I was looking to learn how to mountain bike, not move to a new town.
Last spring after a glorious ride in Dupont, I got that happy buzz of being active outdoors. The mountains became even more beautiful. Brevard grabbed hold of my heart and became a relentless whisper in my ear. Move here.
I found myself spending more of my free time in Brevard than anywhere else. Real estate signs caught my eye. I researched preschools for my four-year-old son. I asked around about writing groups and yoga classes and babysitters.
The pieces were coming together. No doubt remained that I would move to Brevard, the only question was a timing one, when it would happen.
I spent a day with my son exploring downtown and we ate lunch at Rocky’s Grill and Soda Shop right out of the 1950s. My son and I sat at the lunch counter on red vinyl stools, dangling our legs as I told him his lunch choices.
Halfway through our burgers and shakes, I got to talking to the man sitting next to me who happened to be a realtor. I gushed on about how much I loved Brevard, the funky upcoming Lumber Arts District to the world-famous Brevard Music Center to the less-than-a-mile-from town trails at Bracken Mountain Preserve.
He turned his stool to face me. “I know of a house that would be perfect for you and your son. Outside of town, but not too far with a great yard for him to play outside.”
I waved him off. “We’re not ready to move yet, I still haven’t figured out where we’d want to live.”
He just smiled. “We could just take a drive up there. At the very least you’d see another area.”
I shrugged and agreed to go. My son and I had already played with everything in the local toy store and I storm clouds made the prospect of an afternoon in the forest less appealing.
We drove up twisting country roads past rolling farm fields, the mountains punctuating the horizon. I felt my shoulders relax as we turned onto a road bordered by a creek.
Then I saw the house.
Nestled among towering trees on almost an acre, blooming rhododendron framed the house. My son raced from room to room. I marveled at the chance of having my own bathroom. And then I saw the sunroom, sun-drenched under the green canopy, the perfect room of my own for writing.
The more I saw of the house, the more I realized this was exactly the type of house that I wanted to be able to afford one day.
“So what do you think?” the realtor asked.
“I’m smitten, but I’m sure it’s out of our price range, everything is at this point,” I said.
“You might just be in luck. The buyer walked yesterday after the inspection revealed a few problems. The buyer reduced the purchase price by over fifty thousand and it’s going to be listed tomorrow,” the realtor said.
Still, I didn’t know how I’d make it work. We said good-bye and my son and I drove back to town in the rain. By the time we reached town, the storm passed, leaving spires of steam rising from the mountains.
I craned my neck, admiring the way the fog looked like dreams reaching upward, bridging the solid rocks with the ethereal realm of clouds, reminding me of possibility.
I knew I was moving in the right direction, taking another step and then the next to live closer to the mountains and rivers I love, raising my son in a small town with a vibrant close-knit community.
More from Mountain Mama:
