pine and deciduous forest was so thick it was like crossing into a trompe l’oeil mural built of shadow and light. From far below came the sound of energetic water.
I advanced, boot heels scraping loud in the crisp morning air. Here and there, a slash of sunlight strobed to the asphalt and I caught glimpses of the steep drop-off to my right.
Fifty yards ahead I heard footsteps and stopped. In seconds a couple appeared walking single file toward me. She strode confidently, gaze bouncing all around. He moved cautiously, eyes straight ahead. I pressed my back to the cliff face to let them pass.
As the sound of their movement receded, I listened again. Nothing but the muted rush of water.
Another hundred yards, and the walkway ended at a rock outcropping surrounded by the same rusty guardrail. Pulpits had been constructed on two sides, oriented toward points of interest. Four people stood near the one facing west, three gathered close, one off by himself. The three had done their shopping at L.L.Bean. The loner looked like a T. rex dressed for a hike.
Ramsey was elbow-leaning the rail opposite, Gunner at his side.
“Good morning, Carolina!” I called out in a muted Robin Williams DJ voice, the bravado meant mostly to steady my own nerves.
The dog’s ears shot up, then, purple tongue dangling, he trotted forward to meet me. I patted his head.
The deputy watched my approach for a few seconds, then his head swiveled back to the vista he’d been admiring. For a moment we both gazed in silence.
“We’re looking east toward Linville Gorge.”
“Impressive,” I said.
“One of the deepest canyons in the eastern U.S. And one of the most rugged. Know why it’s here?”
I shook my head.
“The Linville River starts high up on Grandfather Mountain, plunges two thousand feet in just twelve miles before leveling out in the Catawba Valley. All that pounding water carved right through the rock.”
“How far are we above the river?”
“Roughly fifteen hundred feet, mostly straight down.” A beat, then, “Ever hear of William and John Linville?”
“No.”
“Father and son explorers. In 1766 the Cherokee took exception to their being here and scalped them both.”
“Ouch.”
The corners of Ramsey’s mouth lifted ever so slightly. “Got their name onto a busload of landmarks.”
It was true. In addition to the gorge and river, caverns, a waterfall, a wilderness area, and several towns bore the name Linville.
“Still a tough way to get press,” I said.
Again, Ramsey may have grinned. Or not. He raised an arm and gestured, fingers straight, palm sideways. “Beyond the gorge is Jonas Ridge.” His hand did little chops as he named a series of rock formations. “Sitting Bear, Hawksbill, Table Rock, the Chimneys. The area’s a labyrinth of hiking trails.”
“Good word, labyrinth,” I said.
He did grin at that. Below the knit cap, drawn low to his brows, his face performed its rearranging act. Oh, boy.
“Where’s Brown Mountain?”
“See that low peak in the distance, beyond the ridge?”
I nodded.
“That’s her. Maybe eight miles off.”
“Where does the light show take place?”
“Most tourists point their cameras there.” He indicated the mountainside opposite.
“Think they’re real?”
“I’ve seen them.” At my look of surprise, “Kind of a flickering, like people waving flashlights around in the trees.”
“What’s your theory?”
“Some say swamp gas.”
“Swamp gas never spontaneously ignites in nature.”
“Agreed. It takes a specific mix of chemicals. Researchers have created it in labs. They say it happens with a pop followed by a blue-green flame.”
“No slow burn.”
“Nope.”
The gaggle behind us moved our way and took up positions along the rail. The loner trailed the others, but again stayed apart.
“Cherokee widows?” I asked.
“So you know the local lore.”
“Very little.”
“Problem is the ladies are supposed to wander the sky, not
I advanced, boot heels scraping loud in the crisp morning air. Here and there, a slash of sunlight strobed to the asphalt and I caught glimpses of the steep drop-off to my right.
Fifty yards ahead I heard footsteps and stopped. In seconds a couple appeared walking single file toward me. She strode confidently, gaze bouncing all around. He moved cautiously, eyes straight ahead. I pressed my back to the cliff face to let them pass.
As the sound of their movement receded, I listened again. Nothing but the muted rush of water.
Another hundred yards, and the walkway ended at a rock outcropping surrounded by the same rusty guardrail. Pulpits had been constructed on two sides, oriented toward points of interest. Four people stood near the one facing west, three gathered close, one off by himself. The three had done their shopping at L.L.Bean. The loner looked like a T. rex dressed for a hike.
Ramsey was elbow-leaning the rail opposite, Gunner at his side.
“Good morning, Carolina!” I called out in a muted Robin Williams DJ voice, the bravado meant mostly to steady my own nerves.
The dog’s ears shot up, then, purple tongue dangling, he trotted forward to meet me. I patted his head.
The deputy watched my approach for a few seconds, then his head swiveled back to the vista he’d been admiring. For a moment we both gazed in silence.
“We’re looking east toward Linville Gorge.”
“Impressive,” I said.
“One of the deepest canyons in the eastern U.S. And one of the most rugged. Know why it’s here?”
I shook my head.
“The Linville River starts high up on Grandfather Mountain, plunges two thousand feet in just twelve miles before leveling out in the Catawba Valley. All that pounding water carved right through the rock.”
“How far are we above the river?”
“Roughly fifteen hundred feet, mostly straight down.” A beat, then, “Ever hear of William and John Linville?”
“No.”
“Father and son explorers. In 1766 the Cherokee took exception to their being here and scalped them both.”
“Ouch.”
The corners of Ramsey’s mouth lifted ever so slightly. “Got their name onto a busload of landmarks.”
It was true. In addition to the gorge and river, caverns, a waterfall, a wilderness area, and several towns bore the name Linville.
“Still a tough way to get press,” I said.
Again, Ramsey may have grinned. Or not. He raised an arm and gestured, fingers straight, palm sideways. “Beyond the gorge is Jonas Ridge.” His hand did little chops as he named a series of rock formations. “Sitting Bear, Hawksbill, Table Rock, the Chimneys. The area’s a labyrinth of hiking trails.”
“Good word, labyrinth,” I said.
He did grin at that. Below the knit cap, drawn low to his brows, his face performed its rearranging act. Oh, boy.
“Where’s Brown Mountain?”
“See that low peak in the distance, beyond the ridge?”
I nodded.
“That’s her. Maybe eight miles off.”
“Where does the light show take place?”
“Most tourists point their cameras there.” He indicated the mountainside opposite.
“Think they’re real?”
“I’ve seen them.” At my look of surprise, “Kind of a flickering, like people waving flashlights around in the trees.”
“What’s your theory?”
“Some say swamp gas.”
“Swamp gas never spontaneously ignites in nature.”
“Agreed. It takes a specific mix of chemicals. Researchers have created it in labs. They say it happens with a pop followed by a blue-green flame.”
“No slow burn.”
“Nope.”
The gaggle behind us moved our way and took up positions along the rail. The loner trailed the others, but again stayed apart.
“Cherokee widows?” I asked.
“So you know the local lore.”
“Very little.”
“Problem is the ladies are supposed to wander the sky, not
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