Road Trip Series |*|
An Exploration of Landscapes
Part V: Tinker Creek
Jump to . . .
Chapter 13: Days 52-58, Roanoke Valley in Virginia’s Blue Ridge
*This Part is ~12 ‘pages’ in length.
Road Trip Series
Days 52-58
Chapter 13: Roanoke Valley
RTS Days 52-58
Roanoke Valley
Chapter 13: Roanoke Valley in Virginia's Blue Ridge
Roanoke, VA
Day 52: October 12, 2018
Finally here! I made it! I have arrived, here in this valley in Virginia’s Blue Ridge. And I’m staying by the creek, Tinker Creek. This is the area where Annie Dillard roamed and explored, stalking muskrats and fish, observing what was around her, witnessing the entangled beauty and violence of nature’s works.
This is where my idea of doing a road trip started. Daydreaming about where I could possibly go for an extended travel, this place slipped into my mind. Wouldn’t it be cool, I thought, to set foot on that piece of land by the creek made known and real to me through her words in the book? And to witness with my own eyes that thin stretch of the creek bearing mystery and light? Where she immersed herself, and surfaced, dripping with intricacies of insights and elegance of observations. I just thought it would be cool.
By the way, last night I slept in my car. The stormy weather peaked yesterday, and when I stepped out late last night to use the restroom, I noticed the trees surrounding my campsite swaying madly side to side. The winds were too strong, and the tree trunks were no match for it, and so would the skin of my tent if even just a large branch fell on it. So I grabbed my sleeping bag and blankets and walked to my car, which was at a better location, and the tin roof of it would at least offer more resistance. I spent the dawn of my birthday sleeping in my car. It was cold; I kept half-waking. I even saw a shooting star, I think, when I half opened my eyes at one time. I consider it a good omen, because why choose otherwise. In the morning, the winds were calmer and the sky clearer. I could finally see the view from my camp.
So. Here I am now, by Tinker Creek. I can hear its faint rush and susurrus just outside from where I’m sitting. I am grateful and happy. It’s a nice birthday gift, arriving here on this day. I got here in the evening. For most of the day, I drove along Blue Ridge Parkway and stopped at various points along the way. It was a nice drive; the storm finally abated and clouds broke away to show the sun—an excellent autumn day. The views of the drive were of rolling hills and valleys covered in greenery. I took a short walk in the afternoon and I think I caught the tail end of the migrating monarch butterflies.
Each Fall season millions of monarch butterflies travel some 2-3,000 miles from Northern America to central Mexico to escape the cold of winter. This journey can last up to two months and these little fluttering insects usually average 50-100 miles in a day. Can you, with your long and jointed legs, manage 20 miles in one day? And that’s just one day. Because of their relatively short lifespan, this becomes a one way trip for them, and only their offspring will be alive for the return flight. This is their great migration. An outstanding feat, if you think about it.
I stood on a rock gazing at the sky, waiting for the monarchs to pass by. They didn’t come in a swarming mass. Just one by one. Like I said, they must be the tail end, the trailing end of the end. I must have seen about 20 of them in 15 minutes from the same spot where I stood. Sure enough, they came predictably from the same direction. Some fluttered their wings wildly; some at a relaxed, leisurely pace; and some simply kept their wings still as they glided, using the air currents to carry them across the sky. They came and went, all displaying their orange and black patterned wings, all heading south.
Road Trip Series
Days 52-58
Chapter 13: Roanoke Valley
RTS Days 52-58
Roanoke Valley
Roanoke, VA
Day 53: October 13, 2018
Woke up to a sight of faint morning light seeping in through the blinds of the window beside the bed. And stillness filled the room. It took me a while to fully wake up as I slept late last night. But as soon as I reeled my senses back to my body, I hurriedly walked out the door to greet the day. The entryway to the room I’m staying opens to the backyard of the house which has a lone oak standing in one corner, and just a few feet away are some stone steps that lead to the bank of the creek. It’s partly cloudy with a few rays of sunlight peaking through here and there. The air was cool and the wind a slight breeze. You can hear Tinker Creek as it went on with its business. The section of the creek here runs parallel to the back of the house; when I step out from the private entryway of my room, I am facing the creek, and facing north. I walked down the stone steps and watched the creek. Then I thought, where is the creek that I saw in my head when I read? For the water in this one is opaque, a murky green; there is the mystery, but where is the light? It must’ve been the storm, washing various storm debris downstream, and stirring its muddy bottom. The section here is about 15 feet wide and runs from west to east so that when I stand on the bank facing the creek and look left, I am looking upstream; I also see the bridge that crosses the creek. I walked along the bank, toward the bridge, but I couldn’t go farther. There were signs of “No Trespassing” on the trunks of trees marking the border of the neighbor’s lot. I imagine there must have already been a number of people before who, trying to retrace Annie Dillard’s meanderings, disturbed and annoyed the poor neighbors. I wonder if they blamed her for that.
An hour before sunset, I set out again to walk in the neighborhood, trying to figure out where Annie Dillard had walked, where her usual places were for exploring and observing. Which path did you take to get to the creek? I wonder where the felled sycamore trunk is, the one she used as a bridge, or that small tear-shaped island in the creek where she kept coming back to. . . I think I saw their house before though. The owners of the house where I’m staying at pointed it out to me. Maybe I’ll ask Mr. Dillard if ever I see him walk out of that house. Yeah, I think I will.
Saw some blue jays today. There are a few of them here in this neighborhood, locals. Also saw a few monarchs. I have yet to learn more about their migration.
Roanoke, VA
Day 54: October 14, 2018
Mostly cloudy today. Had some light rain in the morning so I decided to just stay in. I sat outside facing the backyard, listening to a podcast while the soothing sounds of rain and creek played in the background. I brewed some coffee too, of course. Cool, rainy mornings outside aren’t complete without a cup of coffee in hand.
I had an awesome lunch at Scrambled in downtown Roanoke. I walked around a little, then had coffee in the afternoon at Sweet Donkey Coffee. This coffee house is actually a house. A two-story red brick house converted into a coffee shop, complete with a living room with sofas, rooms upstairs where groups can hang out, a front porch where they have seats, and a front yard with wooden picnic tables. How cool is that? And their coffee is magic.
Road Trip Series
Days 52-58
Chapter 13: Roanoke Valley
RTS Days 52-58
Roanoke Valley
Roanoke, VA
Day 55: October 15, 2018
Time finally seemed to really slow down. Or I’m getting better at matching the swiftness of it. Today was a good day. It was cloudy in the morning but most of the clouds rolled away by about 10am, making way for some sunshine. I walked up and down the banks of the creek at the back of the house. The water seemed to be clearer than the first day I saw it, where it was an opaque, faded green. I tried to see what was in the water, but I couldn’t see any living thing; they must be hiding. Or covered still by the slight opacity of the water. It must have been clearer then, back in ’74. I touched the water, as if to perform a ritual, or as if in celebration of finally getting here, of having arrived. It has been a kind of pilgrimage to get here, to this creek. I am a pilgrim, I thought—a pilgrim at Tinker creek.
By the creek, I read the penultimate chapter of Pilgrim titled Northing. Reading those pages again felt like conjuring a long-forgotten dream. The kind of dream that becomes a part of you upon the moment of being dreamed. Rereading some of the lines, I was surprised to find out how much I have subconsciously internalized and copied some of her words. They say that for young writers, it is natural to start off copying or imitating the voice of your literary heroes. But you can’t stop there. You keep the force that drives you and you keep going; you need to find your own unique voice. I wonder where mine is hiding.
When the sun came out, I decided to drive to Carvins Cove. There, I walked a short trail skirting the banks of the cove. In the Northing chapter of Pilgrim, It was October and there she describes the animals and trees and the general surroundings here being possessed by a kind of restlessness during the Fall season. Yet I walked into the woods and everything was still. It is October. Where was everybody? Nothing seemed to be moving, not a breath of wind. Did I miss the party? It felt like everything was already dead and downed, or dying. On the ground were dead trees, branches and twigs, dead leaves, mushrooms squashed, torn, or decomposing. Some trees were already bare branches, some with only a few leaves left that seemed to be just waiting for their turn to fall to the ground, ready to let go with the slightest puff of air. It was all so silent, except for the solitary tune of crickets. But even them I couldn’t see. There was also a lone crow, cawing. But before I even got to my turn around point it already flew away and never returned. Where was everybody going? Stillness and silence blanketed the scene. Even the running waters of shallow streams in the area made no sound. They glided smoothly over polished rocks and soil, stealthy as the mute leaves on the banks. The only signs of life I saw were solitary spiders on the webs they formed on bare branches of trees and the ants on the ground. But later, on my walk back, I did notice young shoots of plants surrounding some trees. But even they seemed to be already dying. It felt to me as if the forest itself was going into hibernation. But instead of putting on fat and fur,
Road Trip Series
Days 52-58
Chapter 13: Roanoke Valley
RTS Days 52-58
Roanoke Valley
It shed everything off.
Would you call it bravery, meeting the creeping cold of winter with bare skin and bones? Or would you see it as surrendering, dropping everything and bowing down to the most unforgiving of seasons? At any rate, It seems to know not to waste any energy fighting the winter cold. It knows that spring is just around the corner. And it’s just waiting, saving its energies, for that time when it can ride the swing of the season, and burst forth with life again.
I went to a coffee shop after and published a post on my site. It’s the first (of many, hopefully) travelogue I have posted there. Although it is not new. Then I went back to my temporary home hoping to get a good walk around the neighborhood.
It was that time of day late in the afternoon. That slant of the light, which means good walking. I walked along the street where Annie Dillard used to live, hoping to catch Mr. Dillard walk out the door so I could talk to him. No luck. The place where I’m staying at is opposite to the side of the creek where they lived. Just down the street from this house is the bridge she often describes in her book (I think); where they gathered during the flood, where she watched a monarch climb up a hill by falling still, and the bridge where she looked over to see the water below, trying to stalk muskrats.
Most of the area of the creek she walked along is behind someone else’s property. So it’s not really easy to stalk her path before. I roamed the streets that lined the creek. There were not much people around to ask for permission. They must be at work or just inside their homes. When I got to the end one street, I saw a man driving home and park at the house a few steps from where I was standing. I mustered up the courage to ask him—politely—if I could possibly walk behind his property, by the creek. He was very nice and allowed me to do so. I mentioned Annie Dillard’s book but he didn’t seem to know about it. And so I walked alongside the creek. It was part of the creek upstream to the “island” where she kept coming back to. That island is where I wanted to go. But I couldn’t find it, didn’t know how to get to it. I had a nice walk, still. Even though it was partly cloudy, the light was just right. Sunlight hit the sides of trees, the stream, rocks and fallen leaves, casting a golden glow to them, while long, slanted shadows cut across here and there. I mostly saw squirrels running about, carrying acorns in their mouths and pausing to look around suspiciously, or with guilt, as if they have stolen it from another. Birds are abundant here. Although I suppose most of them have started heading south for warmer climate. There are blue jays and sparrows (or crows?), hummingbirds and others whose names I know not yet. No muskrats though, no snakes. A few monarchs still flutter around the place, as if they have all the time in the world, and not needing to go south before winter comes.
On my way back as I crossed the bridge, I saw a pair of deer, feeding and drinking water by the creek. The bigger one (the mother, I supposed) eyed me suspiciously. But I waited and watched; I’ve played this game before. They went on about their business until finally they crossed the creek, taking their time, and disappeared behind the bushes. I walked home.
Road Trip Series
Days 52-58
Chapter 13: Roanoke Valley
RTS Days 52-58
Roanoke Valley
Roanoke, VA
Day 56: October 16, 2018
Today my mind and mood seemed to have been affected by the weather. It was cloudy and gloomy. But the morning was good. It was only in the afternoon that the clouds in my mind rolled in.
I had breakfast with one of the owners of the house where I’m staying—pancakes, eggs and sausages, and coffee. Then I went to a mall and roamed around a bit. Oh by the way, in the morning when I stepped outside, the birds all around were in fact restless, like how Annie Dillard described them to be, in the month of October.
I went home in the afternoon and went for a walk. I walked for about an hour or more, but the sky was gray and thick with clouds, no direct light in sight. Everything was dull. I did see some deer again by the creek, though. I passed by the Dillards’ house hoping to catch Mr. Dillard—and then what? I don’t really know. But it would be interesting if I could chat with him for a bit, or at least ask how to get to that tear-shaped island in the creek.
For most of the afternoon, I felt somewhat troubled but couldn’t really put a finger on it as to why. My mind was cloudy, opaque, like the creek after the storm. The walk I did earlier didn’t clear my mind. So I sat by the creek. It was again clearer today than yesterday. Now I can see the bottom even in the deepest part of it. I remembered how she described the creek as running all day and all night long, fresh every minute. I sat there wishing my mind would get clearer, too. To be refreshed and replenished by clearer thoughts, just like the waters of the creek. I was able to think it over though. Not that it solved the problem, but at least now I can glimpse what I’m dealing with. It was my mind’s overly anxious part—of course! —that wants everything, every moment, to be at its best possible state or order. I worry, sometimes, about the moment—that I might be better off doing that instead of this, or being there instead of here, or sometimes at worst, I even worry about the moment that’s already passed—that it could’ve been better if only. . . and so on. It’s a devilish whisper of that part of the mind that makes me drop the possibility of truly, unselfconsciously enjoying the moment. It was probably brought about because I had such a good day yesterday that I somehow managed to worry that today wasn’t going to be as good; I got too conscious about making this day count and focused on planning it, rather than just letting it be. And also, I think, It’s because here I am now, at Tinker Creek—this is the place that sparked the idea of this road trip, and I worried that it might not live up to expectation, given that I only have two more nights here, and the weather hasn’t also been its best. I know it’s stupid. But at least I caught myself. And in doing so I have formulated a remedy. Or at the very least, something to tune out that insidious whisper. And so I tell myself:
Mike, enjoy the moment—all this, what you’re doing—be in the present, waiting, unexpectant. But have a keen eye for when opportunities arise, and take them. All this time is too precious to waste worrying about what you could’ve done, or where you could rather be. Pause, look around, and enjoy the moment.
So I’m better now. Knowing what you’re dealing with is half the battle. The weather’s supposed to be better tomorrow, too. And the creek will be clearer. I decided to stay for one more night; tomorrow will be my last full day here. I don’t want to leave. Not yet. There’s so much more to see and explore. I’ll keep in mind what I said to myself earlier—I’ll let those words sit and soak until it douses that burning anxiety of the brain. The clouds are expected to break away tomorrow. I hope to see the moon at night.
Road Trip Series
Days 52-58
Chapter 13: Roanoke Valley
RTS Days 52-58
Roanoke Valley
Roanoke, VA
Day 57: October 17, 2018
The clouds finally decided to dissipate; it was a sunny day, and windy too. I had a good walk in the morning and afternoon. I am ashamed to say, I asked two more of the residents here if I could pass by and walk behind their houses. What the hell, I’m leaving tomorrow anyway. By noon tomorrow I will leave this valley in Virginia’s Blue Ridge. I’ll say my farewell to Tinker creek and the neighborhood, which was once Annie Dillard’s home, and go on my way. I think the people here have had enough of my wanderings into their properties. And by the way, I met Mr. Dillard today.
I was doing my late afternoon walk—this would be the last, I thought, as I would leave tomorrow morning. During my afternoon walk in the previous days I would usually pass by his house hoping to catch him walk out the door so I could speak to him; but no such luck, this was the last chance. My original intent for wanting to see him was just so I could ask where Annie Dillard usually walked, which parts of the creek she went, and how to get there. But since I’ve done my own exploring these past days, I already had a good idea on which places were those. Still, I thought it would be cool to meet him, Annie Dillard’s then husband, and to whom she dedicated the book to, and maybe chat with him for a little.
So I passed his house during my walk. The place seemed quiet but there were cars in the driveway. Somebody must be home. Alas, no luck. I eyed the front door but nobody stepped out. I kept walking, down the street, about to head home to retire for the evening. Thoughts went through my head as I walked. This was my last chance. I suddenly had this idea to just knock on his front door. I made a deal with myself: If before I finish walking down this street I see a blue jay and a northern cardinal fly by in tandem, I would go up to the door and knock. Blue jays and redbirds were common in the area, so it was not unlikely that this were to happen, yet also, it may not be that likely. It did not happen. I was already crossing the bridge, heading to the street that lead home when suddenly I found myself turning around and walking back up the street I came from, thinking to myself, to heck with it, I’m doing it anyway. I don’t need a sign to permit me to take the opportunity that was there. What if he was there and would be willing to talk? You’d never know until you ask, right? And I mean not to disrespect and disturb. So with all these thoughts racing, I walked toward the house, the sun already low on the horizon, my long slanted shadow walking fast beside me. My pulse quickened; I quickened my pace, as if emboldened, or to gather momentum for fear that I might slow down and falter. I got to the house, my heart already pounding as I walked up the sloping driveway, past the cars, and up some steps to get to the door. I stand at the front door and think, am I really doing this?
Road Trip Series
Days 52-58
Chapter 13: Roanoke Valley
RTS Days 52-58
Roanoke Valley
I did. I knocked three times. A long pause then the door opened. A slim blonde girl peaked out from the half-opened door. She eyed me suspiciously and asked, “Yes?” I then proceeded to introduce myself and tried to explain why I was there. It wasn’t until I mentioned the book Pilgrim that she softened her expression and lowered her guard; she gave a sigh of part relief and part laughter. I asked if Mr. Dillard was there and if it’s possible to speak to him. She told me that he was working but wouldn’t mind coming up, and that he’d just think it was funny—me being there because of his ex-wife. She went to go get him and I waited outside. A few seconds passed. I stood awkwardly, not really knowing what to say. Then the door opened, and a man stepped out, tall, thin, white hair and beard, wearing a pair of glasses and a Hollins University hoodie. He greeted me with a puzzled look and a smile. We talked. I asked if he could tell me where Annie usually walked—he pointed his finger vaguely toward the area of the creek telling me there’s really not much he could say, that this area was it. He showed me the house where they lived before, which was just a few houses down from where I’m staying but on the opposite side of the creek. He said that she’s probably in Florida right now, or somewhere in Southwest Virginia. They haven’t really been in touch recently, he said. He was very kind and thought this was funny. After all these years, a stranger still comes around to ask about all of this. I thanked them after we talked, and left.
As I walked down the street, still thrilled about what had transpired, it occurred to me that I forgot something—of course I did—I forgot to ask for a photo with him! Proof, you know. I was going to let it go but the thought of it brewed at the back of my mind. And so I thought, you know what, this is a once in a lifetime chance and I don’t want anymore regrets. With another surge of courage and shamelessness, I walked back to their house. Mary, his daughter, who really looks young considering her father is already 80-something, was sitting by the steps. I explained why I went back and she laughed, but agreed with my reasoning. She was kind enough to get her father again, who was also kind to permit me with my intrusion into their time. We talked a little more and I even offered if I could treat them for coffee in the morning as a sign of appreciation. He was kind about declining, because of work. He still teaches at university. As a farewell, he left me with a piece of advice for writing. He said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, “Well, you just write.” I agreed—work is the only real training. When he went back inside, I talked to Mary for a little more. Before she got Mr. Dillard earlier, she actually asked if I was a writer. I told her I wanted to be one. Her reply was a gentle encouragement, “Well then you are (a writer). If you want to be one then you’re already on your way.” She is a writer, too, and told me about her upcoming work titled South.
It was a nice way to spend my last full day here. All in all, my time here has been great. I still have tomorrow morning as a bonus.
Knock; seek; ask. Chance and effort shall meet; and you are rewarded.
Road Trip Series
Days 52-58
Chapter 13: Roanoke Valley
RTS Days 52-58
Roanoke Valley
Roanoke, VA
Day 58: October 18, 2018
*A Letter*
10:45am. Today is the clearest I have seen the waters of Tinker creek. I am sitting by it, near its grassy banks, under an intricate canopy of leaves. The sky is a warm blue; the breeze is blowing; the sun is showing. And I am sitting by the creek, looking upstream, catching the light it bears down through the rush and tumble of its waters—I am shot with lights. I saw a bird take a dive into the water just downstream and flew up again as quickly as it came in. Now a monarch flutters by, now hovering above the creek. I see a squirrel make a vertical run down a tree trunk, glide over grass and up the neighbor’s steps. The water is clear; I see perfectly well the jagged rock bottom of the creek. The parts that bear light are bright, and I can’t see what’s beneath; but the light is enough.
Just downstream from where I’m sitting and across the creek was where you lived before. You were probably the same age as me, at 27, as you walked up and down the banks of the creek, trying to make sense of what you were seeing. Where are you right now? Just wondering. I imagine you at a young age while you were still working on your book, sitting beside the creek, staring intently at the water, as if trying to see eternity. I imagine you standing on the bridge just upstream from here, stilled, stalking muskrats. Or walking along the banks, pausing every now and then to look at something that caught your attention. I imagine you’re in Florida right now, or somewhere in southwest Virginia according to Mr. Dillard who, by the way, I am glad to have met yesterday. You might just be reading right now out on your porch (if you have one) or answering to emails on your computer. I wondered as I was walking yesterday, if we met then, could we have been friends? If we crossed paths then and talked in passing, would you wonder the same thing? It would have been nice to know you then. It would be great to meet you now, even. I feel very much akin to your senses. But then again, where are you right now?
Just wondering. Anyway, today’s the day I go on my way. It was fun, trying to retrace your steps, trying to see what you saw. Your writing, the weaving of your words—bold and powerful yet tempered with grace—has made an irrevocable change in the way I see things—the simple act of seeing has been transformed into something wholly intricate, full of mystery and light. It has changed the way I try to be in the present, or the way I look at the act of waiting. The stories in your book, the ideas you dissected and questions you presented are as timeless as the waters of the creek—fresh every minute. Now, I think it’s time to focus on my own story. I am grateful to have stumbled upon your work, and for the chance to get to know you partly, if not in person, at least—and it is kind of an unmerited grace—through your words. Thank you.
The mountains are Home.
Bona fide hustler I’m making my name.
And I’d appreciate your help by sharing!