I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve driven the Blue Ridge Parkway—hundreds, maybe even thousands.
When I was growing up, it was one of the few things we could afford to do. We didn’t have much, but all it took was a tank of gas to make a day of it—and back then, that didn’t cost much. Mamaw would pack a picnic lunch, and we’d pile into the truck headed for the Pink Beds or the Devil’s Courthouse.
We’d hike, eat, and before long, somebody would start telling stories.
Papaw always had the best ones. He’d been in the CCCs back in the 1940s—helped build the Pink Beds himself. Most of the money he made went straight back home to his Mama and Daddy to help take care of his younger brothers and sisters.
It’s hard to imagine a teenager carrying that kind of responsibility today. But not so long ago, thousands of young men just like him did whatever it took to help their families survive the Great Depression.
Mamaw’s stories leaned more Southern Gothic than sentimental. She loved a good ghost story, and her favorite was the legend of the Devil’s Courthouse—how the Devil himself was said to sit at the top, condemning sinners and flinging them straight into hell.
Daddy must’ve gotten his taste for folklore from her. His favorite was the tale of the Brown Mountain Lights—those strange, flickering orbs that still drift across the ridgeline on dark North Carolina nights.
I’ve carried on that tradition in my own way. I never go home without driving the Parkway—there’s nowhere better to catch a sunset, see fire on the mountain, or lose yourself in a sky full of stars. And like those before me, I tell the old tales of the hills to whoever’s riding shotgun. Belle probably knows them all by heart by now.
My trip to Floyd back in July was the first time I’d ever ventured onto the Blue Ridge Parkway outside North Carolina—and I’ll admit, it caught me off guard. I’d always pictured it as one long ribbon of mountaintop views and sweeping overlooks. But near Floyd, the Parkway rolls quiet through farmland and little towns tucked just off the road. It felt less like a national treasure and more like a country back road—and I loved that about it.
Even more surprising? I learned that plenty of folks who aren’t familiar with the region think the Parkway is the Blue Ridge Mountains. But they’re not one and the same.
The Blue Ridge Mountains stretch from Pennsylvania all the way down to Georgia, their misty blue hue coming from isoprene released by the trees and vegetation that thrive there. The Blue Ridge Parkway, though, covers just 469 miles—winding through 29 counties across Virginia and North Carolina.
It may not span the whole range, but for those of us who grew up along it, the Parkway is the spine of Appalachia. Every curve, overlook, and picnic pull-off holds a story.
And for me, that road will always lead back to where my family’s tales began—somewhere not far from Haywood County.
