--Washington Irving, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow
We first learned about the Sleepy Hollow covered bridge from William Magnum's wonderful book of original paintings, "Carolina Preserves." 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 fir trees that stand in the foreground—a scene so perfectly pastoral it could make a Currier & Ives greeting card blush with envy.
(Google it now, in my opinion, because you won't be able to break away after reading the next paragraph.)
Ms. Wonder and I first searched for the bridge years ago and wrote about our adventure in The Raleigh News & Observer. Finding it the first time was no simple task, involving what I diplomatically described as "spirited navigation discussions" and what Ms. Wonder less diplomatically called "your stubborn refusal to ask for directions."
By the time we arrived, the heavy cloud cover had ceased its idle threats and decided to let loose with the determination of a weather goddess that had been saving up all morning just for this very moment. The narrow bridge lay in deep shadow cast by several big-toothed aspens standing at the far edge of a sandy-floored meadow.
Wynd Horse entered the one-lane bridge slowly, and the loose floorboards shifted against their joists as her tires pressed down on them. The sound they made was like horses' hooves on packed earth—pumble-lunk-lunk, pumble-lunk-lunk—a rhythm that would have made excellent percussion for a Bob Dylan folk song in the pre-electric guitar era.
Entering the bridge, I was reminded that, in an earlier age, posted signs would caution 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 boards—a concern that modern drivers, accustomed to interstate highways engineered to withstand Trump's tank divisions, might find quaintly alarming.
We exited the bridge onto a small lap of land, grassy and inviting, and hemmed in by steep hills that rise far above it like the walls of a natural amphitheater. Who knew that Mother Nature had such a profound appreciation for intimate acoustics?
We parked at a wide bend in the road, sheltered from the rain by the thick forest canopy that performed admirably as nature's umbrella. Thickets of rhododendron growing on the creek banks muffled the noise of traffic from the nearby highway. The steep hill behind us blocked out all other noise, creating what acoustical engineers would probably call "optimal ambient isolation." I call it the world's most comfortable outdoor cathedral.
Only the twittering of juncos could be heard above the constant gurgle of the stream and the heavy static of rain—a soundtrack that no streaming service could ever quite replicate. I love knowing that nature can surpass the best attempts of digital technology. The quiet was so mesmerizing we spoke very little for the first several minutes, both of us apparently under the spell of a silence so complete it seemed almost ceremonial.
Suddenly, I was transported to another Sleepy Hollow, one that sheltered me for the first eighteen years of my life—a place that existed not on any map William Magnum might paint, but in the carefully preserved geography of memory.
In the heart of one of those spacious coves that indent the northern shores of Lake Chickamauga, at a broad stretch of the Tennessee River, lies a small rural community, known to some as Yaphank, but properly called Shady Grove. The confusion over names was, I suspect, entirely intentional—a way for the locals to keep outsiders guessing and tourists from finding the good fishing spots.
The name supposedly came from a much earlier time when the good people of the area would take their lunch in the cooling shade and then linger until the last minute before returning to their gardens and livestock. Whether this is true or not, I can't say; though knowing my ancestors, it's entirely possible they named their community for their favorite pastime: the strategic avoidance of afternoon labor.
This little village, perhaps no more than half a mile long, is nestled among high hills and ridges, making it one of the quietest places in the world. A small brook glides through it, creating a soft murmur, just enough to lull me to sleep in the front porch swing on the lazy summer afternoons of my youth.
The only sounds breaking the uniform tranquility were the sweet song of a mockingbird, who seemed to know every tune from the Billboard Top 100, and the sharp rap of an acorn dropped by a blue jay onto the tin roof of my father's workshop. That Jay had a remarkable sense of comedic timing.
Mr. Irving concluded 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." His words aptly describe this Sleepy Hollow in the North Carolina mountains, and that Shady Grove in the Tennessee foothills.
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