I had wanted to do some volunteer work on this trip, and reached out to the Ashevillage Institute, which runs an urban farming program and natural building school. I do frequent volunteer work at an urban farm in Brooklyn, and I wanted to get a glimpse of what was going on in this movement in other parts of the country. The urban farm program at Ashevillage is in its inaugural year, so the garden is still small, but there are eventual plans to acquire more space and expand into a neighborhood CSA when there is enough produce to harvest. This summer, the garden (and many farmers in the region) lost their seasonal tomato and squash crop due to heavy rains and blight.
I helped a farm apprentice named Joey shovel manure compost and dirt into wheelbarrows to transport to new garden beds for herbs and fall greens. It was hard work and a hot day, but it felt good to get my hands dirty and break a sweat after long hours in the car. Joey also keeps goats on his property and sadly told me that one of them had mysteriously passed away that morning. Also, earlier that week, a tree had fallen on one area of the garden in the front of the Ashevillage property, taking out much of what they had planted there and smashing two cars. Joey and I agreed that if you're a farmer, you have to learn over and over again that so matter how much you nurture and tend and prepare, there will always be those factors which you cannot control.
After we wrapped up our work in the garden, I drove out of Asheville a bit, to a town called Swannanoa, where I'd be staying in this mountain studio for the next three nights. The road to the studio is steep and narrow, and I had to give Ingrid a few pep talks to give her the confidence to make the climb. But we arrived to a place of simple beauty and complete solitude. This is by far the most remote and quiet place I've stayed in yet. The place comes with an emphatic warning, "Please do not throw anything, anything, anything outside, or you WILL be visited by bears." Ok, got it.
I was tempted to settle in to the studio and spend the rest of the afternoon and evening just hanging out, but Joey had given me a recommendation that piqued my interest. Just 15 min from my studio is the campus of Warren Wilson College, a wonderfully unique school that I wish would have been on my radar when I was doing my college search years ago. It's a liberal arts school where all of the students have a campus job (many of them farming, or in some kind of sustainability practice or outdoor leadership), and where volunteering is a requirement. It's a beautiful place, with humble yet idealistic intentions for its students.
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| The College Press |
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| Bryson Gymnasium |
Every Thursday night, Warren Wilson hosts a contra dance called The Old Farmer's Ball in its Bryson Gymnasium. At 7:30, beginners can gather for a quick lesson before the dancing kicks off at 8pm. In contra dance, there's a "caller" who calls out the moves, and the dances are designed so that you are dancing with people across from you in a line, next to you, and moving down the chain. The result is a kaleidoscopic swirl of geometric patterns, and a whole lot of people twirling and having a great time.
I tried the first dance and got so dizzy and overwhelmed that I sat down to watch. Quickly thereafter, one of the experienced dancers, an older gentleman named David, came up to me and said, "Oh, no you don't missy. You gotta try this. I'll help ya out." And he patiently guided me through the patterns.
With a bunch of repetition and lots of guidance and forgiveness from my partners, the moves finally clicked, and I discovered myself having the most most fun. I danced with 10 year olds and 80 year olds, did the do-se-do and promenade and laughed and spun in this joyful place.
At the end of the dance, David came up to me and asked, "So, how'd ya do?"
"I had the best time!" I said.
"I knew you would," he said. "You got that sparkle."
Driving back to the mountain studio, a thunderstorm had started and as I wound my way up the mountain road, I came up on a fire truck stopped in the middle of the road. I suppose when you live on mountain, mountain things happen. A tree had fallen on a transformer, causing an explosion of sparks and cutting off power to all the homes on the mountain. Summer Haven Road, where I was staying was blocked, and there was no access, and no estimate to when the road might be cleared and power restored other than "It's gonna be a while."
It was 11pm and I assessed my options. I could a) sleep in my car in the Warren Wilson College parking lot, b) try to stay out all night at a bar until the sun came up, or c) check myself into a hotel.
I knew a) would be safe but uncomfortable and send my mom and all you concerned readers out there into a fit. I tried b) but all the bars in Swannanoa were closed and I didn't have the energy for that anyway. So, I went with c) and checked myself into the Holiday Inn, begrudgingly spending too much money for a few hours of rest. But the bed was comfortable, the place was clean, and hey, I got free continental breakfast.
Back at the mountain studio now, the road has been cleared, power restored, and I'm ready to get out for a hike.
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