Scenes from our first mountain summer.
We walk in the evenings, for even in the mountains the days get warm. Once the sun falls past the ridge line, the valley releases into the cool of evening. A simple walk: up the road that leads to our house, up toward the meadow, where the valley floor accommodates a sloped pasture, where on the upper side grows hay, and on the far side the cattle graze.
Golden hour in the Appalachians sets the vista in theatrical light. The tops of the ridges bask in glow; straight down the valley, the broad shoulders of other ridges, still warm, fade into a deep green, then into orange, and then into shadow.
It is certainly warm enough to work up a sweat, but in the evening the settling temperatures tend to stir up a breeze more often than not, and this dappled wind is grace. You can hear it pour down from up the hill, rustling the leaves in a way that tricks your ears at first–is it a car? Is it a sudden rush of water?–before it greets your face. Out here, you can hear the breeze coming just like you can hear any cars long before they appear. Not much else makes much noise.
