This piece comes from my teenage years, and even now I can still remember the details of that trip with surprising clarity. My family and I had taken a short mountain excursion, and the experience stayed with me enough that I began writing about it in the car on the way home. We had only just passed Macon on I-75 when I felt the urge to put it all down, partly because it was new to me and partly because I had never imagined seeing something like it. I wanted to capture the wonder of seeing snow on the top of Mount Mitchell for the first time in my life.
The drive began like countless other mountain roads, long and full of winding curves that made the whole car lean as if our weight could somehow help us through each turn. As we climbed higher, my father kept pointing out the pine trees that lined the road, muttering about how they looked dead far too early in the season. He was concerned because the branches seemed brittle and drained of life, and his voice carried the tone of someone who knew these mountains well enough to sense when something was wrong. Looking back, I realize I should have taken his observations more seriously, because what we were seeing had nothing to do with dying trees.
As we neared the summit, we passed several cars heading down the mountain with thick white vapor drifting from their tailpipes. At the time, I barely noticed it, because I was more focused on reaching the top than on the details that signaled a massive change in temperature. It was only when we finally parked near the peak that everything began to make sense, because everyone around us stepped out of their vehicles dressed in heavy coats and layered clothing. The sight confused me for a moment, since we had left behind warm eighty-degree weather only hours earlier.
When I opened the car door, an icy blast hit my face with such force that I slammed the door again without thinking. My breath came out in visible wisps, and the shock of realizing how cold it truly was sent a ripple of excitement and disbelief through me. After pulling on my heaviest shirt, I stepped out again and finally began to understand what had been happening on the drive up. The air was thin and sharp, the wind cut straight through me, and the mountain top felt like an entirely different world from the one we had left below.
One of the pine trees that my father had pointed out stood only a few steps away, and curiosity pushed me toward it. When I touched a branch, I discovered that the tree was not dead at all, because beneath the pale covering the needles were still green. The branches were layered with a fine, powdery snow that clung tightly to them, and the texture was unlike anything I had ever experienced in person. When I lifted a small handful to my lips, the cold taste reminded me of fresh spring water, pure and strangely refreshing.
For a moment, I stood completely still, absorbing the sight of snow covering the trees so gently that the entire mountain felt untouched and almost otherworldly. The landscape seemed softened by it, made calm and serene by the way the white blanket rested over every surface. Even the air felt transformed, crisp and alive with the presence of a winter scene happening in the middle of fall. It was a moment that made the world seem bigger than I had imagined it to be.
Shivering, I made my way toward a small concession stand where I spotted a glowing heater inside. I stood near it long enough to feel some warmth return to my hands, and only then did I notice the brass thermometer mounted beside the doorway. The wind fought against me as I stepped closer to read it, and when I saw the number, I felt a mix of awe and disbelief. It read twenty-one degrees, a temperature that felt almost unreal for someone who had grown up far from snow-covered mountains.
Where I came from, it was cold, and standing there on the summit of Mount Mitchell, I felt as if I had stepped into a completely different world.