Whiteside Mountain

Whiteside Mountain, with its ancient granite cliffs and sweeping vistas, is more than just a peak on the Blue Ridge—it’s where I spent my childhood exploring the forests around my grandparents' home in Highlands, North Carolina. It’s where I first felt the pull of the wild and where my love for nature was born.

The moment you step into the damp, cool embrace of the mountain’s forest, you're surrounded by a lushness that only the Southern Appalachians can provide. The air is thick with the scent of moss and earth, and beneath your feet are trails lined with soft pine needles, the occasional granite rock glinting with mica like a thousand tiny mirrors reflecting the light. As a kid, I spent hours hunting for the biggest, most glittering stones, captivated by their shimmering surfaces. Blackberries grew wild here, and my summers were spent with purple-stained fingers from picking them, savoring the sweetness that only fresh mountain air could infuse into those tiny fruits.

But it wasn’t just the forest or the rocks that made Whiteside so magical—it was the wildlife. The mountain is home to black bears, and I can still remember the thrill of spotting one from a distance, lumbering through the woods with a sense of purpose. There’s something awe-inspiring about sharing a space with such powerful creatures, knowing that while you are a visitor in their home, you are both a part of the same landscape.

Above, peregrine falcons soar, their sharp calls cutting through the silence of the mountain air. These raptors, once nearly extinct, now thrive on the cliffs of Whiteside Mountain. Watching them dive with such precision and grace was a reminder of the resilience of nature, and how, even after facing adversity, it finds a way to come back stronger. And then there were the dark-eyed juncos—small, flitting birds that I would see in the underbrush, their quick movements a contrast to the slow, steady rhythm of the mountain.

The beauty of Whiteside is not just in its wildlife or its rocks, but in its history. At over 390 million years old, the mountain’s imposing granite cliffs rise more than 2,000 feet above the valley below, making it one of the highest cliffs in the eastern United States. These cliffs have seen the rise and fall of ancient seas, the shifting of continents, and the slow march of glaciers that shaped the landscape into what it is today. Standing at the summit, looking out over the expanse of the Nantahala National Forest, you feel the weight of time beneath you. The panoramic views stretch out for miles, the valleys below often filled with mist, giving the entire scene an ethereal quality.

Growing up here, every day was an adventure. Whiteside Mountain wasn’t just a place to visit; it was my playground, my classroom, and my sanctuary. I would spend hours exploring the forest, finding hidden streams and waterfalls, following animal tracks, and letting my imagination run wild. There’s something about the quiet of the mountains that allows you to hear your own thoughts more clearly, to feel more connected to the world around you.

The history of the region adds to the magic. The Cherokee called the mountain Sanigilâ'gĭ, or "Ancient Bald," and the area has long been steeped in lore. Some even say the cliffs are haunted by the spirits of Native Americans who were forced from their lands, their whispers carried on the wind that sweeps through the trees. Others speak of hidden treasures buried within the mountain, left by early settlers. These stories were part of the fabric of my childhood, adding an air of mystery to my explorations.

No matter how many times I climbed Whiteside, it never lost its magic. Every visit was different, every season brought something new. In the spring, the mountain would come alive with wildflowers, the forest floor blanketed in shades of purple, yellow, and white. In the summer, the leaves were thick and green, creating a canopy that kept the forest cool even on the hottest days. Autumn was perhaps my favorite, when the mountains were set ablaze with reds, oranges, and yellows, and the crispness in the air signaled the coming of winter. And then winter itself, when the mountain would often be covered in a soft layer of snow, turning it into a winter wonderland.

Whiteside Mountain is more than just a memory of my childhood. It’s where I learned the value of nature, where I developed a respect for the wild, and where I found peace in the quiet moments. The granite cliffs, the sparkling mica, the call of the peregrine falcons—they are all part of me now, woven into the fabric of who I am.

To this day, when I visit my grandparents’ house in Highlands, I make time to return to the mountain. No matter where life takes me, Whiteside will always be home.