The annual pilgrimage, 2008

Got back last night from this year's trip out to Cumberland, MD, which is something I look forward to all year long. The fact that I have such high expectations for the trip created issues this year and gave me a whole lotta thinking to do. Lessons in dukkha and attachment are, of course, never easy.

I wrote last year about the indulgent way that I always begin the pilgrimage-- a massage at The Bath House in Berkeley Springs, WV, and the scrumptious (cheesy word but, damn, it's appropriate in this case) snow crab legs at the Texas Grillhouse in LaVale, MD. Added a slight twist this year in having a hot stone massage for the first time. I honestly don't know how I've lived this long without the sublime feeling of hot river stones slipped between my toes. First time I've ever blissed out enough to fall asleep during a massage.

So far, so good. Things started out just as wonderfully relaxing as usual. Monday began well, also. It was chilly overnight, and morning revealed a thick mist rising along the Potomac River and Tom's Creek between town and the surrounding mountains.







The day's plan was to drive over to Garrett County and ride a trail that runs between Herrington Manor and Swallow Falls state parks. I headed out fairly early to explore a new road before breakfast, and ended up driving all the way to Keyser, WV. I was hungry by the time I got there and began the hunt for any place besides McD's or Burger King at which to chow down. Passed a sign for The Candlewyck Inn that included the words "fine dining" and pulled in to check it out. Turns out they don't serve breakfast on weekdays, but that didn't stop the owner from offering to cook something for me. I ended up with a wonderful veggie omelet and home fries, and a pleasant conversation about the perils of small-town restaurant ownership. He also tipped me off to a shortcut from Keyser to my intended destination and within less than an hour I was passing through Oakland, MD, on my way to Herrington Manor to get my ass kicked.





I have no mountain biking skills to speak of, and I ride a rigid cyclocross bike. But a few very fun rides through the kiddy roller coaster that is the main trail at Rosaryville State Park made me confident enough to tackle this trail that is rated as "beginner". A guy working in the park office also confirmed that there was "one short rocky section", but that the rest was pretty easy. That "one short rocky section" that he pointed out on the map apparently grew significantly before I hit the trail. It was rocky from the freaking get-go, and I'm talking rocks ranging in size from dinner rolls to full loaves of bread. I bucked and bounced for two miles before deciding I was risking busting either my fork or my head, then turned around and hike-a-biked it through the worst sections on the way back. But I wasn't ready to give up just yet, so I loaded the bike back on top of the car and headed to the other end of the trail at Swallow Falls to see if perhaps that was the easy part.

It started out being fairly lovely, much smoother, swooping through hardwood forest and then descending quickly into hemlock groves. But then, rocks. And not only rocks. Big, freaking, tangled hemlock roots. This ride was nothing if not a lesson in why bicycle suspension was invented. If I'd had a bike properly designed for this type of trail, with full-on double suspension, I could have had a major blast. As it is, I think my cervical and thoracic vertebrae have fused into one great big hunk of bone, the thoravical. My chiropractor's got his work cut out for him at our next appointment.







The trail heads up through those tree roots on the left


The best section of all (again, the trail's on the left)


After another roughly two miles of torture I gave it up for good, again walking the bike through the most stone-choked sections. It was frustrating to quit with so few miles under my wheels, but I have to admit I'm fairly proud that I handled the bike so well on the portions I did ride. I was able to remain relaxed enough to let the wheels bounce over the rocks without bucking me off, and I picked up some decent speed on the smooth sections. Certainly a worthwhile experience, despite the discomfort.

And then things took a turn. This year's pilgrimage is notable in that it's the first time in eleven years that I chose to spend part of it with people I know. The ladies with whom I ride had planned a five day thru-ride of the C&O Canal. When the idea first came up months ago, it sounded like it could be lots of fun. For a variety of reasons, though, I decided against it. But I planned my trip for the same week with the intention of joining them for one of the most interesting sections of the towpath, the Paw Paw Tunnel. As a result, this particular pilgrimage ended up less time- and care-free than usual. Having to plan and schedule and interact with others added a hectic element and made the time spent with them turn into the focus of the trip, when it should have been just one enjoyable portion of the whole. Leading up to this day, I questioned a few times why I'd made this decision. I was sure that it would be fun and would further develop my friendships with these women, but it's counter to the purpose of the pilgrimage.

The plan had been for a pleasant mid-day ride with my buddies, 25 miles or so at an easy pace that would serve as a recovery from the beating the day before, with the fun of Paw Paw Tunnel as the centerpiece, and ending up having a lovely dinner by myself in Cumberland.









It turned into me riding alone down to (during which time I snapped the pics above) and through the tunnel, meeting my friends on the way back, then exerting myself pretty damned close to my physical limit, driving 60 miles that I hadn't planned on, and not getting back to the hotel and a shower until after 9:00pm. Dinner was with the gang at Bill's Place in Little Orleans, but consisted of a surprisingly good $3 bowl of lima bean soup.

This unexpected deviation from the usual course of pilgrimage events left me ping-ponging between concern and compassion on one hand, and resentment on the other. The bitterness I felt (am still somewhat feeling) over what happened is certainly not very Buddhist of me. But I wasn't able to obtain the peace of mind and quiet reflection that I so look forward to during this annual trip. The time I spend alone out there is time in which my mind can empty of all the responsibilities and issues and neuroses (my own, mostly) that I find to be part and parcel of every human relationship in my life. It allows the same freedom I experience when I escape to the woods, or onto the bike, or cruising country roads in the car, but for an extended period of time that creates a deeper rejuvenation and euphoria.

The fourth day out there, my last, didn't serve to improve the situation. The morning began not with curling mists rising in front of the mountains, but with totally grey, overcast skies. After breakfast at a favorite coffee shop up in Frostburg, I decided to just head home. Along the way, I was pulled over by a cop for doing 83 in a 65. Despite ending up with a warning instead of points and a fine, this was like insult (deserved, I know) added to injury.

I could have considered all of this some perverse "reward" for yesterday's good deed, but it wasn't. It was just weather patterns and not paying enough attention for radar traps. And yesterday's strained afternoon and evening were just a case of doing what needed to be done in response to an unexpected situation. The events and atmosphere that we find ourselves dealing with are not rewards or punishments. Nor are they good or bad luck. They are just what is. What creates the difficulty is how we classify and respond to them. My first response (after attempts to squelch my resentment) was to wonder how expectation fits into a Buddhist lifestyle. What the hell is the trick to looking forward to something with pleasant anticipation, without forming an attachment to the resultant expectations?

The conclusion I came to is that it's a matter of control. My desire for escape from schedules and responsibility, my craving for the freedom I feel during those escapes, isn't freedom at all. It's an attempt at control. Doing what I want to do when I want to do it, being impulsive or indulgent as I see fit, is just control in a different form. It feels like freedom, but isn't it really just enslavement to a need to feel that I'm calling the shots, instead of squeezing my life into the jigsaw puzzle of work, commuting, home ownership, family, and friendships? And it's my disinclination to give up that control that caused resentment to override the concern I felt for my friend. That's one of the hardest things about following the Buddhist path-- having to relinquish all sense of control and deal with things as they are, learning to want something yet being able to live with not getting it, developing the ability to gracefully flow with the alternatingly pleasant or painful stream of life. It's kind of like riding tricky singletrack. Ya gotta let go and relax enough to let the bike pick its own line through the rocks and enjoy the ride despite any bruises you end up with.

And that's enough of the philosophical mumbo-jumbo. Despite the lesson learned, I headed out today for one of those temporary escapes and cruised the back roads of West Va up to Shaharazade's. Lunch was great and the drive was great, but by far the brightest spot so far this week has been one brief moment this afternoon when I drove past the spot of the burned-down trailer (described here and, later, here). I had noticed on a similar drive several weeks ago that a new trailer had been installed on the lot. Today, as I was coming around the curve leading up to it, I noticed a basketball lying on the ground next to the basketball hoop that's been standing in the same spot along the road ever since I first saw the place. And, strolling across the yard, the same tow-headed kid I'd managed to avoid running down almost a year ago. The sun gleaming off his blond hair and the hand he raised in a wave gave me the biggest smile I've had on my face in many days. If I didn't know better, I'd almost consider it a reward.

Following Circles down a lonely road

Somebody's always watching you.

My father once said those words to me, back when I was a kid. I had stolen something from a friend, a bright red rabbit's foot. Her mother called my parents that night and I went before the firing squad. Of course, I denied, denied, denied. My parents were furious. At school the next day, my friend told everyone and, despite my continued denials, I ended up ostracized by the entire sixth grade. After several days, I cracked under the pressure. I left for school one morning with the rabbit's foot in my pocket and headed far enough up the road that I figured my parents were no longer watching from the door. Then I doubled back, to the little cul-de-sac at the turn in the road, and pitched the rabbit's foot as far as I could into the woods.

Unfortunately, my father was standing by the front window at the time. He confronted me in a rage when he came home from work that night, before sending me down into the woods with a flashlight to find that damned foot. "Remember this," he told me, "Somebody's always watching you."

But who's watching in the lonely places?

The light sucked and the camera somewhat sucks, therefore these photos are not terrific.




















This portion of road was driven, not walked. And my little Honda Civic handled it like a champ.


So, as I mentioned in this morning's post, I did go to Shaharazade's this afternoon. They were empty when I got there, but while I was eating, several groups of out-of-towners (presumably in town for their offsping's graduations from Shepherd U) came in to look around. I also heard the waitresses discussing the reservations for that evening (a 10-top and a couple of 4-tops). So business seems to be good. The owner popped his head out of the kitchen at one point. I probably should have spoken with him, but I was enjoying my meal and my book too much to shift into business mode. Plus, I'm feeling a bit peeved with him. Especially after one of the out-of-towners asked the waitress if "this is the place that's up for sale" and she responded in the affirmative.

But life just keeps spiraling through its never-ending circles...

Circles

You saw me lost and treading water
I looked pathetic
I looked as helpless as a stinger without a bee
But underneath my presentation, yeah
I knew the walls were coming down
And the stones that fell were aiming away from me

Hey, what would it mean to you?
To know that it'll come back around again
Hey, whatever it means to you
Know that everything moves in circles

I saw you standing in my headlights (blink, blink, blink)
I thought I'd run you down for the weight you left on me
Instead I pushed rewind, reversed and drove away
Seeing you disappear in my rearview
Brought to me the word reciprocity

Hey, what would it mean to you?
To know that it'll come back around again
Hey, whatever it means to you
Know that everything moves in circles

Round and round we go
Who could've known it'd end so well
We fall on and we fall off
Existential carousel
Spin!

Aqueous Transmissions on a rainy day

It rained today. Great huge buckets of rain. This week, though, I refused to let either depression or fastidiousness get the better of me. I needed to get up to Shaharazade's, and to spend some time outside experiencing Spring. So, after a morning of lounging in front of the tv watching King Kong (Peter Jackson's version. The ending leaves me sobbing like a fool every time.), I threw on my rainjacket and drove, carefully (I'm not kidding that it was pouring), to West Va.

Shaharazade's was busy, so I didn't bother to pester the owner's daughter about the status of the restaurant (her step-father still hasn't gotten back to me with the info I need) and quietly enjoyed my veggie frittata and pot of Nepali tea like I used to before visions of ownership began dancing in my crazy head. Afterwards, I strolled down to the Lost Dog for a chai (no such thing as too much tea) and to read some Roald Dahl (the man's adult fiction is even more wonderfully subversive and perverse than his kid's stuff). While there, I got it into my head to once again wander that deserted old dirt road along the Potomac River.

The rain had stopped by the time I drove down to the river and began trudging upstream. With every step, I regretted that I hadn't brought my camera to capture the fresh, bright green of young leaves against the backdrop of misty grey sky. It didn't take long to reach the clearing with the make-shift fountain. There's now a small dead frog sprawled on the grating, being slowly pulverized by waterboarding. Poor thing. (It's very obvious I've been reading Dahl lately...)

It began to rain again on the way back downstream, but I just didn't care. I was out and wandering and coming to the realization that I need to begin doing this sort of thing more often again. I've always had issues with the effect of dreary days on my mood, but I never used to let bad weather keep me from the outdoors. I don't know just when I became such a weenie, but it's been years since I've hiked in the rain or biked through mud (The last time I did that, I ended up with my arm in a sling-- damaged a ligament in my elbow by landing wrong when my tires slipped out from under me. Never extend your arm to break a fall.). Today, though, I left my hood down and my rainjacket unzipped and became increasingly, pleasantly, soggy.

Back at the car, I sat and scribbled these words with my hair plastered to my forehead and water running down the back of my neck, feeling peaceful instead of morose. Could the sight of sticky little leaves perhaps have broken the spell I've been under?

And of course there's a song to match the mood. It's not about rain, but it is about a river, it's very soothing, and the ending makes me think of Spring so it's fitting. It's also one of the most beautiful things Incubus has ever created. Listen all the way through and enjoy...

Aqueous Transmission

I'm floating down a river
Oars freed from their holes long ago.
Lying face up on the floor of my vessel,
I marvel at the stars
And feel my heart overflow.

Further down the river

Two weeks without my lover,
I'm in this boat alone.
Floating down a river named emotion,
Will I make it back to shore
Or drift into the unknown?

Further down the river

I'm building an antenna,
Transmissions will be sent when I am through.
Maybe we'll meet again further down the river
And share what we both discovered...
Then revel in the view.

Further down the river

More impermanence in WV

Went cruising in West Virginia again today and took the road past the burned down trailer. The center of the yard's been cleared, with all the junk ranged about in an assortment of piles. I pulled over to take a closer look and found myself under the nonchalant scrutiny of a handful of feral-appearing cats perched on the nearest scrap pile. And yes, the basketball hoop is still there.

At the upper edge of Harper's Ferry, across the railroad tracks, is a rutted gravel road that runs along the edge of the Potomac River for a mile or two. Just before reaching a small creek that feeds into the river, two abandoned trailers sit along the edge of the road. (Has anyone ever figured out just what it is about WV and trailers?) The spot seems to be popular with local fishermen, as the river is wide and flat at that point, before breaking up into rapids as it flows through the chunks of what used to be Dam 3. Once the road crosses over the creek, it splits. To the left, it becomes paved and turns into Engle Moler Road. To the right is what's left of the upstream end of the old gravel road-- closed off by a wire gate, yet apparently still occasionally traveled somehow. I felt adventurous today, so I parked the car and took a meander along that old section of road. At first the only thing creepy about the walk was the sudden bank of grey clouds that had covered the sun, but I added to the ambience by humming the tune to "Duelling Banjos". The first strange finding was a fire ring perched right smack at the edge of the water, stacked with blackened, still-smoking logs. Granted, those logs may have been smouldering for days, and the river was high from recent rain, but I couldn't help wondering why someone would build a fire right smack on the edge of the water. A bit further on, I spied something white hanging from a tree limb a bit off the path. Now, I've spent a lot of time in the woods, and I'm frequently asked whether I get scared hiking by myself. Actually, I'm much more comfortable and feel more secure in the depth of the woods than I do in some of the neighborhoods near my home. But the sight of something human-related and out of place in a spot like that puts me on edge. Shot gun shells on the ground don't phase me. A white plastic grocery bag hanging from an out of reach tree limb, weighted down by a dark, unidentifiable lump in the bottom of the bag, does. Suddenly, the innocent abandoned road along the river felt a little too "Blair Witch". It was good to be out tramping around and exploring, though, so I pressed on, visions of snotty, frightened teenagers and Ned Beatty in his tighty-whiteys alternating in my head. Another few dozen feet along and there suddenly appeared to be a structure of some sort in the trees ahead. Sure enough, it was the ruins of a once-whitewashed stone house. Near a tree on the other side of the road was a faded stop sign. Beyond that was an old speed limit sign that read 15mph. The area then opened out into what may have been someone's front yard, though the road appeared to continue on the other side. Just off the center of this area was a fountain of sorts. Someone had rigged a pipe from a spring in the rocks uphill from the river, run it down the hill, under the open area, and up from the ground through a hunk of concrete, where another section of pipe was connected to divert the water into an old drainage pan (such as you'd use to change the oil in your car). The pan was set on top of a grating that was balanced across the open top of an old metal barrel, and the water overflowed from the pan and through the grating into the barrel in an eerily artistic way. After circling this jury-rigged fountain, I followed the pipe up a set of crumbling stone stairs and through the foundation of an old building to its source at the base of a small, jumbled cliff. At some point in time, someone had obviously not only installed the piping, but also maintained the source of the spring. Small bits of screen had been installed to protect the water from falling leaves and debris as it flowed down various crevices in the rock. As I turned to head back, I narrowly missed stepping on a big pile of shit. I didn't inspect it carefully enough to identify it as animal or human, but it's placement was puzzling. I mean, what intelligent creature craps so close to a water supply? (Various beer cans scattered nearby might provide a pertinent clue to that question.) I hung around for a bit, peeking into the nooks and crannies of an overgrown garden and then, when I'd had my fill of being creeped out, pointed myself back downstream for an uneventful hike back to the car, leaving the place behind just as others before me had done.






(Note: I hope that anyone reading this got the references to Deliverance. I'd hate for people to think that I normally go around imagining Ned Beatty's tush.)

Impermanence in WV

Had a surprise on today's drive. After breakfast in Shep'town, I set out to cruise some back roads I first explored a couple of weeks ago. At one point along this curvy little set of roller-coasters during that October drive, I had to slow down for a young boy of 9 or 10 who was playing basketball in the road. As he moseyed off the blacktop, I glanced at what I assumed was his home. There in the midst of farmland sprinkled with nice, somewhat aged, little single-family homes, was a stereotypical West Virginia trailer-cum-shack, complete with junk-strewn front yard. At the edge of the yard, apparently for the kid's entertainment, they'd erected a basketball hoop facing out into the road. Having been the only obstacle to an otherwise smoothly flowing cruise, the boy stayed on my mind for a while that afternoon.

So today I'm flying along the same road and remember that, not sure exactly where, but somewhere, I'm going to need to watch out in case that kid's out in the middle of the road again. Cresting a small rise, I recognize the spot and am taken aback. Not only is there no boy with a basketball, but the trailer/shack is nothing but charred black bits pointing up at a roofless sky, in the middle of all those piles of junk.

And the basketball hoop is still there, on top of its pole along the edge of the road.

The annual pilgrimage, 2007

I've let two weeks go by before making time to write about this year's annual pilgimage out to western Md. Life is freaking busy these days.

So, anyway, the pilgrimage. I first vacationed in western Md roughly ten years ago. I had moved into my grandmother's basement apartment as a 6-year relationship was in the process of crumbling (he wanted kids, I didn't), only to find that Grandma had just been diagnosed with cancer. So, at some point during that chaotic period, I picked up a brochure advertising "The Mountain Side of Maryland". Sounded damned good to me, so I booked a room at the Cumberland Holiday Inn and mapped a route of back roads through Va and WV up into Md. I've been in love with that area ever since and have spread my exploration over into Garrett County and up into Fayette County, Pa. Cumberland remains "home base", and I head in a different direction each day for exploration and adventure via car, bike and foot.

With so many great options, I usually cross my fingers for good weather and go for 4-5 days. This year's been another chaotic one, though, and I was only able to arrange a 3-day pilgrimage. Ma Nature blessed me with good weather, though, so while short, it was definitely sweet.

Thursday's adventure was a ride along the C&O Canal towpath from Little Orleans to the Paw Paw Tunnel. I've been riding the towpath in sections for the last several years, and there was one little stretch between these two locations that had been eluding me. I'd been needing to do this ride to finally link everything up and be able to say I've ridden the entire length from Great Falls to Cumberland (I have no interest in riding the section between D.C. and Great Falls, I'd rather head away from the city). This is a beautiful, solitary section, and the half-mile long, pitch-black tunnel is a real highlight.

Heading into the tunnel at the downstream end:


Within the tunnel (taken with flash):


Coming back out, heading downstream:


Further downstream:


And even further downstream:


Headed from there into Cumberland, checked into the hotel, then up to LaVale for dinner at the Texas Grillhouse. The place is a cowboy-themed chain and I wouldn't bother to mention it except that they consistently have the absolute best snowcrab legs I've ever eaten. Full of dense, sweet meat, and perfectly cooked so that you're able to pull out nice big chunks of meat to dip in the melted butter. After a good long bike ride, it's a decadently luxurious meal (yet somewhat healthy when combined with a baked sweet potato and applesauce) and I truly look forward to it each year.

The second day's ride was along the last completed stretch of the Great Allegheny Passage trail from Cumberland to Frostburg. I've ridden this trail west of Frostburg (my blog of that ride) and up in Fayette County, Pa, but this last 15 or so miles was just completed over the winter of 2006. It turned out to be a steeper grade than I expected, though, (I'd estimate 2-3%, more in some spots) and I ended up pooping out and turning around just 3 miles from Frostburg. Took me 2 hours and a whole lot of breaks to pedal 12 miles uphill, but only a bit over a half-hour to head back down.

In the mountains, along the tracks:


My trusty steed:


The evening consisted of a wander around Cumberland at dusk, then ordering room service and watching Spiderman III on pay-per-view.

Historic downtown Cumberland at dusk:


After cycling two days in a row, I weenied out of a third and headed back east a ways to Berkely Springs, WV. For the past several years, my Cumberland trips have begun with a massage at The Bath House (These pilgrimages may be solitary, but they are most definitely not ascetic). This year, though, all the time and money spent with the chiropractor made me feel I couldn't justify this particular luxury at this time. When my thighs turned to lead on the uphill to Frostburg, though, I changed my mind and decided to have myself kneaded into a lump of blissed-out clay after all.

After that, another indulgence-- Warm Brie, apple and almond salad at Tari's Cafe. And after that, I chose to partake in a bit of my favorite drug: Adrenaline, induced by high speed on smooth pavement. Instead of driving the highway back to Cumberland, I turned off to take a run up and down mountainous rural route 9 through WV. My trusty little Honda Civic flowed through the repeated 'S' curves like water, while Incubus cranked through the stereo. Brandon Boyd's no Chris Cornell (Edit 11/11/07: I've since changed that opinion), but he's got a sweet, fresh set of pipes nonetheless. A few choruses of "Nice to Know You", along with a couple of high-speed passes of slower pick-up trucks, and I was quite high.



After coming down, I spent the rest of the afternoon reading Rudyard Kipling at a table in front of the Mountain City Coffehouse in Frostburg (with Jasmine tea and Belgian waffle with chocolate chips for dinner). When I first began these trips, it was the Tombstone Cafe, a funky little coffee joint geared towards the local college kids. The tiny little building, next door to St. Michael's church, originally housed the town's headstone carver. It's been through a few incarnations over the last decade, ending up as Mountain City, which seems to cater less to the funky college crowd and more to their yuppie parents.





Funny how the definition of "Yuppie" has expanded, at least in my mind. Originally coined to describe "Young Urban Professionals", it now encompasses, for me at least, a decidedly vaster age and geographic range. I find myself appying the term to 40- & 50-somethings piloting mini-vans and Hummers through the suburbs. What acronym would be more accurate? M.A.S.T.-ies (Middle-Aged Surburban Twits)? And how about the SUV-driving, born-again hippies who guzzle gas on their way to Whole Foods? That bunch makes me feel almost affectionate towards the born'n'bred country locals rumbling around in their pickup trucks. They seem somehow less hypocritical and disingenuous.

And yet, where do I get off judging the people around me in this way? Me, who dodges group identification as if it were a plague and fastidiously avoids labeling myself in any way, how can I so easily classify individuals about whom I know nothing but what I imagine I see in a quick glimpse? Like Camus' "judge-penitent", I'm cynical enough to exercise hypocrisy with impunity (and tongue firmly in cheek).

"[My words] have the purpose of...avoiding judgement personally, though there is apparently no escape. Is not the great thing that stands in the way of escaping it the fact that we are the first to condemn ourselves? Therefore it is essential to begin by extending the condemnation to all, without distinction..." (Albert Camus, The Fall)

To shake off the bitter direction my thoughts were taking, I headed out for an evening drive before my last night in Cumberland. In addition to being a great high, driving's also a meditative and relaxing activity for me. I often think that if I could just keep driving, all the need for judgement and condemnation would just fall away somewhere around the next bend...





"Nice to Know You"

Better than watching Gellar bending silver spoons
Better than witnessing newborn nebulaes in bloom
She who sees from up high smiles and surely sings
Perspective pries your once weighty eyes
And it gives you wings

I haven't felt the way I feel today in so long
It's hard for me to specify
I'm beginning to notice
How much this feels like a waking limb
Pins and needles, nice to know you

Goodbye, nice to know you

Deeper than the deepest Cousteau would ever go
And higher than the heights of what we often think we know
Blessed she who clearly sees the wood for the trees
To obtain a birds eye is to turn a blizzard to a breeze

I haven't felt the way I feel today in so long
It's hard for me to specify
I'm beginning to notice
How much this feels like a waking limb
Pins and needles, nice to know you

Goodbye, nice to know you

So could it be that it has been there all along?

Route 50 Road Trip: Day 1, West Va

I left home approximately 9 am-ish and headed west to Rte 15 South in order to hook up with Rte 50 West down around Middleburg, VA. I've been familiar with Rte 50 through MD and VA for most of my life, so as far as I'm concerned this trip begins when I hit less familiar territory, namely WV. Today's a cool, clear day, with a blue sky and scattered puffy clouds. Started out the trip by getting snagged in a radar trap just before Winchester, VA. 74 in a 55. I had actually been doing 76, but I told the cop that the car was a rental and I wasn't yet used to how it felt. He lowered the charge to 74 mph so it wouldn't be considered reckless (Reckless? Me??) and told me that I was the sixth rented Mustang he'd pulled over that weekend.

I have to note that I'm not sure the manager at Hertz realized what he was doing in giving me a car with only 1397 miles on it. It's going to be well broken in by the time I reach San Francisco.

Romney, WV. My parents have property in Romney that I've only visited once. Shame I haven't gotten out there more, I noticed a handful of reasons to go back: Indian Mound Cemetery, just west of town, looks to have some serious photo opportunities; South Branch River (south branch of the Shenandoah?) looks very paddle-able and I think I've seen mention of it at the Monocacy Canoe Club message board; Civil War history that I've read about and should check out the sites of.

Through VA, WV, the little bottom tip of MD that cuts down into WV, and into WV again, the road has been lined with blooming redbud trees. Once the road hits the Mononghehela area, though, the redbuds give way to hemlocks.

Stopped for a hike through Cathedral State Park. Very pretty, very tiny park of hemlock, rhodedendrons and moss. (Post-trip note: The hemlocks here are like baby cousins to what's to come at the end of the trip.)





Coming down from Cheat Mountain felt very much like driving around Savage Mountain, in Garrett County, MD, but more so. Deeper ravines and higher mountains than around Savage, and I kept wishing there was a spot to pull over and snag a photo. At the bottom, running parallel to the Cheat River, I kept crossing over into the oncoming traffic lane as I craned my neck to check out the river conditions (there were no other cars coming). This is not too far from home to come back and do some kayaking.

Observation: WV apparently does not believe in maintaining a yellow dividing line on curvy mountain roads. Tons of fun (not) when a car's coming towards you.

Today I wore out the phrase, "Ooh, how cool!"



West of Grafton, WV: Stopped on the side of the road to take photos of a cool old house and a portion of Pruntytown State Farm WMA.

The road through the mountains kept causing me to stomp on the brakes to be able to check out the view. From Clarksburg to Parkersburg, 50 widened to four lanes. A smooth 80-85 mph through beautiful mountains reminiscent of Allegheny County, MD, only more so. The town of Bridgeport seemed like Cumberland, MD, crossed with north Baltimore. The views from Grafton through Parkersburg have been so pretty and "Ooh, aah", I have to remind myself that the trip's only just begun.

Checked into a Holiday Inn on the edge of Parkersburg around 8:30 pm.