Mountain of My Dreams

Chapter 1: Storm Clouds

It is vain to look for a defence against lightning.
Publilius Syrus (Circa 452 BC)

Storms make oaks take deeper root.
George Herbert

As I continued to stare out the window at the sodden world beyond, the early morning light grew perceptibly dimmer. The rain had become so heavy it made a rumbling sound as it beat against the fuselage, a sound easily heard over the high-pitched whine of the jet engines. The longer we sat motionless on the taxiway, the more my spirits sank. Desperately tired, racked by anxiety and guilt, I found myself staring at the jagged rivulets of water as they coursed down the thick glass pane. In many ways, they aptly depicted the fractured state of my mind.

Sandra and I had faced lots of challenges over the years, especially after we decided to move to the Blue Ridge Mountains and raise azaleas for a living. It had been a crazy, terribly romantic mid-thirties kind of dream. Now we lived in one of the most beautiful spots either of us had ever seen. It had taken years to construct the nursery and build our own home. We'd made plenty of mistakes along the way, but we’d eventually learned the skills we needed and now sold the vast majority of our annual azalea crop to one of the most prestigious garden centers in Northern Virginia.

Azaleas, however, had never been my reason for wanting to leave the city. I'd been after something far less tangible - a simpler life. Although we both enjoyed the Washington, DC suburbs, I felt strongly that we would be even happier living in a small, close knit rural community, earning our living the old fashioned way – by the work of our own hands.

In the end, we found nearly everything I’d hoped for on Long Mountain. Despite some initial misgivings, Sandra eventually agreed it had been an inspired decision to leave the city. The bond we formed to both the land and our new way of life seemed almost inexplicable. I don’t really know whether our farm became part of our family, or our family became a part of our farm. How or why it happened hardly seemed to matter. Now, a raging hurricane seemed poised to destroy everything we’d worked so hard to build, and I wouldn't even be there to try to prevent it from happening.

When we lived in the suburbs, hurricanes had been little more than diversions, an occasion to take the day off and watch events unfold on television. With few notable exceptions, by the time hurricanes reached the DC area, they brought little more than heavy rain. Winds would sometimes topple a few power lines, but that just added to the sense of drama. Now that we operated a plant nursery, hurricanes seemed far more menacing.

Early in the summer of 1996 when I received the invitation to present a two-day technical seminar on my science research to a government group in South Korea, it seemed unimaginable that my acceptance might put our very way of life in jeopardy. I did realize I'd be placing the full burden of caring for the nursery squarely on Sandra's shoulders. But, I'd gone on lots of business trips over the years and there’d never been a serious problem. Admittedly, this time would be quite different. This time I'd be about as far from Virginia as I could get. If an irrigation system problem developed Sandra couldn't fix, the very survival of the nursery would come into question.

In warm weather, our container-grown azaleas require irrigation every day, sometimes twice a day. Being so critical, we both worried about the irrigation system a lot. From the beginning, constructing and maintaining the water system had been my responsibility. Although I knew nothing about such things when we got started, I’d gotten plenty of on-the-job training over the years. In the early days, a single well pump fed both our barn and fledgling nursery. Over the years, our irrigation system had grown much more complicated. It now included three 220-volt well pumps, extensive low voltage control circuits, a half dozen clock timers, and a chemical injection system. In the event of a main pump failure, I'd installed two backup pumps that drew water from the pond. To prevent algae from clogging the distribution system, all pond water got shunted through a 7-foot high sand filtration unit that required daily back flushing. Dozens of electric and manual values controlled the extensive underground water distribution system. To help manage all these devices, I built a master control panel that contained so many tightly packed relays, transformers, indicator lamps, switches, and lightning protection circuits that replacing individual components took a delicate hand.

Not surprisingly, Sandra showed little interest in learning how the system worked. Perhaps unwisely, I hadn't pressed her on the matter. As a consequence, neither she nor Jarvis, our full-time employee, knew enough to track down and correct any but the simplest problems. Even a competent pump man would probably be hesitant to take on our highly customized system.

Concerned about leaving Sandra with too great a burden, I agonized for several days over whether or not to give the seminar. Sandra and I discussed the matter numerous times, but to no resolution. Each time, she argued that I should accept the offer because it would be good for my career. She'd then remind me that the irrigation system had operated flawlessly all summer. This is where I had to draw the line. "Sandra, we both know how many times the system has failed over the years. What would you do if you had a problem you couldn’t fix? What if you couldn't find anyone who could?" Although I considered the request to present a seminar a great honor, I did not want to leave Sandra with more than she could handle. After considerable hand wringing and many protracted discussions, Sandra convinced me to go.

Although we seldom spoke openly about my being on the other side of the globe for nearly 10 days in early September, the strain felt almost palpable over the ensuing months. Then, just a week before my departure, the vague trepidation we'd both felt turned frighteningly concrete. Three well-defined disturbances, Edouard, Fran, and Gustav began moving in rapid succession over the warm tropical waters of the Atlantic. Nearly in lock step with each other, all three appeared headed for the US mainland.