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.

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.

A Furr Piece Down a' Holl'r

Friday was a big day. The local paddling club had scheduled a first-timers' run down the Upper Yough, and I just happened to arrive at about 3 am that morning after a hiatus in the Adirondacks (aahhhhh . . . ). As soon as I cleared the cell tower-less woods of upstate New York, I ran through about a half dozen voicemails from the previous 48 hours. They all carried the same message: it was raining hard in West Virginia.

As I drove southwest into the evening, I began to place calls in order to capitalize on the precipitation. The rain was threatening to make the Three Rivers Paddling Club First Timers' Upper Yough trip into a First Timers' Lower Big Sandy trip. Plan B all of a sudden became more exciting than Plan A.

About a half day later, I was sitting in the fabled eddy atop Wonderfalls with my heart thumping. A quick Hail Mary on the way to the lip got me exactly the projection I needed and before long, the "world had dropped out from under me; yeaaahhh" (Coop, 2007). Rob, who had successfully run the waterfall for his second time after his skills took a very quick escalation from a Class 3 to Class 4, was waiting in the pool below, beaming. Days like this just don't come frequently enough.

The end of the day may have been more monumental than the beginning. After driving back to the put-in, some of our friends had decided to do a second run and so we offered to drop their cars off at the take-out, a 30 minute drive over backroads not exactly fit for your everyday sedan, but not necessarily all that much out of our way. We quickly (uh, foreshadowing) roped the boats to my roof, and Molly, Rob, and I headed out in three cars. Up and out of the Sandy canyon and down and into the Cheat Canyon we went, moving more swiftly than we probably should have (uh, more foreshadowing) on the rocky dirt roads. It was simply a matter of time.

Driving down a steep narrow, rough road through the woods is becoming a common experience to me, but when a couple of big, yellow, plastic boats come crashing off the roof, onto the windshield, and then slide across the hood, I became a bit shaken. It all typically ends, though, when the boats come to a rest on the road in front of the car. However, on this road, that didn't happen. Rather, the heavy boats bounced off the road and picked up more and more speed as they made their way down the steep canyon wall toward the Cheat River. I stopped the car, jumped out, and watched as the two boats continued to bounce off rocks and trees without losing much speed. They both finally came to rest about 100 feet down the hillside.

Good thing I had my throw rope with me . . .

Git 'r Dun.

Cheatin'

We have been blessed with water. For several weeks, West Virginia has been wallowing in a dry spell and those of us who rely on the rivers for quality of life purposes have been sad. Very sad. Well, thanks to Deep Creek Hydro and their releases on the Upper Yough River in MD, we've been able to stay sane. But, recently, a wave of water has fallen from the skies above the mountain state, and Rob and I capitalized by spending two days floating down the long Cheat Canyon.

The Cheat, as we both agreed, is becoming less of an intimidating piece of whitewater and more of a well-respected novelty. The named rapids (Big Nasty, Fist, High Falls, Teardrop, Coliseum, and Pete Morgan) get the respect they deserve, but this 10-mile stretch of river packs in more than thirty classifiable rapids that hold countless navigation options. We explore as many of them as we can.

Yesterday proved to be a challenging day on the river for Rob. Just after we had agreed that we are no longer scared of paddling the canyon, he flipped over while trying to find a "tricky" route through one of the lesser rapids. At his skill level, this is barely worth my paying any attention, as his roll is typically initiated immediately and he is righted. However, this time, I watched as his boat bumped around upside down. This is fairly typical as well, and I presumed that he was banging around on rocks in a self-protective tuck position, waiting for the bouncing to stop so he could roll safely. He did. But, where were once two paddle blades only appeared one. Rob had broken his paddle.

For a minute, we watched the smaller portion of the paddle float around in an eddy, and I was very close to picking it up before it sank to the bottom. Rob carefully navigated the rest of the rapid and waited for me at the bottom while I continued to search for half of his paddle.

Cheat Canyon is very remote and very long. Faced with the prospect of a handicapped paddler managing the more than 75% of the run that remained, we considered taking out and walking out. But, Rob's done that before, and he made clear that he didn't necessarily expect that to be much better. After taking out and sitting on a rock on the right bank, we decided to wait for the two rafts we'd passed a mile or so back and stick with them for safety. In the meantime, I found a small piece of driftwood and used medical tape to turn what was Rob's double-bladed kayak paddle only a minute before into a T-handled canoe paddle. It would work. It had to work.

The rafts showed up, and instantly the raft paddlers, who were all guides since they had no "guests" on this particular Wednesday, along with two kayakers, began to reinforce the arrogant and insensitive repuation that raft guides have. They laughed at Rob's predicament (which, granted, was a little funny) and harshly suggested that he'd be eaten alive by the hydraulics at Coliseum. That sealed the deal for Rob, and I'm not at all surprised that nobody wanted to hire these a-holes to guide them down the river.

With the pompous raft guide crew behind us, we set off for Rob's first C-1 experience. (In the paddling world, K-1 refers to a single kayak, K-2 a tandem, OC-1 an open canoe with one paddler, and OC-2 your good old aluminum Grumman. C-1 and C-2 are closed decked canoes with skirts, and the definition of a canoe is a single-bladed craft. Kayaks are double bladed. Rob's boat was instantly redefined to be a canoe.). The water was warm and not too pushy, the sun was beating down on us, and barring any extremely rare circumstances, we figured the worst that could happen would be a swim out of one of the bigger rapids. On a day like this, it might even be a more fun outcome than staying in one's boat.

Rob nailed it. I don't know that I would have done it, but he just kept on keepin' on through each one of the rapids. I crept up on each one looking for the straightest route or the one that only had left turns (turning left was no problem, but Rob couldn't turn right very well) and pointed them out to him. We played Follow the Leader for the most part through the entire canyon, and Rob didn't swim. In fact, Rob didn't even have to roll in any of the major rapids. His single-bladed descents of some of the rapids were even more graceful than my double-bladed descents.

We have a C-1 athlete in the making.

At the bottom of the canyon, we came upon a very unique fallen tree wedged between two boulders. The enormous tree provoked a rare appearance of the Monkey Boys. Enjoy the photos.

Optimization

My gut tells me that it's a coincidence, but I really hope that I am earning a reputation. The trip with Kevin that yielded a bear sighting and a bagged peak certainly was a success, and now it was Mike's turn. He told me earlier in the week -- just as Kevin had -- that he had some business to take care of in the Pittsburgh area. He'd be here on Friday night and we had all day Saturday to play. I think that Mike left a satisfied customer.

With only one day to play, we had to fire up a double feature. I informed him that we'd be getting up early to squeeze in as much as possible, and because ATV riders who tear up the trails tend to sleep in. Wonderfalls would be ours and only ours provided we got there early. So, according to plan, we parked the car after the rocky drive down to Rockville at about 9 am and walked the mile down the jeep trail to the waterfall.

It was a chilly 58 degrees when we left the car, but the sun soon grew hot enough that we felt the urge to jump. This place is truly a blast. We spent a few hours jumping and attempting to get the shot, which is the photograph that would in one single glance give the viewer the impression of beauty, nature, and fun, fun, fun that this place possesses. In my opinion, this one comes close.

After we'd jumped to our hearts content, we hiked the mile to the next waterfall, known as Big Splat to paddlers. This one is not good for jumping, but the hike to get there is fun and the scenery and solitude is well worth it.

On the hike out, we passed the ATV riders on their way to ruin our prized spot. Perfect timing!

Lunch was spent at Little Sandy's, where Mike spent a whopping $1.83 on his. He tipped a dollar, which I pointed out was well over a 50% tip, so that waitress must have done something spectacular.

We rushed back to my apartment to retrieve the boating gear. Michael would paddle the Cheat Narrows in the afternoon. It just keeps getting better around here. A little logistical hiccup in the plans threw in a three-and-a-half mile jog for the shuttle, but it was all worth it in the end. Mike swam a half-dozen or so times, ran the big rapid well ("Calamity"), and spent the drive back to Morgantown letting me know that this was the best day of the year so far. It felt great to hear that.

We finished off the day at the Black Bear where some pony-tailed guitarist covered James Taylor, the Beatles, and other 60s soft rock tunes. Mike thought it was great; I was annoyed there was neither a banjo nor a fiddle. A few Oatmeal Stouts and glasses of red later and Mike was drunk dialing our friend Min in Los Angeles telling him tall tales of West Virginia waterfalls and whitewater.

Enjoy the photos!

Git 'r dun.

"Mommy, I Want to Live in the Woods!"

My nephew, Xavier, was being a bit of a baby as we packed up on Monday morning. We'd been camping and enjoying the New River Gorge for a few days and it was time to go home. To a 4-year old, living in the woods probably sounds like a fantastic way of life. There'd be no showering, the weather would always be perfect, and s'mores would follow each meal.

I will admit that I've had the fantasy; it's come to me at various times while on extended trips or hearing stories of those who have indeed lived in the woods. I became fascinated enough about it a few years ago to read a copy of The Last American Man, an account of the life of Eustace Conway, a living mountain man who has spent years living off the land in western North Carolina.

However, I do not intend to ever move to the woods. But, Xavier's words -- even though they came between tears -- reminded me of this constant fantasy. I've even been to a few places that I felt might be ideal for it (outside of Taos, NM, and Santa Cruz, CA to name a couple) because of the resources available. Alas, I've decided that the turmoil of full-time employment is worth it, especially since the things I like doing in the woods aren't free.

The crew arrived at various times on Saturday; me, Marc, and the Groves coming via Morgantown, and Mark Burns, Chrissy, and others coming from DC, Fairmont, and beyond. The agenda, for a change, was centered around a specific event, and all of the other time spent there was keenly directed at the event. Of course, the event to which I refer would be my second Captain Thurmond's Triathlon, and I survived once again after a long day on the river Saturday, a bit too much drinking that night, and two enormous burritos haunting me for hours before the race. Mark, Chrissy, and Jeff survived as well, despite a puncture in the Irishman's tire about halfway into the bike section. Congrats, Chrissy and Jeff, on podium finishes in your respective classes. I was happy to avoid a crash on my bike, breaking my new fast fiberglass boat, or falling backwards while attempting to run straight up a cliff side, as the run course tends to go.

Returning to my original point, living in the woods is great at the New. The woods in which we lived for the weekend had picnic tables, fire pits, and a guy named Ray even delivered ice and firewood! Friendly people from Baltimore, Louisiana, and Ohio also live in these woods, and we were lucky enough to all be hungry at the same time. How perfect it is in West Virginia!

Git 'r dun.

Three Days in WV (Arbitrarily Close to Heaven, part n + 3)

Kevin wanted to see West Virginia. Or, at least that's the way I heard it when he called me to let me know that he'd be in the Pittsburgh area for a few days of filming (he's a sound guy). He had a few days off after that, and wanted to have some fun outside.

I reassured him that I could find some.

So we spent three days exploring the Potomac Highlands by day and pontificating by night. It was a memorable experience. The highlights follow.

We arrived at Mark and Margot's cabin at Dolly Sods on Monday afternoon as our home base. We unloaded and spent the remaining daylight hours exploring the North Fork and running the Forest Road (Captain Thurmond's is two days away!!). Anticipating a big day on Tuesday, we didn't want to do too much. When you're camping or spending time at a cabin with no electricity, bedtime and sunset become closer to one another, especially when you introduce a bottle of Shiraz. This often translates to an early rise, making the days even more intense.

We logged a total of ten trail miles on Tuesday, first with the required to the summit of Seneca Rocks. Of course I was skittish up there, but I'm getting more comfortable each time.

A half-pound of turkey and a block of sharp cheddar later, our stomachs were full and we were on our way up Red Creek in the Dolly Sods Wilderness. The plan was loose, but ended up consisting of a trail loop (Red Creek - Big Stonecoal - Dunkenbarger - Little Stone Coal - Red Creek). It's about 7 miles in total. The rush of the hike came about a mile and a half in, when we came across the first black bear I've ever seen in this area, despite its reputation for bear sightings. We spent the remainder of the hike like we were on some aboriginal drum march, tapping twigs or rocks together, whistling, and musing about what weapons we wished we'd brought. Some great information came out of this hike: there are two incredible campsites on this loop for future backpacking. The first is just after taking a left onto Dunkenbarger. It's a very remote site along a meandering creek. The second is where Little Stonecoal crosses Red Creek, which has a nice sandy beach and a deep swimming hole.

We had dinner at the Purple Fiddle and crashed early. That's a productive day in the mountains.

Wednesday was one of those days when things just seem to go your way. After a failed attempt to find a hike from Blackwater Falls (beautiful falls; too bad there's a boardwalk to get there and you can't jump in), we decided to try our luck at finding a good trail. So, we headed toward Morgantown through the Monongahela National Forest north of Thomas. A few well thought out decisions led us to an old gated forest road off US 219. It didn't look very well-traveled, but it was well-defined, so we decided to give it a shot. At each turn, we constructed a rock cairn and felt comfortable with our chances of making it back to the car.

After about 1 - 2 miles of hiking through thick, grassy woods, we came to a jeep road. Turning onto this, we started to see "HP" blazed on trees and figured we were following some access road for Highland Power or Hippie Produce or Hilda's Pasture. After a few more turns (and a few more cairns), we followed the trail to an obelisk-shaped monument that marked the MD/WV border. Okay, that's pretty cool, but I started to remember that the Highest Point in MD is on the WV border, and figured the HP blazes must stand for High Point! A few hundred yards further, and we came upon the summit of Backbone Mountain, complete with a plaque, a picnic table, and little certifications you can fill out yourself to confirm that you'd stood on the highest point in Maryland.

May the peakbagging commence. I have been to the highest point in DC, but that's the entrance to the Wisconsin Ave. Whole Foods. Now, I've got a real highest point under my belt.

Here are the photos I took, but only from the summit hike. I forgot my camera the other times (dumbass!).

49 to go!!

Git 'r dun.