Today wasn’t about checking off a hike or chasing a view. It was about carrying something that mattered and, then, choosing to leave it behind.
We started at the newly rebuilt Rainbow Bridge in Lake Lure. The lake is low right now. It is almost emptied out in parts. The road between it and Chimney Rock is brand new. The whole region is still healing water, roads, foundations. But someone rebuilt that bridge on purpose. Someone made it soft, intentional, open.
We brought our mom’s dog’s collar with us. We walked to the bridge, took our time, and tied it gently to the rail. And we talked. Out loud. Not just about the dog, but about the years. About what the collar held, what it represented. It was small, but it held weight. And letting it go there didn’t feel like loss. It felt like care.
Afterward, my sister took us somewhere I’d never even seen before: an old highway bridge in Saluda, North Carolina. She just said, “I think you’ll like it.” And she was right. It was broken and quiet, the type of structure that doesn’t ask for attention but still holds your eye. We got out and climbed around some nearby, and in the hillside, we found crystals. They were sharp and half-buried. We dug them out by hand. It felt like something the earth was offering back.
Our final stop was Standing Rock, where the air felt thinner and everything stretched out in front of us. We stood together. It wasn’t heavy. It wasn’t light, either. Yet, it was beautiful.
We didn’t plan to do all that. We just followed where the day took us. The roads we took through flood-scarred towns hurt in a way I didn’t expect. It led us to a memory we hadn’t made yet. We didn’t come back with much. Just crystals. Just peace. The collar stayed on the bridge. But what it meant stayed with us.
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Say it. Don’t spray it.