The Blue Ridge Parkway provides a breathtaking tour of the mountain ranges in Appalachia. It lets you feel like a bird gliding through the peaks, winding around the curves and emerging back out through the fog. The view of the landscape below is something people flock to from all around the world. The scenes stretch for miles in every direction. It’s a real-life version of those picturesque paintings that feature rays of sunshine and a sky full of cascading colors.

At mile marker 349.2, you can see a tract of rolling woodlands that was the US Forest Service’s first land purchase ever in 1911. This overlook features more than 20 different named peaks, with the noteworthy Hawksbill and Table Rock seen in the far distance. You can watch the sea of mountains fade into the horizon, sometimes swallowed up by rivers of clouds. It’s an awe-inducing and historic sight that makes you feel as if you are on top of the world.

That is, if you ignore the gigantic dead tree standing in the center of your view.

It’s quite a presence, with its darkened bark contrasting against the bright sky. The gnarled branches reach out over the cliffside to infiltrate the view from every angle. It disrupts the idyllic scene that people make pilgrimages to see. It’s like a giant middle finger of death that refuses to yield to wonder. A smudge on a photographer’s dream shot. What an inspiring menace.

When I’ve seen photos of the Blue Ridge Parkway after Helene ravaged Appalachia, I always searched for signs of mile marker 349.2. I’ve tracked each photo on a map to figure out which roads have been thrown down the mountain, leaving craters in their place. Images of the trees flattened and rocks crumbled have been seared into my mind. I have desperately wanted to know the fate of my forbidding friend.

After another week with no sign of the overlook, I decided to be more vigorous in my search. I tapped my finger on the keyboard and stared into space, trying to figure out what keywords could conjure this tree. Nothing came to me. I wrote “the dead tree on the parkway” into the search bar. Over a hundred pictures of it suddenly filled my screen. I laughed with joy, realizing I haven’t been the only one captivated by this dead tree’s carcass.

I didn’t find any information on its current state, but admittedly, I was distracted by something else. Dozens of photos laid out in front of me showed this tree while it was alive. My breathing stopped the first time I saw it. It was like seeing a photo of a relative you’ve only heard stories about. A relic from an ancestor you’ve admired. It was so beautiful, so full of life.

That is when I realized the dead tree was a table mountain pine.

Table mountain pines are one of my favorite endemic species in Appalachia, growing out of rocky cliffs and living in the most harsh environments. Their branches are twisted from the wind, their bark covered in scales like armor. They have cones lined with sharp spikes that require fire to open. They are a lesson in resilience and how to thrive in dangerous places. I had just taken a frigid hike the day before to check on a beloved grove of table mountain pines perched on the edge of a ridge. I hadn’t seen them since the hurricane and was prepared for a massacre. I was thrilled to be wrong - every single one was still standing, a testament to their otherworldly determination.

But those were living trees that managed to keep on living. My attention drifted back to the dead one. I noticed the hole in its trunk while it was alive, likely the reason for its early demise. I had assumed the hole happened after it died. Notes explained that it had been damaged by people climbing on it and landscaping around it before the year 2000. I read through accounts of people measuring its lean, mentioning it became more severe around 2022. Photos reminded me that I had noticed the ground beneath it sinking gradually each year. My stomach flip-flopped.

I had to stop and remind myself that I was obsessing over a tree that was already dead. If it was claimed by the hurricane winds or the landslides, it wouldn’t change the fact that it has already been dead for years. Why did I care so much if this dead tree got even deader?

We relate to death as a landmark. It denotes the passing of time for the living, dividing memories up into “before they died” or “after they died”. In the span of a timeline, even one that winds and spirals back in on itself, it creates a mark like a notch on a tree. It becomes something we measure distance against. We count the holidays we’ve had without someone and integrate it into the passing of each season. My own body always becomes tender mid-January, at the same point my dad died almost 20 years ago.

It also leaves a mark on the physical landscape. We allocate graveyards and burial places for the deceased, we hang wreaths at the site of accidents, we build memorials. These places become important parts of our cities and towns, a quiet space to reflect on our own inevitable deaths - or maybe living on as some haunted folklore. Tending to these landmarks can heighten our relationship with the living world around it. It’s easy to connect with a tree when you know its roots are intermingling with your grandfather.

The dead tree on the parkway has been an important landmark in both senses. Thousands of people have driven by while life trickled out and it transitioned into death. This massive monument has intermingled with everyone who ever stopped at the overlook, cultivating an inescapable moment of realism amongst the romantic mountains. It has also intensified the beauty with its contrast, as if saying, “enjoy the sight because one day you, too, will die”. This tree has taken on the role of a memento mori.

But death is a cycle, I remind myself. And all of its landmarks, no matter how sturdy, are eventually reclaimed by the earth. The elements themselves make sure of it: waters wash away, winds topple, fires consume, rocks erode. Time passes. The only constant seems to be that life itself carries on, becoming a persistent hum of shared experience and connection. We tuck the memories of others in our own bodies and allow their influence to grow as we continue to live. We are doing it right now, as you read this. It’s how we manage to keep things alive long after they have returned to the soil.

The moment they reopen the gates to the Blue Ridge Parkway, I will be on my way to visit mile marker 349.2. And whether the dead tree is still standing or not, I hope its presence will linger a while longer.

• I have finalized my professional site and I now look like I belong in this year of 2025: milaroeder.com

• The Poison Garden zine’s first issue, Purpose of Poison, is preparing to go to print! This flagship issue full of essays and art from 18 different contributors will be available in March 2025. I’m beyond thrilled to share this with you soon.

• I recently began an impromptu side project about labyrinths after someone suggested I walk a spiral near all the destruction that blocks my favorite places. If you have ever walked a giant labyrinth, I am really curious to hear about your experience.

Thank you for being here,
♡ Mila