This weekend I visited my son, whose work has brought him to the far western part of Virginia for a few months. I’d never been to that part of the country and was eager to see it. He’s sent me plenty of pictures showing me the beauty here.
We drove the switchback road up Whitetop Mountain in the late afternoon, campers already staking out their weekend spots. We parked the truck, walked a few minutes through the trees, and came out onto the overlook—the Highlands.
I’ve never been to Scotland. I couldn’t tell you if these are anything like the Highlands there. But standing next to my son, with layers of blue ridges rolling out toward Tennessee and Carolina, and the grasslands spread beneath us, it didn’t matter. This was ours, for now.
Off across the field, small in all that distance, a young couple walked with their little boy and dog. We watched them — just tiny figures moving through a landscape so vast. That felt right. We were small too. They stopped. Spread a blanket. Just sat. We watched, mesmerized by it all.
Larsen and I walked on, and when we came back through, there they were—mom, dad, boy, dog, still sitting, still taking in the vista. I snapped a pic and kept them small in the corner of the frame. Seems like in nature, that’s where we all should be.
Small, in the corner of the frame
Somewhere in that little boy, something is already taking root. A sense of awe. A blanket on a hillside with his mom, dad, and dog. And mountain hues, already shaping his heart.
I didn’t expect it to catch me the way it did. That family, in that moment—a small boy already gathering a memory that will outlast so many days like this. And Larsen and me, walking that same overlook at that same time.
It’s funny, what you might see when you’re not looking for anything at all.
— Pete
Notes arrive every other Sunday
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