Carter Mountain

Golden hour settles on Carter Mountain. The orchard glows with soft light, rows of trees stretching toward the horizon like brushstrokes on a canvas. From the deck, you can see the whole Rivanna valley below — Charlottesville shrinking into a miniature diorama, its traffic lights and parking tickets too small to touch you now.

In your hand: a cold cup of hard cider, beads of condensation sliding down. In your mouth: a sugar-dusted apple doughnut, still warm, its sweetness perfectly balanced against the tart bite of the drink. Is it homemade? Or is it Sysco? Who cares?

You sit back. The music of IX Art Park, the roar of 250, the endless zoning debates on Reddit — all of it fades. Up here, there are no parking meters, no council hearings, no gridlock. Only hills, sun, and apples.

A breeze carries the faint smell of hay and fried dough. Somewhere, a guitarist strums lazily, half-forgetting the chords but making them work anyway. A child runs past with sticky fingers, laughing.

For the first time all day, you are not rushing, not regretting, not bargaining with yourself. You are simply here. At peace.

You have transcended Charlottesville’s chaos.

Try Again? (But why?)