Be Here Now
Mindfulness shines its light on the annual trip of a lifetime
The view from the top of the falls at Graveyard Fields. (Me)
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Be Here Now was a cozy bar/club in downtown Asheville in the 1990s, before Asheville became ASHEVILLE. Without chic or pretense, it hosted some of the finest young musicians in the country. Today, Be Here Now would be “discovered’’ by the New York Times, swallowed by social media and become just another stone on Asheville’s bling belt.
Then, it was just a bar with its own, unique vibe. Very much like the town itself. Be Here Now.
“What’s your favorite part of the trip?’’ Kelly asked me.
We sat atop the falls at Graveyard Fields on a perfect Friday afternoon. The mountains held us in embrace, water from the river shimmied past, down the rocks in a timeless cascade. Nothing was wrong. It seemed as if nothing would ever be wrong again. Be here now.
Favorite part? I didn’t know how to answer that. Perfection isn’t an objective; recognizing it is. Perfection can’t be ranked.
I answered as best I could. I settled on a lame response which amounted to “everything.’’
Frequent Perusers know my annual riff on going to the mountains with my son. We’ve done it 23 or 24 years in a row. I write about it every year. I’m entirely grateful you still want to read about it. Your appreciation saves this annual essay from being nothing more than naked self-indulgence. Thank you.
Best part?
It isn’t the surroundings, which stir the soul engine like the best artwork. It isn’t the challenge of taking 2,000 steps to ascend 50 floors and to do it without pause, which at age 66 is every bit as hard as it sounds. It’s not even the unspoken grace of a bond Kelly and I have been building for a quarter century.
It’s the knowing. That’s the best part.
We’re never far from mindfulness when we’re in the mountains. On this strip, mindfulness is a required act, no different from putting one boot in front of the other. There’s always another step.
Mindfulness implies appreciation, gratitude and a recognition of each. The mountains are a place to feel lucky and blessed. And to realize it, in the moment. Take what life gives, dwell in it, sing it to the stars. Be here now.
Reaching the top of the falls at Graveyard Fields requires a bit of gravity defiance. There’s no trail up there, no blue blaze. To get to the top, you summon some hope and look for things to hold onto.
Kelly wonders what I would tell people about this place.
“Don’t come here,’’ I said. Mindfulness can do without a bunch of other people in the photo.
“But if you do,’’ I began. If you do come here, I hope you see it with grateful eyes and with a heart that reminds you what’s good in the world. Which can be pretty much everything, up to and including a seat at the top a waterfall surrounded by beauty everlasting.
I made a mistake this year. I decided to own the moment, rather than yield to it. I was determined to be as up to the physical task as ever. I was going to tell the mountains a thing or two about me. It was an act of vanity. It was the wrong spirit.
Lookout, eternal. Aug. 9, 2024.
Climbing Lookout Mountain without stopping should not be the goal. Yielding to the mountain and allowing its magic should be the goal. I’ve been climbing Lookout for 60 years. It’s not something to be conquered. It’s not a notch in my belt. It’s too important to be trivialized that way.
“I wouldn’t make this trip without you,’’ Kelly tells me.
But he will. At least that’s the hope. He’ll bring his kid(s) to Graveyard Fields or the summit of Lookout and he will say, “grandpa and I started coming here 40 years ago.’’ And I will smile about that, whether I’m here or elsewhere, because I will know the blessing and wisdom of gratitude will not have been lost.
The mountains are an heirloom; their meaning is personal. The trip to mindfulness is a choice. Be here now.
TUNE O’ THE DAY. . . As good an expression of today’s essay as I can muster.
I enjoy the essay about your trip every year. And, your relationship with your son SHOULD be celebrated. My son and I share such a bond. We also travel a lot together but usually with (but not always) our significant others. Our moments are in celebration of our Cincinnati shared history. That’s kind of funny in that my son was not born in or ever lived in Cincinnati. He picked it up from his dad (me), and my dad. We have a shared passion for the Reds, Bearcats and Bengals. Whatever the reason, we share yearly trips…to an NCAA Regional b’ball sight in early Spring, sometimes Opening Day in Cincinnati, and for the past several years, an attempt to see all 30 MLB stadiums (We are down to 4 remaining to see.). I only tell you this because you mentioned your mistake of trying to “conquer” that mountain. You see, I am about 9 years your senior and I’ve been doing these trips with my son for several years now. Well, recently, it has just begun to occur to this OG that I can’t quite keep up physically anymore. SO, while we were in Cincinnati for Opening Day this year, well, actually, a beautiful house up in Covington overlooking the Cincinnati skyline, that I brought my concerns about my aging body up to said son. When I did, he looked at me and said (something along the lines of), “Dad, do you remember the snowy icy night in Cincinnati when you, Grandpa and I went to that Cincinnati/Temple game at Bank One and we practically had to carry Grandpa across from the parking lot to the arena and you never thought once about that. You just did it?” I nodded at him and he said, “well, I’m not thinking even once about this with you.” And with that, I decided to quit worrying and start enjoying the wonderful gift that I have. I apologize for this long winded soliloquy but, in a way, it’s your fault. You write these beautiful essays about your yearly sojourn and they get me going!
I hope you realize just how lucky you are. You are richer than 100 billionaires. You have a life full of true love, which no amount of money can buy. And Kelly is a lucky son.