Asheville ridgelines

Twilight from downtown Asheville

The road opened after an hour of twists in the Pigeon River gorge. Drivers don’t get to admire the river; this road demands attention. The first drive on this stretch of Interstate 40 generates shock – the threat of rock slides, the inability to safely drive more than 55 mph on some curves, the line of trucks restricted to the right lane.

On the second trip, there’s less surprise, maybe a slight overreaction at memory of the curves and climbs. From 20 minutes out, as we descended one incline, I swore I saw Asheville’s collection of vintage Art Deco low-rise buildings gleaming in a patches of sun that occasionally broke through the rain clouds.

Then road passes more easily as Asheville rushes in. Driving by on the interstate gives no indication of the city itself. No one gets away with a glimpse; this city demands time. With myriad channels of exploration, the time you have won’t cover enough ground. That is the truth of Asheville, 80,000-plus strong and nestled in foothills between rolling walls of Blue Ridge and Smoky Mountains. Long ago someone dubbed it Land of the Sky; no reason exists to argue that name.

Our cabin

Land of Limitless Diversions would be equally fitting. We contemplated the Biltmore, the botanical gardens, the Thomas Wolfe House, the Western NC Nature Center and a half-dozen other places but run short on time.

Before we entered the city, we headed south to our cabin. Nancy’s searches netted us a cabin at Willow Winds, a development in the Blue Ridge foothills. It’s within walking distance of the Mountain to Sea Trail and the Blue Ridge Parkway. The hillside setup provides ample privacy; outside of the resort office and people fishing at the pond below our cabin, we barely saw anyone.

View from the back porch

After some diversions along industrial roads and a long arts district near the French Broad River, we found our way up to downtown’s rolling hills. On a Saturday with the mercury in the 50s, Downtown Asheville crackled with energy, sidewalks thick with all ages and stripes.

With St. Patrick’s Day on Thursday, people were still decked out in all shades of green. An easy drive from Charlotte and other nearby cities, the blocks were teeming with residents and visitors. Buskers drummed and strummed from designated corners. The silent obelisk of the Zebulon Vance Monument stood over the masses. Downtown also claims the Moog Music Factory, where the famous synthesizers are constructed (next time in Asheville, we will take a tour).

We had trouble finding a restaurant that wasn’t booked till 10, a chain, a bar or packed to the gills, forcing us to wander amid growing hunger. Nancy spotted a sign for Himalayan food, and we immediately found home. Even when somewhat full, the Kathmandu Café was a quiet place with high ceilings and décor indicative of Nepal and Tibet. Hot tea and goat curry more than sated any hunger. Nancy had a sampler befitting a country half a world away.

After descending from the Kathmandu Café we wandered downtown again, burning off some of the giant meal. At a sparsely stocked record store I plucked one gem from the used-record bins – Sandy Denny’s Like an Old-Fashioned Waltz. Outside the day was waning and the crowds only thickened. A stop at the Asheville Wine Market earned our admiration for its fine section of German and Austrian wines; the clerk chuckled when we told him the best place to find gruner veltliner in Nashville wine stores was often in the Australian section. A few of their select zweigelts and Austrian blends made the drive home with us.

 Nancy did some research and found a different place for an after-dinner drink. Noble Cidery was on an inauspicious road in western Asheville. The spacious taproom was not as full as the parking lot hinted, and we quickly found a standing spot. A band played Irish tunes while we had a sampling of eight ciders. Noble served a number of innovative ciders, mostly dry and running through a full range of flavors. The best moments came from the Hoppy Peach, Hoppy Wit and one cider that was also brewed with Montmorency cherries for added tartness. We left with a growler of Hoppy Peach, our clear favorite.

Cider happiness

Although we often pack our vacation days, Saturday ended quietly, with the two of us enjoying the placid cabin porch on a quiet, balmy night. The quiet was worth staying a little outside Asheville.

Morning eased into the bedroom, dawn’s light emerging later on eastern time. The Blue Ridge foothills around the cabins opened spring gently. Bluebirds sat in the pines while a lone mallard floated in the trout pond below our cabin. We could enjoy the scene privately from the cabin deck. Later in the day we would see that winter remained assertive at the southeast’s highest elevations.

Before the Sandburg home

An overcast Sunday followed us, but silver linings lied everything. For breakfast, the Beatles-themed Mean Mr. Mustard’s Express suited us perfectly. Our table had a mat from a Meat the Beatles LP and a tapestry of John Lennon playing guitar. The tomato-infused mulligatawny and entrees named after Beatles songs didn’t hurt.

South of  Hendersonville lies the Carl Sandburg Home National Historic Site, the first park unit dedicated to an America poet. Sandburg spent the last 20 years of his life here, writing more than one-third of his published work. His wife raised a herd of award-winning goats. The Sandburgs’ three daughters and several grandchildren also lived at the house.

Sweet goats

 A dam-formed pond on a small creek greeted visitors, with the Sandburg house, Connemara, seated on the overlooking hillside. The Sandburg grounds are free for hikers and mingling with its resident goats. The park service charges a nominal fee for tours, and our enthusiastic ranger guide didn’t scrimp on details of the Sandburgs’ daily lives.

Looking north from the front porch, several lines of Blue Ridge peaks poked above the Flat Rock treeline. I imagined the view from a half-century ago, at the end of Sandburg’s days, when shorter pines would have made the mountain vistas more spectacular, to say nothing of what the home’s previous owners looked upon in the 19th century.

Loitering in the barnyard

While the home undergoes a renovation, all Sandburg’s possessions have been removed. Their absence doesn’t matter, since the house remains fascinating. To realize we stood in the room where one of America’s greatest poets worked (and another room where he died) was enough. The house dated to the 1840s, when a future Confederate cabinet secretary built his mansion there.

Sandburg Home from the lake below

 The Sandburgs converted former slave quarters to different uses, including an overflow library. The basement housed various antique laundry equipment and a massive stove the Sandburgs moved from Michigan even though it never worked in North Carolina. The basement also had special goat-sized entryways so Mrs. Sandburg’s goats had free run.

Petting the Sandburg goats

The tour concluded, we headed toward the farm’s living connection to the Sandburgs – the Connemara Farms goat herd, which includes Nubian, Saanens and Toggenburgs. Every goat on the farm has a genetic connection to those raised by Mrs. Sandburg. We missed the newborns by a few weeks. .Several of the females were pregnant. Occasionally they skirmished with each other. Most were eager for pets. One took a liking to my shirt and attempted to nibble on the seams.

Once they realized we had no food to offer them, the goats largely left us alone but still accepted gentle petting. As the volunteer overseeing the herd told us, the first drop of rain was enough impetus for them to want to run back into the barn. Soon the sky unleashed a steady, early spring rain that proved cold but refreshing. The volunteers loaded the troughs with hay and the goats swarmed.
Even as the rain hastened, several goats braved the drops to feed at the outdoor trough. As we wound through the woods back toward the house and pond, the canopy blocked every drop.

Without firm plans, our drive back to Asheville delivered us to the Blue Ridge Parkway. For years I have dreamt of completing the entire 469-mile span. On visits to the Great Smoky Mountain and Shenandoah national parks, I have seen the roads’ two termini. We passed close to the BRP in Roanoke.

Hazy shade of winter on the Blue Ridge Parkway

On this rainy Sunday we clicked off a few miles of the parkway, enough for a glimpse of its heights, tunnels and curves. East of the Asheville visitor center we stopped on the gentle curve, a hollow thousands of feet below us. Construction closed the parkway a few miles from the visitor center and near Great Smoky Mountain National Park to the east. The eastern closure effectively blocked passage to Craggy Gardens and Mount Mitchell State Park, two of the BRP’s biggest attractions. At the parkways higher elevations, snow complicated travel.

Up in the snow

We headed for Mount Pisgah, a reasonable 20 miles from the Asheville junction. East of the French Broad, traffic vanished but we never reached Mount Pisgah. From its French Broad crossing the parkway rose steeply. By the time we exceeded 3,000 feet and wound through six tunnels, the rain turned to snow. By 3,200 feet it stuck to the grass and the temperature hovered near freezing. We turned around a few miles shy of Mount Pisgah, views blunted by dense fog that start at the road’s edge. Our car could not compete with late March snowstorms on the BRP. Once again at 2,000 feet the rain moved off.

For all the restaurants in town, the call of the patio was strong. We chose to grill out on our patio and enjoy our short stay in the cabin, loading up the grate with Greek chicken burgers and kabobs. In the pond below, several people landed trout which they dutifully threw back into the rippling waters.

Unexpected cold nights demand a dip in the porch’s hot tub. It relaxed me to where I stayed awake just minutes into a movie we started shortly after the comforting dip. The snowstorms did not stop at WNC’s high elevations. The wind roared through the cabins’ hillside forest, pushing the weather away but not colder temperatures. The weather closed Mount Mitchell State Park, home to the largest peak east of the Rockies. That blocked our way to some of the small towns we considered exploring.

French Broad Overlook, BRP

 So we set out for a few small towns north of Asheville. We passed through Mars Hill, most of downtown occupied by its namesake university, where one of my favorite English professors taught. The founders of Marshall cut away just enough rock to build a small downtown on the French Broad. Nancy’s Mom’s family, the Penlands, had a long history in this patch of North Carolina. In Marshall, our visit to Penland’s General Store was brief and we resumed our drive, the highway cresting to where we could see the full crown of mountains ringing Asheville. Only in Weaverville did we find a break, enjoying a lunch of crepes and artisan sodas.

At the Grove Arcade, a 1920s-era architectural gem, numerous small shops and food vendors enliven the space. Envisioned as the first phase in a signature building for Asheville – a 15-story tower was intended to rise from the center until the Arcade’s millionaire developer died – it remains a key piece in the city’s striking architecture and an outlet for small business.

Our hotel was down the street from the Orange Peel, where Tortoise played later that night. An unexpected upgrade to a mountainview room placed us on the sixth floor. I can’t speak enough about that view. In the morning, I watch the birds, mostly pigeons and crows, roost in high branches. They did not have sole province of the skies over Asheville – a lone hot-air balloon drifted along the peaks to the west. At dusk the rough jawbone of ridges was silhouetted by a sunset worthy of Mountain West. As the reason behind our Asheville trip, the Tortoise concert would cap our visit.

Jackson Building, Pack Square

But first, an afternoon libation was in order. First we stopped at Pack’s Tavern, an old warehouse renovated into a nice bar. We also picked a brewery from the multitudes across downtown - Wicked Weed, which has a full-service bar and restaurant upstairs with a more intimate taproom with a bigger beer list downtowns. We took the staircase and that made all the difference. We sampled some sours, saisons and New Zealand-hopped IPAs over a bison Caesar salad and fish and chips.

The Orange Peel is a simple but effective venue, rated one of the nation’s best by some publications. The general admission venue has good lines of sight from everywhere, big spaces along the walls for merchandise and drink stations and a relaxed contributed to a good concert atmosphere.

Opening act Mind Over Mirrors, a one-man band, played from the middle of the audience floor. What we heard of his ambient textures were intriguing but probably not sustainable for a full-length concert.

The opener had little choice due to Tortoise’s elaborate setup – multiple drum kits, multiple xylophones and other instruments ready for momentary deployment. Band members changed instruments on almost every song. This wasn’t a gimmick, but an intrinsic part of Tortoise’ live show. I only knew a handful of albums from Tortoise. Nancy insisted that Tortoise delivered an intense, entertaining live show. She was correct.

Tortoise at the Orange Peel

Don’t ask me the names of any songs. Don’t ask how they deviated from the studio tracks. Don’t ask me any band members’ names. They rotated instruments, including the occasional two-drummer songs. Every band member took a turn on different sets of xylophones. Guitarists switched off for bass, and vice versa. The group went without vocals. Aside from a few lapses, they also went without banter. Since they usually let the music speak for them, this lack of audience interaction didn’t bother me. The band adjourned to let the audience stew before returning for two encores. After such an energetic set and the frequent instrument changes, one can forgive them for their fatigue.

Emerging from the Orange Peel, we found a deserted Asheville. Aside from a lone group of buskers asking if we wanted to hear a Tortoise song, Biltmore Avenue business all went dark. A single “open” sign beckoned us to the Foggy Mountain Brewpub, a pleasant bar with many local taps and a strong late-night menu. When exiting Foggy Mountain, the night had grown quiet, the air chilly and an evening of standing taxed our legs, so sleep came easily as the ridges lightened the horizon

 After checking out the next morning, we crossed the street for a parting mug of coffee from Double D’s, a 1960s-era English double-decker bus parked in a courtyard and converted into a coffeeshop. While patrons sat at stone tables in the courtyard, the tables on the second level of the bus were our big attraction. We passed the novelty multiple times on Saturday afternoon and could call no Asheville trip complete without a sipping a coffee on the second deck. I bumped my head and elbows more times than worth remembering, but we had our coffees and breakfasts in the relative quiet of the upper deck.

We were leaving, but the Double D’s would hold its ground and would feel the warmth of the sunlight radiating through its windows until far into Tennessee.

In this case, the best bus doesn't run