Westward Bound

It’s seven in the morning and today I am heading west out of our small mountain town. The thermometer reads 18 degrees as I wait for the fractals of ice to soften on the windshield. I sipped my coffee earlier, watching the purple glow over the Blue Ridge turn to pink to orange, and now, warmed and fed, it is time to head out on my dive to the western reaches of the state. 

As I make my way through the town, I study the houses lining the streets. Taking in their details, I begin to notice how they change and shift the further west I drive. Queen Anne Victorians morph into Folk Victorians and Craftsmans, only then to transform into small Cape Cods and brick ranches. These changes mark the growth of the city over the decades as it expanded further and further from its historic center.

The thermometer reads 16 degrees as I depart the city and the landscape opens. Rolling hills sparkle with frost on this frigid winter morning in early January. I can’t help but stare as I drive, watching the grass glisten and shimmer as I pass. The fields are well-kept and dotted with barns and sheds. Fence rows stand straight and proud, dividing the land into manageable pastures. Large brick farmhouses are prominent in the undulating landscape, some nestled into a smattering of trees and shrubs, but for the most part the view is wide open and expansive to the mountains on either side. Many hillsides are dotted with grazing animals; farming is alive and well in this fertile valley.

The landscape changes again and I am in a narrow pass. It is just me and the creek, surrounded by forest. But soon, both roadsides are littered with well-worn pickup trucks sporting large steel boxes in their beds. Some boxes are hand-made from plywood with large latches and crude holes cut in the sides. I see a snout protruding from one, and witness the warm breath of a hound silhouetted against the darkness contained within. I can feel the anticipation contained in these boxes - of dogs eager to do their job and hunt in the cold mountain air. Men of all ages huddle in small groups sipping their coffee discussing what they may discover deep in the woods.

As I leave the close quarters of the national forest, I am greeted by dozens of plumes of white woodsmoke. Small, modestly-built houses nestle between the creek and the road in this narrow valley. Early 1900s company housing perhaps. I can smell the woodsmoke as it hangs low in the air, and I consider all the households beginning their day by stoking the woodstove, often their only heat source. A few burned-out shells of homes still stand along the route as if to tell a cautionary tale. With no incentive to tear down or rebuild, empty storefronts and abandoned buildings remind us that this land, too, was valuable… for a time. The mining and textile operations departed this valley in the late 1960s, to be succeeded by a maximum security prison, with signage to remind you of this at every intersection.

The thermometer reads 14 degrees as I begin to climb up into the mountains that mark the western edge of our valley. Once again, it is just me and a creek amongst the trees. As I continue to climb, I start to take in brief glimpses of the view of my travels thus far. When I reach the overlook it is 12 degrees and I pull off to take in the valley view. The blue mountains, blue sky, and wispy clouds are all so grand and stunning, but I am drawn to the cold mist and woodsmoke lingering in the low spots that create a blurry haze between each peak. It is not long before I scurry back to the car to warm up from the biting chill and wind. 

As I begin my descent down the other side of the mountain the temperature starts to rise, and the landscape opens up yet again and familiar sites unfold before my eyes. I see open rolling fields bordered by fences, barns and large farmhouses with spring-fed creeks meandering about. It is a familiar and comforting site, but it is not home. I have arrived in yet another former frontier: an agrarian mecca. This land is rich in agriculture, natural resources, and tourism. This is the land of Virginia’s hot and warm springs. A land where the early Washington elite would flock to bask in the earth's bounty.  I too, am drawn to the springs - passing through the profitable farmland, useful forests, isolated hollows, and abandoned towns along the way. But there is beauty and history in all of these spaces; stories of folks doing their best and living with what the land offers. As stewards of land ourselves, we are doing our best to ensure we have something to offer in return.

Sunshine Springs Farm on a cold January morning