Sleepy Hollow Bridge

¨There is a little valley, or rather lap of land, among high hills, which is one of the quietest places in the whole world. A small brook glides through it, with just murmur enough to lull one to repose, and the occasional whistle of a quail or tapping of a woodpecker is almost the only sound that ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquility."             --Washington Irving, "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow"

I first learned of the Sleepy Hollow covered bridge from William Magnum’s wonderful book of original paintings called, "Carolina Preserves." There on page 105 is the artist’s depiction of a red, barn-like structure spanning an icy mountain stream, new snow gently clinging to the boughs of firtrees that stand in the foreground.

Ms. Wonder and I had searched for the bridge years ago and wrote about our adventure in The Raleigh News & Observer. Finding the bridge the first time was no simple task and it was not much easier this time even though I thought I knew where it was.

By the time I arrived, the heavy cloud cover had stopped threatening and decided to let loose. The narrow, 64-foot bridge lay in deep shadow cast by several big-toothed aspens standing at the far edge of a sandy meadow. Wind Horse entered the one-lane bridge slowly and the loose floorboards moved against their joist as her tires pressed down on them.

The sound they made was like horses’ hooves on packed earth—pumble-lunk-lunk, pumble-lunk-lunk. The sound reminded me that, in an earlier age, posted signs often cautioned travelers to "Cross This Bridge At A Walk" and the warning often specified a fine for crossing at a faster pace. Severe damage to the bridge and to draft animals could result from weak floors.

I exited the bridge onto a small lap of land, grassy and inviting, and hemmed in by steep hills that rise far above it. Rhododendron thickets on the banks of Hobos Mill Creek softened traffic noise from the nearby highway, the forest canopy provided some shelter from the rain, and the steep hill behind me shut off all other noise. Only the twittering of juncos could be heard above the constant gurgle of the steam and heavy static of the rain.

Irving completed his opening description of Sleepy Hollow with these words, "If ever I should wish for a retreat, I know of none more promising than this little valley." Those words are a fitting description for this Sleepy Hollow too.

The bridge at Sleepy Hollow is the only covered bridge left in the western mountains. In 1920 one North Carolina county alone had over sixty covered bridges. By the time the bridge at Sleepy Hollow was built, there were less than ten historic covered bridges in the entire state. Today there are only three. The other two are located in the piedmont region southwest of Raleigh. The Pisgah Bridge in Randolph County is probably the best-known of the two. 

The Bunker Hill Bridge in Catawba County is arguably the most historically important bridge in the state. That bridge, which spans Lyles Creek, is the only remaining structure in the world built in the architectural style developed by George Haupt, a celebrated builder who was praised for his engineering skills by President Abraham Lincoln. The bridge is designated as a National Civil Engineering Landmark, a prestigious honor it shares with the Blue Ridge Parkway and the Cape Hatteras Lighthouse.

If you would like to visit Sleepy Hollow, follow Highway 105 as it encircles the base of Seven Devils Mountain about 12 miles south of Boone. Look for the small road sign on the east side of the highway just as you pass the hardware store. You can't see the bridge from the highway so you'll have to look close or you'll miss it.

Binge Watching Netflix

I found Ms. Wonder in the kitchen preparing for her trip to Shallotte. I thought it the perfect time to tell her the exciting news about Wilmington. If you're a newbie to this blog then I should probably explain that Wonder and I recently moved to Wilmington, North Carolina, from our home in Durham. I've had a little trouble adjusting but that's all about to change.

"Wilmington isn't Charleston," I said just to get things going.

The River District

"Wilmington isn't a lot of things," she said. And I remember thinking that she was right, of course, but what of it? Got right over my head but that's true of many things she says. Not surprising really. She knows just about everything due to having one of those Italian-designed brains and I have the rollback-special from Walmart.

"What?" I said.

"Exactly," she said.

You may think it odd that we have this type of conversation but you wouldn't think so if you lived with us for a pandemic week. You see my way of escaping the Groundhog-Day sameness of one day after another is by binge-watching Netflix until I fall asleep on the sofa. My current addiction is "AJ and the Queen". I recommend it highly. However, indulging in the video drug until overdose doesn't result in an alert, clear-headed morning. 

But, I've jumped the rails again. Let's get back to the comparison of Wilmington with Charleston. Before the pandemic, we had plans to move to the fair city in sister state to the south--oh for God's sake, Charleston! But due to this and that, we moved to Wilmington instead.

"Do you remember," I said to Ms. Wonder, "that when we told people we were moving to Wilmington, they would say, "Why? Wilmington is nothing like Charleston."

"I remember," she said.

"Well, they might be surprised to learn just how much the two cities have in common."

"Both of them being colonial port cities," she said. "And sharing a lot of history with the golden age of piracy--especially Black Beard.

"Was there a golden age of piracy?"

"Both cities also figured heavily in the 19th-century turmoil that southern dames referred to as, "the recent unpleasantness between the states."

"Is dames an appropriate choice of words?" I said.

Not dames as in "there is nothing like a dame" from South Pacific. I use the term as in a woman descended from a noteworthy ancestor.

I held up a hand to indicate that this runaway tangent must stop because I had something important to say and I didn't want it to be brushed aside.

"Districts," I said to get right to the point.

"What about them?" she said.

"Wilmington has them," I said. And knowing that I had to move quickly if I was to remain recognized and keep the floor, I continued. "Just as any city worth the air it breathes has defined, recognized districts--like Charleson, New Orleans, and San Francisco; Wilmington has some really cool districts that I plan to explore and write about."

"Like what?" she said.

"Well, like the newest district, which is called the Lollipop District."

"I think you mean the Soda Pop District," she said.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," she said. "It's named for the old Coca-Cola bottling plant that used to operate there."

"We visited the Coca-Cola plant in Chattanooga when I was in third grade," I said.

"Fascinating," she said. "I can't wait to hear about it when I get back from Shallotte," she said. "I'll bet you hold be spellbound."

And with that, she breezed out the door like a pirate ship under full sail leaving me in the kitchen with a cup of cold coffee and three cats. We have these conversations frequently. I blame binge-watching Netflix.

Feline Accomplice

I read the introductory paragraph from the Rogue Star website to my spiritual mentor, Feldspar, so that he would understand that the Witch of Woodcroft writes some praise-worthy stuff.

                                            

"There, did you feel the earth shake?" I asked.

"Hardly, sir." he said, "I feel that you're suffering a manic episode brought on by Princess Amy."

Oh, you know about her, do you?" I said.

"I read your blog from time to time."

"Oh? I didn't know you liked my blog."

"I wouldn't go that far, sir. I read it to keep up with your um...."

"Lifestyle?" I offered.

"Close enough," he said.

"Why don't you like my blog?"

"Really, sir, it's not my place..."

"No! I insist. If you're going to be my mentor, there must be no secrets. Spill it!"

"Well, forgive me sir, but I see it as an immature production, lacking in significant form. My own tastes lie more in the direction of Dostoyevsky and the great Russians."

"Fine, whatever," I said,  trying to avoid the Russian motif, because Ms. Wonder, that descendent of Count Gregory Orlov, was somewhere about the premises and might sail in like a brigantine running before the gale if she heard the words, great Russians.

"Feldspar, it's not my limbic system that's causing the ranygazoo. It's the witch herself. She suggested to me in a text message, that by writing more I could change my world. She said that it was key to the fulfillment of my fate, which, according to her, mirrors the story of the plaster Buddha."

"Plastic, Buddha!" called Ms Wonder from somewhere down the hall.

"It's plaster!" I called back.

"Gladdis Lyremark Ironarrow," I said to Feldspar, "is a witch who lives in a north-facing cave. She stays home a lot; you don't bother her, she won't bother you. But when a baby in a backpack, a pair of mismatched children, and an invisible sorcerer accidentally wander into her domain--well, enough said I think."

"A story that may appeal more to the theater-going crowd," said Feldspar. "but I'm at a loss to understand why you object to it so strongly."

"Not against it," I said.

"No?"

"Certainly not. All for it, in fact. It's the collateral damage that I'm concerned about. Every time she writes about Gladys, strange things happen to me."

"But why should that be?"

"I was hoping you might have an idea."

"Are you suggesting that her writing is somehow interfering with your destiny?"

"That's right. You have a lightning-fast brain, Feldspar. I'm also suggesting that the three of us are just the people to do something to stop it, if a rock troll, a human and a cat can be grouped collectively as people."

"Mybbthh," said Abbie Hoffman, the tuxedoed feline accomplice that sat astride my computer keyboard.

"It is futile to rage against the darkness, sir," said Feldspar. "Light can't exist without it. We would not see the beauty of the stars without the dark of space behind them."

"Preeeek!" said Abbie Hoffman, and I had to agree with him. Put a sock in it was the thought that came to me but I didn't want to offend Feldspar. I'm sure he meant well. It's just that he's not up with the latest developments in the way that you and I are. I mean, futile to rage against the darkness? That's the very essence of The Way of the Rock, which as you well now is my shamanic calling.

"Maybe this one will convince you," I said. "One of her stories features a witch known as Baba Yaga who eats people the way people eat chickens.

The statement brought Abbie to his feet. "Earrup!" he said.

"Even monsters are divine creatures," said Feldspar, "and belong to the providential order of nature, and this according to St. Augustine."

"Ever noticed how people eat chickens, Feldspar?"

"Really, sir!" he said. "Chirrump!" said a wide-eyed Abbie.

"Plastic, Buddha," called Ms. Wonder again but from somewhere frighteningly near. I realized that I'd have to ratchet up the proceedings.

"It's plaster!" I called back and then in a quieter voice directed at Feldspar and Abbie Hoffman, I said, 

"It seems a statue of the Buddha stood in a temple for ages until someone decided to move it. During the move, the statue fell over knocking the plaster away and revealing solid gold underneath. Get it?"

He gave me a look before saying, "A precious something is hidden by a common outer crust..."

"Blah, blah, blah," I said. 

"Fascinating," said Ms. Wonder as she passed by the door, in a mysterious way, her wonders to perform.

"Do you know anything about how the witch works her magic?" asked Feldspar.

"Nope," I said, "but not having all the information has never stopped me before."

"I don't know if this is a good idea, sir."

"Never mind your, 'I don't know', Feldspar," I said. "Buck up, sir, it's nothing more than Fierce Living. I do it all the time."

"But sir...."

"No buts. Life is a fairy tale, Feldspar. It just doesn't always end with living happily ever after. I doubt it ever ends well to be blunt about it. But sometimes it's enough for a story to just end. That's how space is made for new stories to begin."

"But sir...."

"Cap it, Feldspar!" I said.  "Piramp!" said Abbie Hoffman and I couldn't have agreed with him more.