The Motivation for this Journal

My name is Matt and I play in West Virginia. Actually, I'm addicted to the state.

Living inside or within a few hours of a WV state border for all of my life, I've had plenty of "West Virginia Moments," a characterization that could range from WV stereotype reinforcements of the cultural (could be bad) to the natural persuasion. Fortunately, the number of the latter is far greater than the number of former.

I wish to document with this blog these "West Virginia Moments." If you're reading this, then you are a friend or family member, or have stumbled upon this blog, and I thank you for reading and hope you'll get a laugh, discover a new natural place in WV, or gasp at the thought of it. However, the real reason for this blog is personal. I will consider this blog an archive of these moments for a man with a poor memory.

Enjoy!

31 October, 2007

Legendary


Yesterday I got to run Cheat Canyon with a crew that included Charlie Walbridge.

This is kind of like a visit to Monticello with Thomas Jefferson or attending a game at Yankee Stadium with Babe Ruth.

Aren't you jealous?

Here are more photos.

Git 'r Dun.

21 October, 2007

North Fork Mountain Trail


The past weekend's plans: drop a vehicle at the southern trailhead of the North Fork Mountain Trail on Friday evening, drive to the northern trailhead, and then walk the 23.8 miles back along the ridge of North Mountain.

On Friday, I arrived at Seneca Rocks at about 3:30 pm after a quick stop to Mark and Margot's cabin to drop off a load of firewood and a handful of photo stops, the latter activity necessitating itself as soon as I saw the foliage upon descending from Canaan Valley.

I sat on a bench at Seneca waiting for Matt and Julie while minutes passed in that slow and calm way that minutes pass in West Virginia. As I sat there reading the Monongahela National Forest Hiking Guide, a round man sat on an adjacent bench, smoking cigarette after cigarette while greeting other tourists. I began to become worried after Matt and Julie were more than an hour late. Out of cell phone range, I began to fire quarters into the pay phone (yes, they still exist here in WV) to call around to family members. Each call was unsuccessful, though, and so by 5 pm when Matt and Julie were 90 minutes overdue, I nervously struck up conversation with the smoker. He was indeed a local, and had recently moved to Seneca Rocks from Upper Tract. As the crow flies, that's only about 5 miles over several ridges. By road, however, the distance between the two villages is 35 miles. When asked why he decided upon the move, he responded, "s'a whole lot more ta do here." I looked around and reflected on how he had spent the last hour and a half.

Within a few minutes, the Groves had arrived telling tales of hydroplaning and closed roads. To ease nerves, we decided on pizza and beer first and then made our way south, accepting the fact that we'd have to search for a campsite in the dark. It would end up being timing perfection.

On the way up the pass to drop off the car, we were granted a fantastic double rainbow over the autumn mountains. After a day of rain, it was as if Mother Nature was pushing aside the drapes of foul weather for us. Not another drop of rain fell for the remainder of the weekend.

Several hours later, bounching headlamps approached the campfire we'd built about 100 yards into the trail from the northern end. The DC contingency - Seth, Mark, and Helene - had found their way to us and the group was complete. Tents pitched, we sat around to enjoy the evening when, BAM!, the fire popped. Everybody did their own personal version of stop, drop, and roll, and we decided that there must have been a lighter or something similarly small and pressurized in the firepit. Perhaps foolishly, we recollected our wits and sat back down, staring into the flames. About 15 minutes later, another explosion sent softball-sized burning pieces of logs shooting off into several directions, one of which was straight for Matt Grove's head. Good thing Seth is a doctor. We decided it was time to put the fire out and then we all climbed into our tents.

That was Day 0.

Day 1 began just before sunrise and ended in utter exhaustion. We hiked an astonishing distance of 15.6 miles through the day, starting with a 2.5 mile switchbacked ascent from our campsite to a point at the top of North Mountain. We were atop a 50-foot sheer cliff and about 1000 feet of steep, thickly forested hillside. The North Fork Mountain Trail was only a few hours old to us and we were already starting to count the number of ridges to the West. We spent the remainder of the day plodding along a mild trail through the forest, ascending to rock outcroppings and descending to lower-lying saddles. Vistas were so plentiful that we passed many of them without deviating from our strides, simply twisting our heads to the side to gather a quick glimpse.

The 'zone' came for each of us at times. I ate peanut butter, honey, and granola burritos. Helene has cool capri convertible pants and tender feet. Matt had burn marks on his head. Mark motors up the hills. Seth had a cool bear box that is hard for humans to open, too. Hanging food from bears is much more difficult than you'd think. Pitching tents just below the windward ridge makes for howling wind with no effect on the tents, which is cool. Julie packs light.

The woods were strangely busy on Saturday night. After I hit the sack (hard!), I was awoken at least 4 times by nighttime trailgoers. The first was a speedwalker, one of the groups was on mountain bikes, and another had two dogs per person. (I am having a hard time convincing myself that they were not hallucinations.) Aside from that, I can confidently say that all 6 of us slept like rocks.

With most of the elevation gained on Saturday, we hit the trail later in the morning on Sunday. It was 9 am and most of the remaining 8.2 miles we had to do were downhill, with a few ascents reminding us that we'd still have to earn the day's worth of hiking. Soon enough, the engine roar of trucks struggling up the mountain pass welcomed us to the parking lot on US 33. We'd made it.

The colors of autumn were in full effect through the weekend. Coupling the foliage with bold blue skies, Cumulus clouds, bright sun, distant mountaintops, and strong winds to blur them all together in a dynamic system of natural wonder, West Virginia delivered another explosive weekend.

Enjoy the Photos.

Git 'r dun.

01 October, 2007

The Fiddler's Roost

Stewed Mulligan, a local WV bluegrass jam band, was playing the Purple Fiddle. I'd discovered the band at CheatFest (see May post) in a hippie-esque evening under the stars. Their signature song, Tam Lin, had been resonating in my head ever since and while perusing the music schedule at my favorite joint, I came across the show just in time. I quickly called Molly to inform her that she would be subjected to a real good ole West Virgin'yin time and that she could get packing; the Fiddler's Roost had vacancy.

The Fiddler's Roost is the low-grade "B" that sits next to and is part of the Purple Fiddle, which represents most of the economy in lovely Thomas, WV. Actually it's called a B&B, but I subtract the second B because there's really no breakfast, but somehow they get away with calling it one anyway. In fact, now that I think of it, that wasn't the only shoddily representative initial we'd encounter there (the "H" on the hot water spigot to name another).

This band is fantastic. If you ever get the chance to see them, go for it. Never mind the cover; even though they aren't known to charge more than a $10 fee, they're worth far more. The lead fiddler does his thing while working his way through the crowd, creating a paradox to those of us who associate this type of music with a low-tech performance, ala washtub bass. Really, a wireless amp on a fiddle??! The bassist bellows with a scratchy voice that seemingly comes out of nowhere. The yeehaws of the frontman are incredibly authentic. Does that guy rustle cattle when he's not enteretaining?

We woke to what we thought might have been an annoying radio alarm going off at about 7:30 am. But, it wasn't annoying. I was pleased to hear more bluegrass, and it was mild enough to wake me up very softly. I mosyed-on-down to the front porch of the B to find half of the band wide awake plucking. (Wow! What joy there is in mosying down to a front porch to find a band wide awake plucking!) Nobody else had stayed at the Fiddler's Roost that night; it was Stewed Mulligan and us, their new groupies. They even offered to share with us their . . . uh, attitude.

I was happy to show off the Purple Fiddle at one of its finest moments, and Stewed Mulligan pulled off a fantastic introduction.

Git 'r dun.