Omni vs. Uni

I am sitting in my $300-per-night room, enjoying a commanding view of the grounds of the Omni Park Hotel in Asheville and the expansive Appalachian Mountain horizon fading blue into a distant western horizon, reflecting on the Yadkin River property and strangely enjoying the contrasting images that play with my imagination. 

The 'Omni' is a historic resort of huge proportions made of rocks and timbers and red roof shingles, sitting high up on a mountain slope above a meticulously groomed 18-hole golf course.  Here are throngs of visitors casually taking in the luxury of this place.  The natural facade, the fine food, the intriguing history, the famous spa that will discretely and professionally massage and restore your face for up to 500 dollars per hour, tip not included. At either end of the vast central lobby are identical stone fireplaces, each large enough to hold a small car.  They attract clusters of guests who sit in rocking chairs, admiring the flames. The outdoor verandas are filled with chatty dining guests who have come here to enjoy the rejuvenating mountain air while perusing a sumptuous menu.

The hallways are decorated with photographs of hundreds of celebrities of every stripe, including actors, sports heroes, writers, and politicians, ranging from F. Scott Fitzgerald to President Eisenhower and Barack Obama.  Their personas stare at me through their plate-glass shrouds, mostly smiling, some head-scratching, a few scowling. Each portrait contains a quote presented as an epitaph to capture the spirit by which they came to be celebrities and thus find themselves so honored to hang from these walls.  Perhaps there is someone in this 500-room facility even now with enough notoriety to join the legion of famous portraits.

This is where the rich and famous got away from it all.  I, on the other hand, being of a much lower crust, will never think this is getting away from much of anything, unless I choose to turn off my cell phone, put the privacy sign on the door, skip the conference lectures, and think about the remote shore along the Yadkin River. How different the disheveled forest there seems, cloistered, embracing an intimacy of nature that is so uncontrived.  Quiet, or rather hushed.  Sounds do emerge if you are still:  the whisper of the breeze in the pines, an evening choir of cicadas, a pack of coyotes across the river baying at the rising moon, your own footsteps muffled by a thick blanket of pine needles. There solitude is assured if one really wants to get away from 'it all'.  No historical portraits, no manicured putting greens, no exotic facials unless you have the presence of mind to dip your hand into the river's edge and extract some of the silty mud and smear it on your cheeks - no gratuity required.

I correct myself from thinking these two experiences are completely opposite -- the Omni vs. the Uni,  Socialites vs. the Solitaire.   The expansive mountain horizon has a certain natural allure, as does the contractive pine grove, but the human experience of a retreat into nature is vastly different.  One is a human invention that focuses on people who look for the trappings of rustic luxury and relaxed camaraderie within the charming motif of a Great Lodge; the other is a natural wilderness that appeals to people who long for a direct and intimate experience with nature, unaffected by the choking overlay of human industry.

Sometimes I think this river land would be best left alone in it's true natural state, void of civilized intervention of any kind.  But this perspective ignores the irony that as a homo sapiens, I am an inseparable part of this natural world.  Then, I recall the fact that the loblolly pines I rejoice in are not native to the property but were planted after loggers clear-cut the native deciduous forest 25 years ago.

Having spent so much of my life in cities and suburbs, I wonder how I might engage this parcel of country 'naturally' in a harmony of purpose to cultivate a mutualistic niche for myself.   Yet, within that spirit of mind begs the question: how could I share this singular intimacy:  the quietude, the hidden beauty, the acknowledgment of an immediate and compelling presence within nature, engendering a sense of the divine.  A spiritual experience is within earshot, the gentle murmur of the shoals hidden from view by sycamore and river birch.

So my bigger challenge is to be a good steward of this land so that I may share in some small way my fledgling sense that this canopy of pines along the Yadkin is sacred ground. I find it comforting to know that from the river bluff in the wintertime the tip of Pilot Mountain is visible along the northern horizon.  The Saura Indians called it Jomeokee, for Pilot, the Great Guide.  I will ask for its help as I journey to find a natural sense of place here, a sylvan state of grace.