The feel—or more precisely, the resonance—of a place can settle into your bones like weather. It’s not something I consciously thought about much until moving away from Hawaii, where the land itself seemed to breathe in ʻōlelo noʻeau, in stories older than any map. On the Big Island, life pulsed so close to the surface you could taste iron in the rain and hear the island cracking open at night. I began to wonder if the feelings were only memory, or if the earth itself was speaking in a frequency my body translated as joy or dread. Could it be the rocks? The wind? The blood spilled centuries ago? I’ve read the sparse literature on energy vortices—places where the planet’s magnetic field supposedly knots and intensifies. Kīlauea sits atop one of the world’s most active magma plumes; molten rock is a conductor. When lava cools into pāhoehoe or ʻaʻā, it locks in magnetic signatures like a tape recorder. Add trade winds shearing over ridges, stripping electrons from raindrops, and you get a sky full of negative ions—the same chemistry that lifts mood after a thunderstorm. Maybe the volcano’s heat turbocharges that process, turning the place into a giant ion fountain.
Some people seem to be more in tune with the energy of places, and some people don’t seem to notice at all. Just like some eardrums hear lower frequencies, some retinas see wider spectrums. Place-energy might be similar: a subtle electromagnetic murmur that certain nervous systems render as awe. This area fits into the supernatural or even spiritual, that has not been able to be explained by modern science, yet it is a very real phenomenon.
For us, it has been the decision maker for where to live. I ask myself, “Does this place feel magical? Do I feel inspired and rejuvenated?” Southwest Virginia is the only place on the East Coast that has given me a similar feeling to the energy of the Big Island, both light and dark. The Appalachian region is part of an ancient mountain range with complex rock formations. Granite, quartz, and other minerals common in the Appalachians can sometimes generate weak piezoelectric effects- electric charges produced under pressure or vibration. Subtle earth movements can emit faint electromagnetic signals. Quartz is especially known for this property.
The mountains remember being taller than Everest; they remember fire and pressure, and the long grinding kiss of continents. That memory leaks out onto the trails and rock faces. The quartz veins thread the granite like frozen lightning, fracturing light into ancestral rainbows.
The open meadows of Greyson Highlands feel particularly full of positive energy. On the flipside, there is a section of trail between Damascus and Backbone Rock, TN that feels very negative and heavy. There are often drug addicts camping along the trail for extended periods of time. Chicken or egg? Do broken people seek broken places, or do broken places summon them? Whenever I run on the trail through there, I feel like my head is being pulled towards the ground. I feel disoriented, time seems to slow down. The same piezoelectric effect may be working in reverse—absorbing rather than radiating, or resonating at a frequency that drags on the inner ear? In Cherokee mythology, there is a trickster spirit that was said to live in the area. That leads me to believe there is something negative with the area itself. I would love to figure out what causes a place to feel magical and positive, but for now, I treat the data my body gives me as gospel. I run toward the bright seams and step wide around the dim ones. It’s a fascinating topic, where the physical world meets the metaphysical.
