down my long nose at the locals and told them that if they wanted to see real mountains, I’d be happy to take them up to, say, Trail Ridge Road in Rocky Mountain National Park.

While unable to deny that the Rockies are quite impressive, my friends in Richmond sniffed, “Your mountains may be bigger, but ours are older.” End of conversation.

I grew to appreciate those beautiful little eastern mountains, dripping with history and character. And I would recommend a drive along the Blue Ridge Parkway anytime.

Meanwhile, if anyone from back east would like to see some snow, in July, at 13,000 feet, just give me a call.