Larry VanHouse
This Little Light of Mine
I’ve always believed the Blue Ridge Mountains are more than just a pretty backdrop. They’re a refuge. A sanctuary. A place where people come not just to escape the chaos of the world, but to find something deeper: peace, freedom, even survival. The longer I’ve lived here, and the more stories I’ve heard, the more I’ve come to understand just how true that is.
Long before these mountains showed up on postcards or in travel magazines, they were a place of shelter. Native American communities, especially the Cherokee, called these ridges home. It was sacred ground, really. The Cherokee lived in tune with the land, thriving in its rhythms.
When settlers began pressing in, many were forced from their ancestral homes. Still, some refused to leave. I’ve heard stories— quiet, powerful ones— of families who disappeared into the hollows, relying on their deep knowledge of the terrain to avoid capture. Some of their descendants still live here today, especially around the Qualla Boundary, carrying forward their traditions and language in the shadows of the same mountains that once protected their ancestors.
That same spirit of retreat has echoed through generations. Early European settlers— Scots-Irish, German, English— also found refuge here. They came fleeing hardship, persecution, and poverty, hoping to find a fresh start. The Blue Ridge gave them a chance to do just that. Out here, they built a life on their own terms, far from the rules and reach of the colonies. In those rugged hills, they didn’t just find land, they found freedom.
Even during the Civil War, the mountains offered a kind of complicated refuge. Not everyone in western North Carolina supported the Confederacy. Many families here were torn, caught between conflicting loyalties, or simply wanted no part in the fighting. The remoteness of the Blue Ridge gave some a way out, whether that meant hiding from conscription, sheltering those who fled, or simply disappearing for a while.
One story that’s stuck with me is about a young Cherokee woman named Salali, which means ‘squirrel’ in Cherokee. It’s said she lived around the early 1800s, just before the Indian Removal Act. When word came that soldiers were closing in on her village near the Little Tennessee River, she and her family slipped away into the highlands of what we now call the Great Smoky Mountains. They traveled by moonlight and rested beneath the thick canopies by day, and eventually settled in a remote cove where they could live quietly, freely. Her family built a home from chestnut logs, grew corn in a clearing, and hunted in the woods. And they stayed. Years later, her grandchildren were still there, resilient, rooted, still Cherokee.
I think about that a lot when I walk these trails or sit quietly on a ridge as the fog rolls in. Even now, in this age of highways, Wi-Fi, and constant connection, people still come to these mountains looking for something they’ve lost— or maybe never had. A little peace. A fresh start. A place to breathe.
The Blue Ridge has always answered with the same quiet strength. From ancient footpaths to Civil War hideouts, from settler cabins to weekend retreats, these mountains hold a long, deep legacy of sanctuary. They offer more than just beauty. They offer belonging.
And maybe that’s why I love them so much. Because whether you’re running from something or simply hoping to find yourself, the Blue Ridge has a way of wrapping you in silence and reminding you: You’re safe here. You’re home.
Like the psalmist once wrote,
“I lift up my eyes to the mountains— where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord, the Maker of heaven and earth.”
—Psalm 121:1–2
That verse has never felt more real to me than it does here. In this land of quiet hollows and sunlit ridges, I see it every day: the connection between creation and comfort, between nature and grace. So if you ever find yourself in need of stillness or seeking a little sanctuary of your own, come. The mountains are waiting.
