The Montana House – An Urban Homestead
Just fifteen years ago, downtown was mostly boarded up. People tell stories of street parties that raged through dawn and dilapidated industrial spaces squatted by artists. Those times are over now, and what was once a haven for dreamers and freaks has been glossed over by tourists, upscale boutiques, and yoga studios. Even with the rampant gentrification though, the city manages to hang on to a unique combination of understated southern charm and unbridled artistic expression. Musicians play banjos and fiddles in the street, and rusty pickup trucks haul supplies to small organic farms all around the city.
Asheville came into its own on these legs, and it now comprises a robust oasis of liberalism in the midst of the bible belt. The town’s been attracting the type for awhile now, and you can’t help but feel it’s become a bit mired in its own mythology. As with any trend, followers can be fickle. Style can give way to fashion, cool to hip, and cultures anchored by authenticity and creativity can sometimes degenerate into murky popularity contests.
But this is the way of things I suppose, and it’s hard to get too offended by a fad when so much of it centers around something as noble as sustainability. Converting diesel engines to run on used vegetable oil, utilizing local plants, and buying clothing second-hand can’t do too much harm. And even with all the hype buzzing around Asheville, you can still find architects in the city if you look hard enough—people building exactly the lifestyle they want for that reason alone and quietly grinning when the noise around them begins to mimic their own spontaneous tics.
We rode up to the house where Rob stood silent, eyes burning and slightly elevated to the sky. “There’s a bear.” The words came out like they were supposed to mean something, but after seeing our confounded silence, he went on.
