Some would say that putting the words “grandfather” and “mile high club” in the same sentence is the stuff that nightmares are made of. Normally, I would agree. But, not this time, Johnny!
After hopping off of the Blue Ridge Parkway for the day, Kenny and I headed to Grandfather Mountain near Linville, North Carolina. I wanted to go up to the top and give the Mile High Swinging Bridge a look-see. I had seen photos of it perched a mile above sea level and the surrounding view online and couldn’t wait to check it out for myself.
When we pulled our bikes up to the park entrance gate, the nice older lady who was working the booth leaned out and said, “Now, the wind is really gustin’ up they-er. It’s blowin’ 45 miles’n’our,” in a sweet southern drawl.
She then paused and looked at us clearly waiting for some sort of response. The best I could formulate was a couple quick blinks and an, “okay?” That seemed good enough for her. ::shrug::
I figured that it was part of her job to give sissy-pants Marys a warning so they don’t try to sue the state or something if they should get a little dust blown in their eyes at the top of the mountain. So, we said thanks and began our ascent up the switchbacks to the top parking area.
As we slowly climbed along the roadway I wondered why she had tried to scare us. There was barely breeze on the road.
When I crested the hill for the very top of the mountain I was hit by what felt line a linebacker. POW! The non-stop wind shoved me to the right where my bike and I were almost knocked over as it came barreling across the parking lot unimpeded by anything in its path.
Oh, THAT wind.
It was so windy in fact that since I’d put my feet down after almost being knocked over that I felt like I couldn’t safely pick them up again to get moving. The wind just continued to shove against the broad side of my bike.
I stood there teetering on tiptoes, holding my bike up waiting for a window where the wind would die down and I could park my bike next to the gift shop. I stood and stood and stood for what seemed like an eternity.
It was just a few moments, however. But it was long enough that Kenny had time to park next to the building and walk back over to me and help me get steady and get rolling again. WHEW! Ain’t love grand? 🙂
There were signs on the gift shop noting to hold on to car doors, small children and any loose objects because the wind would surely grab hold of them and carry them away. Man, they weren’t kidding!
We climbed the steps to the bridge and took in the view. It was beautiful. All day long I had thought about being up there and seeing those beautiful green mountains rolling out before us and the sweet, mile high swinging bridge. Now, there we were.
Now we were there, indeed. Oh, lord! Man, was it windy and the bridge didn’t seem to look as sturdy as it did in pictures…
While we stood at the entrance to the bridge there was a howl that came from it as the wind whipped across its cables. It added an extra special touch to the feeling that I was about to die either from being blown off the bridge or having it collapse into a heap of tangled steel cables on the treetops below.
With nervous laughter I asked Kenny (who is brave and cavalier about everything) to take a picture with me. You know, just in case it was our last one. Ever.
I’m a huge chicken and kind of scared of heights. But, I hate the idea of quitting or letting my fear keep me from trying something. So, I stepped on to the bridge and began slowly and steadily walking across. Longest. Walk. Of my LIFE!
Between the incessant wind, the give of the slats below your feet, the motion of the bridge and the howling of the wind across the cables I just could not wait to get off of the damned thing.
I held on to the railings with both hands, kept my eyes looking directly ahead and steadily and carefully moved forward. I’m pretty sure I must’ve looked like I shat myself as I slightly crouched and walked.
When I stepped off of the bridge on the other side a wave of relief washed over me. I did it – I was part of the mile high bridge club. It was a triumph! I wasn’t sure if I could ever do that again but I was happy to have made it. Except… that I had to walk back across to get to my bike. DAMNIT!
Though it was scary for a yellow-bellied chicken like me, it was so worth the detour for the views alone. If you’re heading down the Blue Ridge, don’t skip Grandfather Mountain. It’s wonderful.
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