That is the bucolic landscape my son and his partner awaken to every morning from their new digs. That white strip in the distance is not a river, as my mind’s eye kept trying to make it, but the plant clotches farmers use on immature crops. Part of the appeal of their move here was in fact the landscape and the promise it’ll never change, at least not during their tenure there, as the large, commercial farm around it is going nowhere soon.

Rain was the theme of this visit, and I mean biblical. The people in Western North Carolina seem destined to remain somehow in its clutches periodically following the devastation Helene left in its wake in September of 2024. Last Monday night as we were settling down on the sofa with Netflix, our collective cellphones sounded with an imminent flood warning. Earlier the power had flickered a couple times and one of our canine pals had spent an hour curled up in a tight ball between us on the sofa, paralyzed with fear and trembling uncontrollably. Outside, the water rose about an inch over our tires and soon you couldn’t see the street, but by Tuesday, our travel day home, the roads were dry enough and the sun even popped through the clouds here and there. Meanwhile, social media posts showed videos of damaging flooding overnight in Lake Lure, North Carolina, and hinted at ongoing water rescues. People get twitchy in a hurry when it floods in Western North Carolina.

We had a good visit in spite of the weather. My son has taken up photography, even monetized it, and what a good fit this has turned out to be for him. I don’t know why I’m surprised. It actually tracks beautifully with who he is and where his life has been heading. I don’t have any of his photos to share here—these are all mine—but the two of us had one fantastic photo-making adventure in the Pisgah National Forest on a cool, rainy Sunday, followed by a mini adventure with The Chef to the shoreline of the French Broad on Monday, when it was impossibly hot and humid.

Other photo opps were just outside the back door on the small, private patio just beyond the kitchen. I took my camera and coffee out there on Sunday morning and my son followed, but only after The Chef nudged, Go out there and sit with your mom. The morning light’s not right, he insisted before relenting. I found it enchanting. In a single minute my Merlin app identified no fewer than eight songbirds. They flutter around and finally alight on the tall, reedy plants in the field, content to sway back and forth for a moment until the plant stops moving. My kid has photographed all of them in exquisite, up-close detail and spoke to me at length about their habits. Does this make him a birder? I believe it does.

This was our first attempt to travel with two dogs, and likely Henry’s first-ever long-distance (more than an hour) car trip. Suffice it to say, things did not go well, and we won’t ever repeat that, at least not with both dogs. Scout is ever the trooper, though, and was just fine. Even at his advanced age, he knows what to expect and how to do it. I think for him, acclimating to car travel was easier because of his early years with us and my daily commute to work, a half hour each way. He had no choice except to go with me and to figure it out.

Henry, however, is a full-time remote worker as I am now, and knows no such life. If the car is pulled out of the garage even a little bit, it’s tough to convince him to step outside the front door of our house, if he believes there is the remotest chance he’ll be buckled into the back seat. When Scout has finally left us, maybe this scenario will change. I have my doubts.