OldTroubador's blog post - The Road South

I woke up in Hagerstown, MD early one morning. As I stepped out of the truck to stretch and walk inside, I looked into the blue-black velvet sky. The moon had just risen and the morning star hung in the sky above, poised to fall into the basket of the crescent moon.
Coffee in hand, I walked back to the truck, did my morning inspections and paperwork, and settled in to start my day. That big old Detroit rumbled into life and, as all the needles settled into the green, I slipped the clutch and eased out of the parking lot; I was soon headed south to Columbia, South Carolina.
Southbound on I-81, Maryland and West Virginia were soon in my rear-view mirror. The Freebird soared down the highway, which was laid in a valley of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Just on the other side of the eastern ridgeline was the Shenandoah River while to the west were three or four ridges leading to West Virginia. Spring had not yet come this far north but was soon to be busting out all over.
The eastern sky was brightening as we rumbled along; the sky was clear and lemon colored. To my west, the sky was still dark where the sun had not yet reached. The eastern hills were purple in the shadow of the new morning. A thin blanket of ground fog was cloaking the valley floor. To the west, as the dark sky retreated, the shadow moved down the hillsides. Details previously hidden were revealed: cattle waking up to start their grazing, apple and peach orchards soon to be heavy with flowers then fruit, small towns, and tiny roads.
Much of the history of the United States was born here. At one time, these valleys marked the western frontier of our nation a-borning. Among these hills were born generals, statesmen, soldiers, farmers, inventors – men and women who shaped our country for a dozen or more generations. Land was plowed by both farrow and cannon as men fought the elements and each other. The cities along the coast like Boston, New York, and Williamsburg, may have been the birthplace of our country, but valleys like this were the wombs.
The sun came up like thunder over the eastern hills, springing out of the Shenandoah Valley. The light hit my eyes, almost painfully after the previous hours of darkness, and I scrambled to put on my sunglasses. Exposed rocks on the western cliffs glowed, lit by the sun but seemingly from an inner power source. The sun warmed my face and heated the inside of the cab; my windows were soon lowered. Sun and breeze caressed me as the Freebird ate up the miles, like an eagle with a salmon. We rolled over hills and around curves effortlessly as the sun rose and the shadows shortened.
The dawning of a new day is always an evocative time for me. On this day, I reminisced about the many thousands of sunrises and sunsets I have seen over the years. Every one of them was different and special. Along the eastern seaboard, it happens quickly, due to the mountains and hills. In the Midwest and Great Plains, the rise and fall of the sun lasts much longer.
As the sun lowers itself below the western horizon, the sky overhead turns such a rich shade of blue, even a king would despair of ever wearing such a color. This blue stretches back to the east where the color fades to black. On the horizon, where the sun has laid its head, is a vivid tapestry of yellows, oranges, reds, and purples, each melding and melting into the next before becoming the aforementioned blue. This rainbow of pastels hangs in the air, imperceptibly getting smaller as the blue-blackness is pulled slowly and gently across the sky, a blanket for the land.
The coloration becomes a semicircle against the darkening sky, shrinking slowly as water slowly draining from a sink or as a fire dies to a bed of coals that soon cools to embers. Before long, there is a mere sliver of light to the west that points to where the sun was last seen. This last bit of light hangs on tenuously, reluctant to give way to the night's relentless march. It does though, as the sun rests, gathering its strength for the new day.
As this act is being played, another is coming on stage. The blanket of night draws with it a coverlet of stars, shining and twinkling against the blackness. Along the edge of the darkness, where the sky is still a royal blue, the brightest stars wink on, at first imagined then coming into focus. Soon, they are joined by tens, then hundreds, then thousands more as the bejeweled coverlet is stretched across the black velvet bedclothes.
The sun rising is a reverse replay of the previous night's drama; all is dark, then out of the darkness, shapes are seen as the first, almost non-existent light pushes against the black mantle. Very slowly, during a time span of many miles, the sky brightens and some details begin to emerge amongst the shapes; they are still just darker forms though against the backdrop of a slightly less dark sky. After many more miles, an arc of light climbs over the eastern horizon – the sun has regained enough strength to throw back the heavy blanket of night. The stars retreat also, albeit slowly, their glory eclipsed by the star closest to us. Before long, but interminably to those who have been awake all night, the northern limb of the sun peeks over the horizon, huge, brilliant as it awakes and awakens the world.
These thoughts soon disappear as the sun stands high and the Freebird soars into southern Virginia. Here, there is no wide valley to place a highway and the road climbs and falls through the Blue Ridge. The town of Wytheville is just ahead; here I will turn left onto I-77 and cross a couple of ridgelines before gliding down Fancy Gap and into central North Carolina. The interstate winds up and down steeply, but it is no matter. My load is light enough to not impede our progress going up yet heavy enough to push us quickly down the other side. The 'Bird knows this: she climbs like a fighter jet and slides down like an avalanche. She hangs into the turns, rock steady, painting a line on the road. The last downgrade, Fancy Gap, is before us, a 4%, seven mile long drop; at the bottom is North Carolina. I set the engine brakes and let her coast down, chortling with glee. To our left is a valley, a small town and farmers' fields lie therein. There is no real sensation of falling. Rather, it is as if the valley is rising up to meet us.
I draw a breath and cross into North Carolina. After a few miles, Pilot Mountain becomes visible ahead and to the left. I wave to Andy, Opie, Aunt Bea, Barney, and all the rest of Mayberry. I roll through Statesville, then stroll through Charlotte. Another breath and I am in South Carolina. Just a few more miles to go, a few more turns of the wheel, and I will be at my destination. There, I will watch the sun set.