After Losing My Dad, I Ditched My Job for a Cross-Country Road Trip to Relive Our Past

The previous summer, following my mom and dad's separation, I spent some time with him when I was about eight years old. He leased an Airstream trailer close to Bryson City, North Carolina—a one-day car journey away from where we lived in Florida at the time. This occurred well before tiny homes and van life were Instagram fodder.

When my two siblings and I decided to spend a few weeks camping in an RV west of Asheville in the Nantahala National Forest, little did we know that we would lose access entirely to cable TV throughout our stay. For us, this was akin to being disconnected from the online world.

Cartoons were my sacred ritual for Saturday mornings, and I didn't realize that to spend time with my dad, I would need to abandon them.

"Honey, you can head to Deep Creek after breakfast," my dad said, aiming to shift my focus towards the upcoming excitement of tubing through the Great Smoky Mountains.

A few days later, he assisted us in braving the cold waters of Sliding Rock to enjoy a natural waterslide experience. However, these exciting moments couldn't compensate for the absence of electronic entertainment.

Following our constant complaints, Dad followed through. amusement park vacations .

After his passing in June 2009, I recalled evenings spent in the Airstream, gazing out the window at the fireflies dancing amidst the shadowy forest.

I recalled the tranquil forest, the chirping insects and hooting owls, along with the gushing waters of the creek. I reminisced about playing Gin Rummy and Crazy Eights, seeing my father's happy expression as he feigned being bested by us once more. I also remembered those lavish afternoons spent engrossed in books, where Dad served not just as family entertainment but also as an impromptu dictionary for explaining unfamiliar terms. His presence was marked by a gentle affection evident in both his touch and voice, which emerged vividly following seven days off from his job.

I recalled all these small joys as fragments of enchantment that I now longed to reclaim in my dreams.

I felt a deep sadness, realizing I hadn't valued his concept of a perfect family getaway. It made me ponder why he chose North Carolina as the destination for our inaugural vacation without roller coasters or manufactured water parks. Likely, he aimed to expose us to raw wilderness beyond the meticulously planned environments of theme parks like Disney World and Busch Gardens. Maybe he envisioned a serene, rustic retreat where we could disconnect from contemporary life's diversions. Alternatively, perhaps cost savings were simply what tipped the scales towards this choice.

I recalled his call from just months before. In his characteristic composure, he mentioned that his cancer had spread, and he believed he wouldn’t have much time left.

"I'm not prepared," I stated, my voice trembling.

"I'm not prepared yet, darling, but when your moment arrives, it arrives," he stated.

What should I do, Dad?" I questioned him. "What exactly do you want me to do?

"I understand you're agnostic," he remarked. My father started discussing his religious and spiritual views with me in a manner he hadn’t when I was younger. "However, I would like for you to pray frequently. Do everything necessary to soothe yourself and improve your state of mind. All I want is for you to find peace." His statement hung unspoken over not adding, 'once I'm no longer here.'

During the summer of 2009, I heard his voice say, "Do what you have to." At that time, I resided in Brooklyn and felt compelled to deal with my sorrow by quitting my job, stashing my possessions in a storage facility, and embarking on a journey across the U.S. alongside Reine, who was part German Shepherd and part Tan Greyhound. Recalling numerous escapades shared with my dad brought me joy. We had explored cities like Seattle, Phoenix, Memphis, and Montreal together, and now this extensive road trip—a contemplative pilgrimage—would act as both tribute and therapy, allowing me to relive those precious moments we once spent side by side.

Following extensive planning, I chose Asheville for one of my initial visits, since my former university buddies Rick and Sara had relocated there recently. They had established their family in a "charming small hippie community" nestled within the Blue Ridge Mountains, as they often mentioned.

Early one October morning, I found myself awake in Asheville within the cozy confines of Rick and Sara’s triangular wooden retreat enveloped by towering pines and tranquility. We got ready for an outing towards Graveyard Fields.

"Sara mentioned that the waterfalls are reportedly stunning," she stated.

With joy, I retrieved the boots I had bought specifically for an adventure like the one I was seeking to experience, aiming to rediscover my connection with nature.

As we headed towards the Blue Ridge Parkway, towering, tree-covered mountains emerged on both sides. Patches of blazing red, deep orange, and golden yellow interspersed among the greens brought to mind scenes I had witnessed before. Bob Ross create on PBS . As a child not yet aware of the gap between Ross' down-to-earth style and the wider realm of fine arts, I'd stumble upon "The Joy of Painting" when surfing through the channels on my father's outdated color television in our small two-bedroom rental near his workplace following my parents' separation.

In those days, I wasn't impressed by mountains, yet after spending years surrounded by skyscrapers that blocked out the sun, the enchantment of these rolling hills under an expansive sky sparked a fresh admiration for the magnificence of nature. Maybe my dad, who was raised in New York City, experienced something similar when he found beauty in these mountains after living in the shadow of Wall Street.

A thick mist surrounded us as we joined the curving two-lane road, forcing us to drive at a snail's pace. Recalling my dad navigating these mountain roads during our trips to the Airstream, I vividly remembered closing my eyes when passing spots with extremely sharp drop-offs, shielded only by frail barriers preventing us from plunging down the edge. As we crawled through the searing white haze, an old unease resurfaced within me.

Yet when I started doubting if we should drop our plan, we drove through a mountain tunnel, and the fog cleared away. The quilt-like display of autumn hues refocused my attention on the present. I'm not in New York anymore. Why the rush?

A short time afterward, a sign shared the rich history of Graveyard Fields, dating back centuries. A powerful gust of wind had torn out an entire spruce forest, leaving behind decaying tree trunks and roots that transformed into earthen humps reminiscent of an ancient burial ground.

Rick secured his daughter on his back, where she rested happily like a little elf wearing an orange hoodie. I attached a leash to Reine, who guided us toward a paved trail that seemed to take us into another realm—a lush thicket canopying over a pathway lined with scorched orange foliage and low bushes shimmering in shades of red.

Before long, we arrived at the foot of a waterfall. The roar of the river plummeting over huge, jagged rocks—seemingly ready to slide away from the mountainside anytime—took me back to my distant memory of visiting Sliding Rock. We gently settled onto neighboring boulders, ideal spots for relaxation and contemplation. The constant murmur of water plunging into a pristine pond provided a soothing backdrop to our serene interlude.

Sara gave her daughter to Rick so she could take a picture of them. Rick carefully positioned the infant on his lap.

“Smile!” Sara called.

It’s such a lovely sight: a dad with his little one, a lady accompanied by her dog, all set against a backdrop of trees whose leaves are changing color around a cascading waterfall.

The photograph resembled one of mine taken with my father when I was just a bit older than their child. In that picture, he stood behind me on a beach close to our house in Florida, gripping my small hands to keep me stable at the water’s edge. It made me think how he would have felt proud seeing me return to these Blue Ridge Mountains and discovering inner peace without his presence.

As the sun moved towards the western horizon, it enveloped everything in a warm golden light, causing the ripples of water to shimmer brightly. This scene filled me with wonder, knowing that such breathtaking yet fleeting moments linked me back to my father and our cherished memories together. By immersing myself completely in this moment, I found solace for my sorrow, continuing forward even though he was not beside me.

This piece was initially released on kor.news