On the Blue Ridge Parkway, there are only two directions you can go: north or south. Follow the walnut-colored arrows on the signposts pointing the way on a road that has not been widened, has not been rerouted, has not been altered in more than 80 years.

Those weathered signs share space, unobtrusively, on the shoulder of the road with dogwood and tulip trees, with white-blooming rosebay rhododendrons and flame azaleas; with soft pink mountain laurel and violet joe-pye weed; with crimson maples and brilliant ochre oaks. At the Air Bellows Overlook, stands of Christmas trees sweep the sloping valley below. At the Stone Mountain Overlook, the exposed granite dome, streaked in shades of cream and khaki, pops out barefaced amid the leafy hills. At the Thunder Hill Overlook, the deep pinks of a spring sunrise, the feverish oranges of an autumn sunrise, the noble purples of a winter sunrise will take your breath.

On the parkway, there is fog: Clouds sink in a thermal inversion; cold air descends; a hazy veil drops over the view. On the parkway, there is wind: light fall breezes, just enough to stir the limbs of a poplar, just enough to scatter fallen leaves; occasionally, gusts of more than 100 miles per hour.

On the parkway, there is snow: a dusting, a coating, a blanket. On the parkway, there are fences, hand-built by WPA workers from American chestnut salvaged from the blight: the curving snake style, the post-and-rail construction, the crosshatched “buck” fence — rustic sculptures framing fields, meadows, pastureland.

But for everything that the parkway has — panoramic overlooks and pastoral views; picturesque stone bridges and tunnels; stubs of mile markers, blue numbers recessed into the concrete — it’s what the parkway lacks that makes it so special.

On the parkway, there are no billboards or advertisements of any kind. You won’t share the road with trucks, tractor trailers, or commercial vans with logos of business emblazoned on the side. There are no road signs for motels, hotels, grocery stores, convenience shops, car dealerships, boats, or banks. There are no white lines on the parkway’s edges, a deliberate design choice all those years ago to ensure that painted markings wouldn’t conflict with the palette of nature.

There are no stoplights on the parkway, and yet, here on this road, we’re able to find a sense of pause. An instinctive slowdown.

How lucky we are to have this road, its purpose for beauty not only fulfilled but also protected, guarded for generations, a future continuing as far into the distance as we can see.

Elizabeth Hudson
Editor in Chief