Mountain Man and City Girl

(This entire 17-part story can be found in the “travel” category.) 

We shoved off from Isle of Palms by 8:30 the next morning.  But something was wrong.  One of the diesel engines, which had given them problems earlier in their trip before I joined them, was acting up.  “I don’t know how far we can go before that engine goes down,” the captain said, obviously distressed.  “We’ll just have to take it slow.”

We headed south, but traveling at half the speed of yesterday, the going was slow.  We shared the captain’s concern, but there was little the first mate and I could do.  We tried to be extra nice to him, but being underfoot in his pilot house annoyed him.  “Go up top and relax,” he told us.  “There’s nothing you can do.”  We got the hint and grabbed the binoculars and a few Heinekens and exited his territory.

The waters were always calm except when we crossed a large bay.  The mouth of the Cape Fear River near Wilmington, NC and the St. Helena Sound near Beaufort, SC were particularly choppy and windy.  During these times, the first mate and I got off the roof and retreated to the sanctuary of the pilot house.  Since many of the navigational buoys had been displaced by Hurricane Hugo, we acted as spotters for the captain.  We had to help determine if a buoy’s location was genuine, or it had blown there in the storm.

That night we docked at a marina in Hilton Head, SC.  Frustrated by the underperforming diesel engine, the captain was ready for some relief.  We inquired at the marine store as to a good restaurant, then had them call us a taxi cab.  Four hours and a lot of beers and good food later, we stumbled back onto our boat.  At least temporarily, the captain had forgotten about the mechanical troubles. 

The morning found us soon past Savannah, Georgia.  The engine was no worse, so the captain ran a little faster than yesterday.  “We’ll get the engines worked on in Miami before we head to the Caribbean,” he said.  My ride had only been guaranteed to Miami.  There, the owner would board for the cruise to St. Thomas.  The captain was undecided whether to ask if I could come along.  He didn’t want to alienate the owner, especially since he was owed a lot of money for piloting the ship from Connecticut.

One of the first towns we passed in Georgia was Isle of Hope.  Through the binoculars, it looked like a picture postcard version of a small southern town on the water.  It was drawing me, calling out.  I couldn’t answer.  I often follow my whims when such an opportunity knocks, but not this time, not here.  What was I gonna do, jump off the boat? 

That night found us stopping at a marina at St. Simons Island, stopping short of crossing the sometimes treacherous St. Andrews Sound.  Following the previous night’s routine, we showered, then hailed a taxi cab.  More beer and fine food awaited.  Life was good.

We tackled the Sound first thing in the morning, through the fog of a hangover.  After crossing the Sound, we found Cumberland Island National Seashore on our left.  For the next 20 miles, the binoculars took center stage.  I combed the island, hoping to spot the fabled wild horses.  They didn’t disappoint.  A group of six or eight wild horses were tearing down the beach.  Their grace and elegance blended smoothly with their flat out speed, which pulled their manes straight back like a flag in the wind.  If only I could be one of them, if only for an hour.

- Mountain Man

 (This entire 17-part story can be found in the “travel” category.)

Returning to the boat with my gear, I climbed aboard.  It turned out that the big guy was the captain, hired to take the yacht from Connecticut to St. Thomas.  The little guy was the first mate.  The two of them hired out to move yachts for millionaires, and each knew exactly what his duties were on the ship.  They worked well together.

The boat was a 68-foot wooden Hatteras yacht, if memory serves me correct.  It had two diesel engines each over 1,000 cubic inches.  There were five bedrooms, three bathrooms, and a huge living room.  It was luxury exemplified.  The pilot house had two humongous captain’s chairs, each affording a fantastic view of the waters ahead.

The captain gave me my choice of the three unoccupied bedrooms, and I chose the one in the front of the boat.  It had it’s own bathroom, as well.  The “fore cabin”, I believe these lifelong sailors called this suite.  I “stowed” my gear (I’m getting the hang of this nautical lingo, huh?), then came up on deck to drink a few beers with them and get acquainted. 

I didn’t sleep well that night.  The chigger bites were driving me crazy.  By morning, I had streaks of dried blood all over my lower legs.  I just couldn’t stop scratching.  Jeepers! 

The captain had delegated one chore for me each day - I was to wash the windshield of the pilot room.  I climbed up with windex and a roll of paper towels and in 10 minutes or so the salt water stains were gone.  Before we “shoved off”, the captain assigned another task for the first mate and me to tackle - go buy beer.  “Get whatever you want,” he said.  With visions of Heineken dancing in my head, we walked up the street and stocked up.

We headed south down the Intercoastal Waterway atop the steady rumble of the ship’s engines.  We exited North Carolina in an hour or so, entering South Carolina.  The calm waters made for great sailing.  I sat up on the roof deck with the first mate, binoculars at our side to spot wildlife and interesting small port towns.  The day passed quickly as we cruised the calm waters.

One 30-mile stretch that was particularly beautiful was through Francis Marion State Forest.  The hanging Spanish moss from cypress trees projecting “knees” above the waterline had an eerie charm, a feeling of “Gone with the Wind” southern ambiance.

Our uplifted feelings soon vanished when we approached Isle of Palms.  Hurricane Hugo had cut a swath through the area, leaving hundreds of acres of trees nothing but twisted stumps and piles of brush.  We rounded one turn in the IW and witnessed the fury of the hurricane.  There was a pile of boats - at least 75 or 100 - that rose 60-feet in the air.  A lot of people’s broken dreams were in that pile of debris.

We found a marina at Isle of Palms to dock for the night.  In the ship’s store, the marina owners told tales of the powerful hurricane.  It had only came through two weeks prior, so the expressionless looks on their faces needed no explanation.  They were still in shock.

As we talked, I ambled over to the first aid aisle.  Calamine lotion and cottonballs were on my mind.  My arms and lower legs were a mess.  Leaving the store, I showered and covered myself in calamine.  The captain and first mate got a big kick of me and my misery as we walked into a nearby restaurant, my pink-caked arms hanging from my side.

- Mountain Man

 (This entire 17-part story can be found in the “travel” category.  We’d love to hear your comments.)

When I was 21 years old, I wrote out a list of 10 things I wanted to accomplish in my life.  To date, I’ve completed seven.  I’m not sure I’ll ever do the other three, but that can be attributed to age and physical ability.  Things I could easily do in my 20’s and 30’s, and even early 40’s, are perhaps beyond my grasp as I approach 57 years old.

One of my seven goals became reality in 1989, when I fulfilled my wish to live in the Caribbean.  I did so by living in St. Thomas in the US Virgin Islands.  I chose USVI over other Caribbean locales for a couple reasons.  First, they used American currency.  And second, I would be able to find work there without acquiring a work visa or any such government nonsense.  And lastly, they spoke English and were one of the closest island nations location-wise to the mainland United States.

A week before my scheduled departure from Cape May, New Jersey, Hurricane Hugo devastated the Virgin Islands.  My friends quickly concluded that this would force me to alter my plans.  You can’t be a waiter at a resort since most were out of business until repairs were made, they figured.  Au contraire!  I turned lemons into lemonade.  I decided to bring my basic carpenter tools along, as this would afford me additional work opportunities. 

I left Cape May a few days after the mid-September hurricane, driving my truck to Maple Hill, North Carolina.  I own 10 acres of land there, so my plan was to park my truck in my field and hoof it to St. Thomas.  With my truck secure, I made my way to Wrightsville Beach, NC. 

Once there, I headed for the Intercoastal Waterway to find a suitable marina where I could find a boat ride south.  This time of year, at least 90% of the yacht traffic was heading toward the warm, sunny winters in Florida and the Caribbean.  I just needed to wrangle a ride aboard one of these floating palaces.

I found a marina that fit the bill.  It had plenty of dock space for large boats, it had gas pumps, and it was right near a bridge so I could also solicit rides on the other side of the channel with a short walk.

I stashed my backpack and duffel bag of tools in a corner of the marina grounds were I felt reasonably sure no one would find them.  Then I started working the docks, asking large boat owners, “Do you know anyone headed south that might give me a ride?”  I didn’t want to put anyone on the spot by asking them directly for a ride, so I always asked if they knew someone who might give me a ride.

I spent all day asking around, crossing the bridge everytime I saw a large boat dock on that side.  No luck.  Near dusk, I decided to retreat from the relentless sun for awhile and rest.  I laid under a boat set up on blocks, enjoying the cool shade.  After a half hour, I began to itch.  Soon, my arms and lower legs were aflame.  Chiggers!  Those little boogers were tearing up my skin.  I had to get outta there ASAP.

Now dark had set in.  Despite my fervent scratching, I noticed a large boat tie up at the dock on the other side of the waterway.  Two fellows emerged and went into the restaurant.   Could this be it?

I hung around near the restaurant entrance for an hour before they finally exited.  “Do you know anyone headed south that might give me a ride?”, I asked.  The larger guy answered, “Sure, come aboard”.  I explained that my belongings were on the other side of the channel.  “Well, go get them and come on back.  We sail in the morning.”  My Virgin Island odyssey had begun.

- Mountain Man

I understand that television and cable stations derive their income from advertisers.  Otherwise, we’d have to pay for every single program we watch.  The only cost we bear is the monthly fee to the cable company or satellite provider that gives us the television signal.

That said, there is one form of television commercial that I absolutely detest - the medical ones.  You know, the ones that start by identifying some obscure condition with initials like ED, ADA, BO, PU, whatever.  Dad gummit, give me a break!  I’m not a medical junkie who runs to the doctor all the time.  I don’t know what those initials mean, and I don’t care.

Anyway, they continue the sales pitch by showing some upper-middle class schmoes with one spouse or the other hindered by this condition … say, XYZ.  They are so well dressed, live in such a nice house, and have a perfect life in every way except for the XYZ.  The obvious concern and distress shows on their faces.

Then the commercial says, “But you don’t have to suffer anymore.”  A discourse follows on the wonders of the drug they’re peddling.  The underlying message, if the advertisement is successful, is that you’re going to pester your doctor to prescribe this drug.  Some now even boldly suggest, “Ask you doctor about …”.

Now the kicker.  “In some cases, XYZ made lead to swollen eyeballs, your ears falling off, irregular heartbeat, itchy ankles, nausea, and/or bloody knuckles.  In rare cases, side effects of elephantiasis and/or loss of toenails may occur.”  Yikes!  You’d have to be crazy to try this stuff.  Can you say “guinea pig”?

They finish by showing the couple now enjoying a game of tennis or candlelight dinner and wine in a fine restaurant.  Their life is perfect again.  The camera fades to a picture of the glossy package that the pills for XYZ’s cure come in.  The drug  looks so wholesome, so apple pie and motherhood grand.

These drug commercials must be why man invented the TV remote control.  CLICK.

- Mountain Man

I’ve always been a person who is curious.  How, what, when, where, why?  My mind is usually in gear, whether I want it to be or not.  It can be a blessing, or occasionally a curse.

I left our log cabin in Green Bank, West Virginia around noon on Saturday.  I had expected to leave near dusk, but an impending rain/ice/snow storm hastened my departure.  This would be the first time since October I had made the 408 mile trip back to New Jersey in the daylight.  It would mean more traffic than night driving, but it would also mean I could be nosey.

Winter is the perfect time to scope out everything.  With no leaves on the trees, I could see far into the woods and farther into everyone’s property.  A combination of valley farms and mountain homes awaited me in West Virginia, then sprawling valleys with farms and suburbs would usher me through Virginia and Maryland.

I don’t usually make this trip on a Saturday.  Once on the road, I was immediately struck by what a social day it was.  With temperatures in the mid 40’s, mountain folks were outside talking to neighbors, fixing fences, cutting and splitting firewood, working on cars, and riding ATV’s in their yard.  These weren’t the kind of activities you’d find during the weekdays, and  they occurred to a much lesser degree on a Sunday.

In farm country, I started to check out every barn.  Now mid-February, how much hay did they have left?  How much corn silage did the dairy farms still have?  What kind of equipment did they have?  Are their tractors, combines, and wagons kept under cover or out in the elements?

Were the barns well maintained?  Freshly painted?  Did the farmhouse have Rockwellian appeal or was it neglected?  Was there a picket fence around the house?  Maybe a few fruit trees in the yard?  Are there dead cars parked out back?

I’m equally as interested in the livestock.  Are the cattle looking well fed?  Are the sheep looking fit?  Are these livestock kept in an area large enough that they have a clean place to lay down, or are they caked in dried mud?  I came across a flock of about 30 sheep outside Franklin, WV.  They had beautiful, immaculately clean white coats with black faces.  They looked like something out of a child’s book.  I was impressed.  It brought a smile to my face.

I also enjoy looking at general stores and the nostalgia they impart, churches and their varying steeples, bridges, and waterways.  After much rain of late, the creeks and rivers were rushing torrents compared to back in the autumn when they were trickles.

My six and a half hour trip back to New Jersey was full of interesting, thought-provoking, heart-warming sights.  I was rubber necking the whole way.  It makes me wonder - do other people get as much pleasure tripping in America as I do?

- Mountain Man

When I arrive in at our log cabin in Green Bank, West Virginia, the first thing I do is head for the basement to get a 50 pound bag of corn and a 20 pound bag of birdseed.  I want “our gang” to have food out and available the first time they pass through.

The corn feeder is built between two trees, and it’s located about 25 feet from our dining room window.  The feeder is six feet long, nine inches wide, and two and a half inches deep.  It has a shingled roof above to keep the feed dry.  Within about 10 minutes of my arrival it is brimming with dried corn, a favorite meal of many of our forest friends.

The bird feeder is next.  It is suspended from a pipe 14 feet in the air attached between two trees, which are wrapped in brown metal flashing to keep the bears, raccoons, and squirrels from raiding the feeder.  A pulley system is used to raise and lower the feeder.  I put a ladder against the tree, climb up and untie the rope, and let the bird feeder slowly descend to the ground.  Lifting the lid, the entire 20 pounds of seed fits into the homemade feeder.  Then it’s pulled back up, the rope is tied off, and the ladder goes back into the basement.

Now that the wildlife food is put out, I can go about emptying my truck of the clothes, groceries and other things I’ve brought from New Jersey.  The big question now is - who will arrive first to begin feeding?

When I arrived here in West Virginia the other day, a Wednesday, it took about five hours before I saw a black-capped chickadee in the bird feeder.  Once again, he led the way.  I can always count on him to get the word out, and he didn’t let me down.  Within a few hours, the feeder looked like a bus depot, with nuthatches, juncos, tufted titmice, finches, and sparrows dashing in and out for seed.

The corn feeder usually takes longer to attract attention.  The first day there was no action.  At first light on Thursday morning, I saw a red squirrel making his herky-jerky march to the feeder.  A minute later, another red squirrel joined him.  Wow, this was a first.  I’d never seen two red squirrels at once before, thinking there was only one. 

In another few minutes, their arch enemy arrived - a gray squirrel.  “Oh, this will be fun,” I thought.  The gray squirrel chased the reds up and down the two trees, but it was hard for him to keep two reds at bay.  He’d chase one and the other would quickly scamper to the feeder to grab a kernel of corn.  The battle for dominance of the feeder was on.

Not so fast, my friends!  Two white-tailed deer appeared, both born last spring and now about 10 months old, that we named Alfalfa and Darla.  They quickly asserted their authority and took over the feeder.  The squirrel battle was now a mute point.  They would have to wait until the deer were through eating.

Alfalfa and Darla were spotted fawns, only a month old or so, when we first spotted them last spring with their mothers.  They were so much fun to watch.  At that age, they can suddenly break into a run as if testing out their legs.  Just as suddenly, they’ll stop and act as if nothing just happened.

Alfalfa and Darla, perhaps since they grew up around us, are much more accepting of our presence than their mothers, whom we named Dolly and Ruthie after our own mothers.  Those two adults, probably now three years old, have an inherent distrust of us that was probably ingrained through surviving a couple hunting seasons.  Who can blame them?  They tolerate us, but that’s all.

Throughout the day, the four deer and 30 or so birds would pop in and out.  Eat a while, then leave.  They all seemed content knowing that while the human was around, a family-style buffet was being served.

- Mountain Man

The location of our log cabin here in Green Bank, West Virginia, lends itself to deep thought.  Located at 2,700 feet elevation, our valley is surrounded by mountain ranges that tower nearly a thousand feet higher.  These “hills” are much like Mother Nature’s drive-in movie screen.  They are a palette for great sunrises on the western hills and breathtaking sunsets on the eastern hills.  The colors they display, from red to pink to orange to purple, are almost surreal in their beauty.

With such a sparse population for at least 50 miles in every direction, there is no light intrusion at night.  No lights from cities, malls, car dealerships, and such mean that the night sky can display all its true depth and splendor without compromise.  Last night, in a cloudless sky, the stars shown radiant.  The stars seemed to be suspended from a large black dome, enveloping our planet like a bubble.

With all this raw magnificence displayed at our mountain locale, it takes my mind back to the pre-industrial era on our world, even before the human race subjucated the earth to our dominance.  For lack of a better word and to make it easier to comprehend, I’ll say the “caveman” era.

How did homo erectis and homo sapiens rationalize those very natural phenomenon that we can now explain through science?  How did a wandering, hunter-gatherer from 15,000 years ago deal with the earth’s daily displays?

Let’s take a clan from an era in the earthman’s evolution where language was rudimentary, but communication was possible.  Let’s assume that the clan had a leader, leaders, or at least a wise elder.

When a magnificent sunset threw glorious reds and oranges into the clouds, how did the leader explain that?  What about lightning and thunder, how could that fit into their lives?  Even the changing seasons - why did the earth flourish and nourish the plants and then in turn get bitterly cold?  What was the sun, the moon?  What was an eclipse?  What were the stars?  What was rain, what was snow, what was fog?  What is a rainbow?  The leader would have to calm the fears of his people.  He’d have to become a thinker, or at least a good salesman to alleviate their doubts.

And so … religion was born.  Without science, the answers would have to come from somewhere else.  Explain the unexplainable.  It must be the gods.  They are mad at us, they are pleased with us.  They sit above in some great kingdom, exerting their dominance and influence over us.  We must pray to them, offer sacrifice, appease their egos.  We were created in their image to be subservient to them. 

Okay, you get the picture.  Without science, religion was invented to calm the uneducated, unsophisticated masses.  The need to explain was met.

As I stood last night beneath the bright, inspiring stars, I pondered what those primitive ancestors must have thought.  Then I saw a shooting star and took it for exactly what is was - a beautiful thing!

- Mountain Man

It’s my next to last day at our log cabin in Green Bank, West Virginia.  Tomorrow evening I’ll be heading back to New Jersey, so after as full day today of cutting downed trees into firewood length pieces, I headed out about 3:45 to run some errands.

After a stop at the bank to refresh my funds, I headed north on Route 92.  Less than a mile beyond the bank, I spotted a bald eagle sitting in the very top of a 60-foot dead tree.  He had a panoramic view of the fields to his west and the river to his east.  No mouse or vole or squirrel would sneak past him.

I was struck by how regal he looked, and his posture took on a sense that he may just know how important he is.  Could it be?  Does a bald eagle know that he is revered by Americans?  Am I forcing my perception?

I slowed down and watched him as I passed by at 30 mph.  Maybe it was my imagination, but it seemed as though he was watching me, too.  Staring, even.  Had my powerful feeling of awe been exposed to him?  He was looking down at me from top of that the big tree, but was he looking down at me, figuratively?  Did he know he was regarded as great?  I had no answers, just questions.

I proceeded to take care of the rest of my chores, my thoughts never too far from the image of his white head and brown body with pumped up chest.  It wasn’t the first bald eagle I’d ever seen, but the feeling that he was checking me out as much as I was him left me spellbound.

Near dusk, I headed back south on Route 92 toward Green Bank.  The deer were in almost every large field getting their last nibbles of brown, dormant grass before nightfall.  The 12 mile drive found me counting 77 deer.  They were unperturbed by passing cars.  Perhaps they knew that hunting season had passed, and they were safe until the following autumn.  Maybe it was safety in numbers.  Maybe hunger outweighed fear.

When I passed the field where the bald eagle had held court, I was transfixed on the top of that dead tree.  The bald eagle was gone, as I expected, but his ghostly aura remained in my mind.  I will never look at that tree the same way, again.  He’ll always be in it.

I turned off Route 92 for the final 2.5 miles up a small, winding, paved road to our cabin.  The cattle, often sharing their fields with the peaceful deer, were also getting their last mouthfuls of grass.  I spotted a young white calf suckling the nipples of its brown mother.  I flashed back to my days as a dairy farmer.  The calves had such a unique and pleasing aroma, maybe even the odor of innocence. 

I thought of their sweet milk breath.  It was much like a baby’s breath and smells.  It’s so sweet - that’s the only way to describe it.  When I smell that, I just want to hold the calf or baby and give them hugs and kisses.

The stately bald eagle, the aloof deer, and the sweet calf combined to leave me with one feeling - tranquility.  Feeling whole and wholesome and connected to the cycle of nature.  Isn’t life grand?!

- Mountain Man

I’m currently at our vacation home in Green Bank, West Virginia, a recently built custom log cabin located at 2,700 feet elevation.  The county we’re located in, Pocahontas County, has a yearround population of 9,000.  In area, it is three and a half times larger than Cape May County.

Standing in my driveway, I was talking to a local guy this morning.  He’s about 50 years old, and drives a school bus in the morning and afternoon, and in between shuffling kids he drives a dump truck for a gravel pit company.  He was delivering gravel to me, as he has twice in the past year.  We always take the time to stop and chat.

The topic turned to New Jersey.  “I live in Cape May County, which is at the southernmost tip of the state,” I said.  “We have 100,000 yearround residents, but on any given day in the summer there are 750,000 people in the county.”  He seemed to be digesting the information.  “We’re at the shore and we have no industry,” I continued.  “Tourism is our only industry.”

That touched a nerve, much to my surprise.  “I hate tourism,” he said.  “It’s ruined our county.  I feel strongly about that.”  I shrugged, leaving him room to continue.  “They’ve driven up the prices.  You can’t afford land here anymore.  Our kids just don’t have a chance to buy a home here.”

Aha!  Didn’t that sound familiar.  I’ve heard the same rant from locals in Cape May County.  The two counties are similar in demographics, if not in size.  Each has 50% yearround homes and 50% second homes.  We, of course, have the shore.  Pocahontas has Snowshoe Ski Resort, called “the most popular ski resort in the south”. 

That has fueled a profusion of condominiums and townhomes atop the mountain, in addition to large single family homes at the base of the mountain.  Then there’s the non-skiers, like City Girl and myself, who enjoy the mountains and beautiful spring, summer, and autumn weather.  A summer heat wave in Pocahontas is 83 degrees.  It has the headwaters of eight rivers, the most of any county in the entire United States, earning it the name “The Birthplace of Rivers”.  It also has the distinction of being the county with the highest average elevation east of the Mississippi River.  As you can see, it has a lot going for it.

“My kids both had to move away to get decent jobs,” he continued.  “There’s nothing here for them.”  I stepped in.  “It’s the same in Cape May County,” I added. “Our kids all leave, too.  There’s not enough high paying jobs.  Plus, the kids want action, so they move to metropolitan Philadelphia or New York.  It’s too boring for them where we live.”

He didn’t bite on that one.  He wasn’t going to admit that the twenty-something kids from Pocahontas want to live near restaurants, malls, theaters, and such.  In Pocahontas, you can barely find a pizza place after 7:00pm.  He grew up here in Pocahontas, and wasn’t about to accept that there was nothing to do for today’s young, independent adults.

It was time to bring the conversation full circle.  “You know what?”, I asked, not expecting an answer.  “When our kids get to be 40 or 45 years old, a lot of them will move back.  They’ll find out that the things you and I enjoy are worth coming back for.  The simple pleasures.”

He nodded, and we parted.  We were both content in the feeling that where we live - Pocahontas for him and Cape May County for me - was the cream of the crop, life at its best.  Maybe that’s why tourists love it so much?!

- Mountain Man

When doing something routine or mundane, do you ever catch yourself playing a mind game to make the chore easier to tolerate?  I do.  It may be something as simple as counting the stairs every time you walk up them or knowing how many rows you will need to mow to finish the lawn.  Numbers can be a great companion, and milestones bring a sense of proper place and accomplishment to the errand.

A few hours ago, I completed another 408 mile solo journey from New Jersey to our log cabin here in West Virginia.  When I travel with City Girl, there are always interesting conversations to pass the time.  But alone, I need to occupy my mind, lest I become drowsy.  And traveling in total darkness, as I did last night, doesn’t leave scenery as an option to draw my interest.

I began my trip at 7pm (okay, actually 6:58).  I play CD’s as I drive, so I started off with my usual Andy Williams “Super Hits”, beginning with ‘Moon River’.  It normally takes me one hour, five minutes to get to the Delaware Memorial Bridge.  I was right on the mark.  Now in on I-95 in Delaware, I played Rod Stewart’s “Great American Classics”, including ‘The Way You Look Tonight’.  The CD finished in Maryland, where I changed to “The Best of the Glenn Miller Orchestra”, featuring ‘Chattanooga Choo Choo’.

I’m singing and humming tunes and find that I’ve knocked off 200 miles in exactly three hours.  At 220 miles, I stop to refuel at the same all-night mini-mart I always stop at.  Duke Ellington’s “Greatest Hits”, with ‘Satin Doll’, was setting the mood.  I know I’ve got 188 miles left, so I’ve passed the magical halfway plateau, a psychological barrier.

On to Virginia via I-81, a place where I got a speeding ticket last October.  I’ve learned to go slow in Shenandoah County, near Woodstock, where the state police have nothing constructive to do other than bag speeders and generate revenue.  I go through this time with a fusion jazz CD from the early ’70s, Chick Corea’s Return to Forever “Hymn of the Seventh Galaxy”.  If I can’t go fast, at least I can have fast music.  I’ll show them.

At Harrisonburg, the home of James Madison University, I leave the interstate.  It’s small, winding state highways the rest of the way to Green Bank, West Virginia, site of our log cabin.  Even though I have 88 more miles to go and it will take one hour, 40 minutes, I always feel like I’m almost home at this point.  It’s time for the John Denver CD, starring ‘Country Roads’.  I’m in the mood.

I climb over Shenandoah Mountain and I’m in West Virginia.  I drop into the valley and the hamlet of Brandywine, then climb over South Fork Mountain.  Descending into Franklin, the Pendleton County seat, this is the only “real” town I’ll see in WV.  Then it’s up over North Mountain, the third of four 3,500+ foot high mountains I must scale.  I plunge into tiny Circleville, knowing there’s just one more mountain range to climb.  Soon, a behemoth brown sign with white letters, “Monongahela National Forest”, announces my entrance into familiar territory, my backyard so to speak.

At the top of Allegheny Mountain, I spot an old friend, “Entering Pocahontas County” the road sign proclaims.  “Yes!”, I think, “I’m home”.  The stars are shining in the clear night sky.  Deer cross the road in front of me on three different occasions, ushering their “hello, welcome back”.  The CD from the motion picture “A Prairie Home Companion” seems a fitting finale.  Garrison Keillor is a master of imparting that warm, fuzzy feeling through comedy and down home music.

At 1:24 am, after 6 hours and 26 minutes travel time, I pull into my driveway and cruise up the hill to the log cabin.  I hear the neighbor’s donkey (or is it a mule or burro?) braying, a sheep bleeting with its baritone voice, and an owl hooting in the distance.  It’s nice to be back … and it wasn’t such a long trip.  It’s merely mind over matter.

- Mountain Man