Like stepping back in time. . . that's what my mother would say about Cripple Creek.  Downtown, as I like to call it, is a place of yesterday.  The mining that made the town boom is long gone.  Nearby Raven Cliff featured a pig iron furnace and it's likely this was a significant factor in its former success.  One of my coworkers grew up there, but his childhood home is long gone.  The post office closed back in the winter.  What is left in Cripple Creek is gorgeous National Forest land, whimsical Victorian homes and 1930's bungalows, and the Cripple Creek Grocery.  Word is, they have a festival here every year.  Too bad I have plans.

Rarely, an opportunity comes up that begs you to take it.  When Mike and I heard that Bill Clinton was coming to Abingdon's Higher Education Center, we were on it.  I was nervous about waiting in a large crowd, but the prospect of seeing someone so influential gave me the stamina and courage to do it.

And it was crowded. . .



Hours of waiting, crowds pressing in closer and closer, emotions running high, sore feet and tired legs. . .

Was it worth it?
 


Oh, yes. 

We were twenty feet away, right up front.  I cried when he came on stage, and I usually never allow myself such emotions.  I've had times where I was a little disappointed about getting to meet someone "important," but this was absolutely not one of them.  He gave a wonderful speech, so articulate, so down home.  Mike got great photos and we even got to shake his hand.

No disappointment whatsoever.

How often do moments like this come along?  Once.

Mid-Winter from the Tower Trail on Sand Mountain overlooking the Big Survey and the Crystal Springs watershed.



Such an expansive wilderness to the south that you forget on about Wytheville to the north.  We came up to do some mapping of the wireless facilities that sit on the summit.  Really is rather sandy up there.



We saw two wild turkeys but, as always, they were too fast for the camera.  I guess it's just another reminder that the things in life which are most treasured can never be made material.

Travel out of earshot of the interstate, drive past farms and forestland, and you'll come to Crawfish Valley.  It's perhaps one of the most untouched, undeveloped areas in Wythe County.  Then again, a large portion of it is National Forest. . .

The small islands of private land hold pastoral treasures from an era all too often left behind.  The valley gives that hemmed in feeling of a life that is safe, yet remains full of challenges.



The Mt. Zion Church gives such a feeling of humility against an awe-inspiring backdrop of wooded mountains.  It's got a new roof, so I imagine the folks in the community are still using the building.  I love the green shutters and the big tree in the yard.



Downtown Crawfish Valley.  I might add that this valley has two parts--one portion in Smyth County and this part in Wythe County.  They're both very rural, but this one is likely moreso.



There are two ponds built by the Forest Service nestled in the woods.  Both were pretty well iced over in the cold nights and cool days we've had.



Heading out of the valley, snow lay on the North-facing slopes and the road was white.  It made me feel so excited that Winter had finally come to the Forgotten Virginia.  :-)

Ivanhoe, the site of an absent carbide plant, has seen its share of ups and downs.  Early plans for the area included an expansive town square and streets with stately names.  Boom times and industry left and the plans seemed all too adventurous.  In the past while, though, the Ivanhoe Civic League, spearheaded by Maxine Waller, has become a revitalizing force in the community.  College students come from all over to donate their time doing minor repairs, learning folkways and shattering the cultural stereotype of the hillbilly.

Life never ceases to show me that all people and all places are interesting.  Life is never boring.  I can't remember the last time I was bored.  I think I was likely just impatient, really.

In my travels at work, I must check out roads that are proposed for naming, to make sure they are as the residents say and that they really merit the naming (three or more houses on a common driveway).  Yesterday, I headed out to Barren Springs to find the future "Laughing Spring Road" for New River Retreat vacation rentals and discovered myself along the way.

Yup.  Brandy Lane.  That's me.  The road sign is not legitimate by 911 standards, but it is clever.  Who knew?  When I was married in the mountains, I mulled over what my new name would be.  Brandy Davis Nichols?  Brandy Lane Davis-Nichols?  Good 'ole Brandy Lane Davis?  I decided on Brandy Lane Nichols because of my grandmothers.  Grandy called me Brandy Lane Cotton-Pickin' Davis and Grandma Lois called me Brandy Lane.  It seemed the two should go together, so I kept them.

I now take it as a sign I made the right choice. :-D

While I'm linking to other blogs, I'll point out wetkneefarm and her experience flying over a mountain top removal site in the Forgotten Virginia.  It seems all too easy to dismiss people and places in need when you haven't seen their trials, but that makes them no less important.  So, in the spirit of Blue Mountain Mama and her tireless efforts to end mountain top removal, I present a sneak peek of Anna's flight over Wise County, Virginia. . .



Sludge dams, valley fill, life totally absent.  All in the name of our growing "needs" for electricity.

Sunday, just before I found Fall at Elk Garden, we stopped in at the Molasses Festival to enjoy our place.

The folks at Whitetop really know how to fest.  If rescues are local volunteer fire departments' specialty, showing a good time to the locals must come in a very close second.  We found chickens on the grill--the best chicken ever.  Even for we borderline vegetarians.  We also watched the man skim the scum off the boiling cane juice over the wood fire.  We sat in the sun and watched people flatfoot on the cement dance floor while woodsmoke and old-time music drifted through the valley.

Something about this place just makes me feel like staying a spell. . .

Until yesterday, I'd only been to Pulaski once on purpose.  While I do make maps and I do claim to be able to find anything in Wythe County, I apparently get very confused along its border with Pulaski County.  Twice, I've gotten in the car to do GPS work and found myself wandering over to Pulaski.  It wasn't an unpleasant diversion, mind you, instead it whetted my appetite to see more of this perplexing town.

Winding up Draper Mountain on US Highway 11, you encounter two scenic overlooks, much like the descent into Saltville.  At the crest of the mountain, you've got a choice of two valleys.  To the South, Draper's Valley, the homeland of an 18th century Odyssey.  A Mr. Draper came with his family to the area and his wife and some relatives were subsequently kidnapped and taken North to Ohio to live with the Native Americans.  He found her there, years later, and brought her back to this valley to live out their days.

The other overlook contemplates the valley where the 9,000+ town of Pulaski lies, nestled among the changing trees.  Pulaski is a bit depressed as of late, but ladies in a local book club said there were efforts to revitalize the downtown.   Such work has proven helpful (wonderful, really) in Marion and I wish the same for Pulaski.  Now that the days are growing shorter, darkness comes about 7:30 and our time after work is precious.  I tried to capture some scenes from this town that saw its heyday in the mid-twentieth century, but there are hours to be spent there.  We found a wonderful bookstore and stocked up on children's books, Snowflake Bentley and Ox-Cart Man--I love them even now.  Admiring its bungalows, studying the detail of its tired Victorian homes, perusing the downtown--I could do it for days.




Sometimes I feel the Forgotten Virginia really has been left by the wayside of the Other Virginia, where life is fast, globalized, and wealthy.  Other times, I feel that any place can be Forgotten--when the locals are too hurried to be real inhabitants of their own place.  Mike and I are tourists of our own place.  There's always something new to discover, and I suppose that's one of the biggest lessons I've learned these past few years:

When I was young in the mountains, something came over me like a late Summer haze and I began to love the land.  I spent hours in elementary school reading reference books about trees and looking at Camp Trails catalogs.  I pretended gnomes lived at the bases of the old-growth oaks and made pine needles beds under the shade of my favorite tree.

Years later, not much has changed.  Well, about me anyway.  I'm still irrevocably tied to the land, tasting its tears.  The snows are fewer and the Summers are hotter.  The seasons change more slowly, flirting with commitment as they tease me with average days.  This weekend was one of those flirtations.  Today it was as much as twenty-five degrees warmer than last week.  The first day of Autumn, God's season of mercy, was a bittersweet one for me. 

It was much the same yesterday as a few of us Friends of Mount Rogers headed up the trail to Comers Creek Falls.  Exhausted ferns lay along the trail and acorns fell at record rates.  When I had planned this hike for the Friends and campers at Hurricane, I envisioned a crisp morning with a follow-up vegetable soup at the Sugar Grove Diner. 

Instead, there was a greatly reduced falls and a day too warm for the ladies at the Diner to stir up a batch of their soup.  The lack of rain has really hurt the surface waters here in the forgotten Virginia.  We can be vain about our yards looking all brown, but the real damage is to our streams.  A late frost and now a drought that really began back in April or May.  When will there be relief?

At church today, the sermon was about tasting each other's tears--learning what breaks God's heart and using our empathy to help others.  As David asked people in the congregation what broke God's heart, I said to myself internally--"Irresponsbility."  We're all guilty, but the guilt is not what's important.  It's the change we make, the faith and forgiveness we give ourselves and others that we can think beyond ourselves and our pointing fingers and do better.

I don't know if this is so much about the Forgotten Virginia and my favorite spots here, or if it is more about my lamentations for a suffering planet.  Suffice it to say, the Earth is still abundant and the diversity of life never ceases to astound me.  I suppose that's a bit of optimism to hold onto.  Maybe the falling acorns are a little glimmer of hope that our dynamic home will survive our irresponsibility.

When I was a newlywed in the mountains, Mike and I loaded up in the car with Grandad and headed to Laurel Bed Lake.  Somewhere over near "Big Tumblin', " we had never been there before.  We went to Saltiville and traveled deep into the mountains, past wild places we had never been before.

It was high summer and the blackberries were getting ripe.  We stopped along Big Tumbling Creek to pick some berries and stretch our legs.  As Mike used his long arms to reach the bitter berries (in my opinion) a blue butterfly came to land on Grandad's shoulder.  We stood in the berry patch for what must have been half an hour and the butterfly stayed on Grandad.  It was one of those moments which just seemed divine.

Quickly the little car began to climb a steep, narrow road with lots of switchbacks.  On the downhill side we could see that the creek was beginning to do lots of that tumbling for which it had been named.  There were waterfalls and cascades in abundance.  Getting to the top, the appearance of the lake was amazing--as if you could never imagine such a thing sits so high in the mountains.  We had many golden moments with Grandad that year.

When I was a new homeowner in the mountains our simple living group returned to the high-elevation retreat for a time of meditation and reflection.  As we sat on the shore, Fall colors blazed all around us and we sat huddled under blankets for warmth.  By this time in my life, the "cares of this life" were resting soundly on my shoulders and the isolation of the lake gave me some of the only peace I had known after months of repairs and renovations.

This past weekend in the mountains, Mike and I went once more to Laurel Bed Lake to seek out the blueberry prospect.  We also planned to take in the whole vastness of the lake by walking around it.  After scooting up the mountain and stopping to admire the waterfalls, we were ready to hit the shore and find the elusive identity the lake seemed to possess.  Well, it was so much the identity that was elusive as it was a trail around the lake.  We quickly discovered there wasn't one.  After scrambling along the shoreline, we found an old road and headed back.  Upon finding a game warden, we learned there was no trail or road that went all around the lake.  Upon checking the map a little closer, we learned we could have been caught out in the dark if we tried.

The only way we'll safely see the whole lake is by boat.  After all, that's why it's there.  Built in 1967 on top of a wetland as a fisheries project, the lake is home to lots of trout and bass and other fishes.  A quick tour of the shore tells you the soil is high acid (evergreens, you know) and there's also the acid rain which comes from the coal-fire power plants.  Sure enough, there has been a forty-year struggle to keep the waters livable for fish.  So, the lake is regularly limed to make the water less acid.

It was funny to learn more about a place that, at face value, seemed so vast and spiritual.  My image of the lake is changed now, no less impressed, but a little wiser to its hidden challenges.  When I want to feel hemmed in and isolated, I'll go there.  I envision it being a haven for reflection upon life's challenges later on.  Sitting on the shoreline on that Fall day, it sure was a haven for me.  Our neighbor, who lost his nephew in the war, has spent an awful lot of time up there with his boat lately.

This past Friday and Saturday, we made our annual blueberry pilgrimage to a local secret spot--The Scales.  It's called that because, back in the railroad days, livestock were brought to this reasonably flat spot between the ridges to be weighed.  Afterward, they'd be put on a train to take the sometimes dangerous descent down into the Fairwood Valley.  This area, among the mysterious high-elevation balds, is one of the best places in the Forgotten Virginia to go blueberry picking. 

People load up trucks and travel up the long rocky road.  Hearkening back to a time when many Appalachian roadways were stream beds, this road is quite rocky and wet, even in the terribly dry weather we've had lately.  Three miles up is a beautiful flat spot that's fenced off for tent campers and the few pop-ups that brave the road.  There's a SST (my favorite composting privy), a very friendly host Mr. Findley, and lots and lots of highbush blueberries. 

When we arrived on Friday evening, the air coming in through the open car windows already felt dramatically cooler.  Sure enough, we soon began to put on warmer clothes as the temperatures fell into the fifties.  Mike went off with a headlamp to pick bluberries and blackberries for the morning's pancakes.  We settled into our sleeping bags for a cozy night's sleep.  The ground is especially comfy for sleeping up there.

Waking on a chilly morning, we campers enjoyed black and blueberry pancakes on the camp stove.  Mike kept looking around at the other people enjoying things like donuts, bacon, cereal (!), coffee and fried eggs.  I was just happy to be cold--it's been so long, and it won't be much longer until the house sits at 62 degrees inside again.  Aaaah, sweater season. . .

Not to be outdone by the masses camping with us (50 people or so) we set out pretty early.  We headed up Stone Mountain, which is really a grassy hill, in search of antioxidant delights.  Having talked to several people, including Mr. Finley, I knew the big patches had already been picked over.  Climbing what seemed to be a big bald, there were plenty of berries hidden in the grasses and hawthorns.  I had hit the jackpot.  It seemed the most worn out bushes held the largest berries--a big deal when the highbush variety is usually very small.

It was so beautiful--a swift wind meant that wearing a sweater was rather a good idea.  We picked only about two hours, but came away with three quarts, which went straight to the freezer when we got home.  It will be so wonderful to have the berries in pancakes and blueberry buckle in the coming colder months.  I do my best to make them last all year.  I think I've got half a cup from last time still waiting for me. . .

It's so scenic up there--you can see over to Grayson Highlands State Park and the other way to Mount Rogers with its balsam top.  If I could roam those hills forever I would.  Sometimes I wish for the isolation my Appalachian ancestors had.  As I learn more about the six billion others on this Earth and their many opinions and cultures, I struggle to cling to my sense of isolation here.  I try to remember back to a time when my world was very small--like the people who bring donuts camping--and I just can't bring myself to forget those people.

Maybe that's why I live here.  Because in a continually connecting world, there are the forgotten.  I pray for them everyday, whether I know them or not, because I live among the forgotten.  Today, after a meeting with FEMA, one of my bosses said something that I actually agreed with--If every bureaucrat had the same attitude as that man today, the people of New Orleans wouldn't have gotten any help at all.  What did the man say that prompted this?  Flood damages don't come from natural disasters, they come from making poor choices.  But, did they have a choice?

Last night Mike and I drove out to my parents' house to get some canning jars and go apple picking.  Every time I drive through the valley where they live I wonder how much longer it will remain as it is now--pastoral, pristine, peaceful.  I've been wanting to capture it in pictures before it fades away and so yesterday I took some photos just as the daylight was starting to wane.  I hope there is not a peculiar symbolism to follow for these pictures--the idea that sunset would be a metaphor for the end of a season of rural living.

Already, the road heading out of Chilhowie, a town of 1,200 people West of Marion, is beginning to fill up with subdivisions.  Small farmers are seeing greater profits in real estate than hay and corn and grazing.  New-style homes, small McMansions, are starting to cover the hillsides off of SR 600.  With the new wider and straighter road built straight up into the Mount Rogers National Recreation Area, it's hard to tell what the future will be for the land that time forgot.  But, time is forgetting us no longer.

It's been a difficult year in this part of the state.  A late Spring snow killed many blossoms on fruits--decimating berry crops and fruit trees.  An article in the Wytheville Enterprise said that William's Orchard (the best orchard on Earth) wouldn't be harvesting peaches this year and that things were looking mighty slim for apples.  One beekeeper from Lebanon said he'd lost 60 hives and had to feed his bees because there were so few blossoms!  The corn crops suffered from the lack of rain and from the excessively hot weather.  Mike and I have struggled to keep our new strawberry transplants watered well, but I think they're starting to take.

That was surely true out at the old Davis Homeplace, too.  Mike and I expected our apple-picking to be quick work.  We were soon put in our place when we found the tree with many fewer apples than previous years.  Those that remained were a half or even one third of the size they usually are.  The were also misshapen and bug-ridden.  There just wasn't enough rain.

We managed to collect a few good apples and have decided to set our sights on the Fairwood Valley just over the mountain.  A community sat in that valley many years ago and the old apple orchards remain, some what fragmented, but still fruitful.  Since we're heading up to the Scales to pick blueberries tomorrow, this will be a good stop on the way.  If our luck fails here, we'll by local apples and set to work with higher hopes for the next season.

Maybe, sometimes, I think that though life is slower and less "eventful" here in the Forgotten Virginia, it is more authentic.  Can I be snobby like that?  Maybe, sometimes.  We remain tied to the land, at the mercy of the elements to provide for our needs, and forever in love with our mountains.

One hundred miles from here lies the city of Roanoke, VA.  Most travel guides mention this pleasant city, with it bustling downtown farmers' market and fabulous historic architecture.  Once you head West, past the city and its suburbs, the guides fail to mention much else.  They might pick up on the Virginia Creeper Trail around Abingdon or Virginia Tech, a perennial favorite of sports fans; but, there is little else about the Forgotten Virginia.

I call it this because when I was in high school some students participated in the Model General Assembly.  In effect, they pretended to be legislators for a couple days.  One of the proposed bills was to split Virginia south of Roanoke--have three Virginias--West, North and Southwest.  West Virginia, in all its beautiful forgotteness has seen its share of scorn.  But, this was the first time I'd ever heard that my part of the state might be different.

My town has an 18.6% poverty rate.  In Anna's Dungannon, it's 25.1%.  In contrast, Fairfax County sits at a 5.7% poverty rate.  Goochland County is 6.9%.  When we live in the state that currently has the nation's fastest growing county, it quickly becomes clear some of us are being left in the dust--coal dust, that is. 

If you travel through the coal country of Southwest Virginia and West Virginia, you'll see many signs offering legal assistance for workers injured in the mines.  It's a grim reminder of those who pay the price for traditional progress.  Thinking back to Kilowatt Ours, I recall the mountaintop removal, which maggie_hess has seen firsthand, and the air pollution for which we all pay firsthand.  Though Mike and I live slightly East of the coal fields, our communities are still touched by high unemployment, a low number of skilled labor positions and plenty of people who are unable to take care of their families.

Is life in the Forgotten Virgina a bleak one?  Certainly not!  While many struggle, there is that same Appalachian spirit of the first inhabitants that drives us to farm the hillsides and adore the valleys.  It seems really strange to me, though, that Mike moved here from the county known for its suburban sprawl.  I guess there must have been some sort of pull. ;-)

What fills our days and delights our hearts in the Forgotten Virginia?  In the coming weeks, I'll be doing a photo essay series on life here in the best part of my state.

When I was a newlywed in the mountains, my young husband stood by the roadside armored in denim picking blackberries.  He did this tirelessly, seeking the berry-which-all-Nichols-love-best.  I, being a Davis, loved and sought blueberries. 

One day a man with a farm stopped on the road at the old Davis homestead and told Mike he had a large blackberry patch that no one would pick from.  We were made welcome to take all we would like.  The first morning we went out, we had four quarts of berries in half an hour.  The jam was sealed in jars two hours later.

Now that we are a little older in the mountains, we still make the pilgrimage every year to the most scenic of berry patches.  Through the woods, at the top of a hill, stands one of God's greatest wonders.  The cattle are lowing; it must be a miracle.  A divine gift to berry-lovers.

This year was our third at the berry patch, and we had help.  Beth came with us and developed a new understanding of why she pays $3.99 a pint for the plump berries at her suburban Atlanta supermarket.  I found peace and fear, and that they could exist together.  Cows, especially the running kind, have frightened me since I was a child.  But as I picked in a newly discovered spot, I came to find that there is calm to be had for the spectator of a stampede.  Seek it out.

Mike was, by far, the most productive.  He always is about things like that--persistent, he doesn't easily go to daydreaming or losing hope.  I ask him to help with tasks, sometimes, that I would never have the patience to complete myself.  He completes them with great gusto.  Such a good Gus.

High Summer has come to our part of the world and it brings with it the usual signs--heat, high humidity, steamy nights, and sometimes violent rain storms.  I've been mentally preparing myself for this as I knew it would eventually arrive.  And I have to trudge through Summer to get to Fall.  It's like enduring the forty miles of 25 mph curves on US 64 to get to the Cullasaja Gorge.  I've got my sunblock and water bottle--I'm ready.

When we were at the Falls of Little Stony, Mike noticed a curious patch of orange in the forest downstream.  Knowing it was too late for flame azalea, we got closer.  Some leaves on a tree were already turning orange!  I've been noticing it more since then.  I saw some Staghorn Sumacs with decidedly fall leaves on them.  The Black Locusts' leaves were looking a tire brown, too.  I'm curious to know whether this is normal for mid Summer, or if it's related to the dry weather we've had.  The small bits of color are impressive, no less.

In other news, Mike and I got an annual pass to Hungry Mother State Park, which is five minutes from our yet unnamed bungalow.  Having to pay parking fees every time we went to walk a couple miles really deterred us, so now we can go as often as we wish.  This Saturday we plan to walk around the lake (about six miles, easy) very early in the morning with his sister Beth. 

I'm looking forward to using this pass a lot, and doing more than just walking around our neighborhoods.  When we lived in the country on Sugar Street, just going outside was to touch the forest and field.  We could be on the AT in ten minutes and up to Elk Garden in thirty.  Now the another section of the AT is still ten minutes away, but Elk Garden is more of a trip.  I figure we must adapt our hiking to our location and the High Country could use a break from us anyway.  Aaaah, the joys of living in Southwest Virginia.  Shhhh. . .Don't tell anyone--I don't want crowds.

Saturday, Mike and I took the long way over past Dungannon to the Falls of Little Stony.  Instead of oppressing ourselves with the interstate and the long stretch of US Highway 19, we took the scenic route over US Highway 16.  We curved over the mountain and down the other side to Rich Valley.  The valley is huge and deep with profound rocky outcroppings at every turn.

Then we turned onto US Highway 42 and headed West to Saltville.  Old Saltworks Road took us to Route 80 and through Poor Valley, through Hayter's Gap and over Rich Mountain.  In the valley below, it was quite peaceful and we found lots of people out working in their yards and gardens.

The landscape in extreme Southwest Virginia is very profound and not very much like the lush valleys and steep hillsides in our part of the Forgotten Virginia.  When we came into the valley of Elk Garden (not the hillside on the AT where we were married), it was like stepping across the continent to the West.  Rusty fences and rocky fields gave an impressive feeling to the land.  Mike and I stopped to admire the uniqueness of it all.  In one field, where they were probably growing hay, people had picked up all of the rocks and it was a smooth contrast to the lumpy landscape.

After a stop in Lebanon at a drive-in that claimed to "the best burgers in the USA," we traveled on to our destination.  Once inside the National Forest, we saw the results of the prescribed burn that was taking place back in April or March when we came to visit Anna and Mark.  The forest floor was bare of leaves, but new green life was springing forth everywhere.

Finally, the falls.  Mike and I swam for two hours and played with some of the children who had come with their family to the secluded spot.  The water coming down the falls was quite warm, compared with the pool below and felt like a very rough shower on my back.  The water was much lower than the first time I had come there.  It was, however, just the right depth for swimming.

When I was a sophomore at Emory & Henry, Dr. Davis asked me to fill in as secretary for a committee he was serving on.  It was a committee appointed by Congressman Boucher to advise concerning a new National Recreation Area in the Clinch Ranger District.  It was full of interests from all sides and had met many months debating the issues.  There were many fears, including takings like the ones that happened in the formation of the Mount Rogers National Recreation Area. 

I took 22 pages of notes at the meeting, and we went on a field trip.   We piled into a bus and traveled many back roads to the Falls of Little Stony, Bark Camp Lake and High Knob Fire Tower.  A hubcap even fell off the bus at one point because of the rocky roads.  We also went to the Guest River Gorge and walked its trails.  I saw my first solar composting toilet there, and met wonderful people like Steve Brooks and Tom Davenport.  All the while we were followed by a caravan of protesters against the National Recreation Area.  Some places we couldn't even get out because the crowds were too threatening.  After it was all over, no such High Knob National Recreation Area came into existence.  The political climate was just too unsettled.

I've never seen anything like this: