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Page 27 text:
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On The HIGH COUNTRY Road sites of the mountains, and I, with map in hand, set off. The Blue Ridge can tease you into a Httle amateur exploring, but just as easily, it can turn a cold shoulder on you at the drop of a snow fall. Schizophrenic terrain and weather to be sure, but nevertheless, a boy scout ' s heaven. A little way up the road, I pulled off and went for a hike. I soon found myself stumbling through the dead grass of a hillside like some demented Julie Andrews in a perverse production of The Sound of Music . When I fi- nally got back to my car, I was ill. Blood ran through my body like hot paint thinner. And by the time I reached Boone, I began to un- derstand why alcohol is forbidden here. Beer and mountain climbing is a bad marriage. I rolled into Boone like a greased fireball expecting to find a pocket of cultural stagnation in the wasteland of the rural South. Instead, I found a curiously two-faced town. Half of Boone resembled a convention for gluttonous fast food maniacs, while the other side contained a sleepy charm with its small town facades and lean-times student atmosphere. This was the Boone I wanted to find. Predictably, the police station, the court house, and the small town news- paper were to be found on the same block. The ancient street-like busi- nesses stood stoically on King Street in silent battle with the modern con- dos and apartment buildings springing up here and there. The faces I saw that day on the streets were serene and regal, resembling big fish in a small pond. But dotted among the bar- ons of King Street were students in various guises of day-to-day exis- tence. A majority of them seemed more unorthodox in dress and manner than other students around the country. They walked with a cool serenity as if traipsing through their own far-away back yards. I ducked into a hip-looking deli at the corner of King and Depot hoping to catch Boone ' s creatures in their nat- ural surroundings. I knew I had hit paydirt as soon as I walked in. All the hairy Boone sophisticates were gathered there discussing the issues of the day over a meal of tofu and herbal
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Page 28 text:
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On The HIGH COUNTRY Road tea, and I was greeted with more of a cosmopolitan courtesy than the how-ya- doin ' -slap-on-the-back I had expected. I sat for awhile with a cup of Roast-a-Rama watching the parade when I suddenly remembered my purpose. I had to register at school. No time to waste, school days were at hand. Like any good college kid worth his salt, though, I abandoned my visit to the administration building the minute I found myself on campus. Procrasti- nation is a fine art practiced by all students, best get started on it early. The campus of ASU was unspec- tacular but comfortable. The late after- noon sunlight slanting through the trees gave it a contemplative feel but short of the haughty atmosphere of an Ivy League campus. I stopped by all of the college touchstones - the library, cafeteria, student union, bookstore assessing the university ' s potential for deviant behavior. I decided to ob- serve the students ' habits on the commons area, Sanford Mall. The day was cold but bright, and the ; Mall was humming with activities. The whole place reminded me of a finely manicured garden with people buzzing like bees spreading social and intel- lectual pollen through the air. It was a bit confusing to see new faces pour- ing from buildings and walking through the grounds. But still, the faces were consistent. Ski jackets, wool sweaters, and nylon book packs were everywhere. For a stranger, I felt curiously at home. Soon the intrigue turned to boredom and a different atmosphere to continue my observations was needed. Something tall and alcoholic was in order. It was time to explore the Rock, the mecca for ASU students. The Rock is connected to Boone by an 8 mile stretch of winding 4-lane. It takes four lanes to handle the mass exodus which occurs every afternoon and on the weekends from Boone to Blowing Rock. After the pleasant journey, I happened onto a rustic little watering hole called Woodlands. Once again, I had hooked into the herbal tea and vi- tamin crowd, this time hovering over beer instead of soybeans. The place was loud and jubilant - not a ski bib or monogrammed sweater in sight. These folks tended to move toward flannel
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