A Mountain Adventure

This morning, our 4 yr. old son insisted that we are going to the mountains and began packing the car with essentials such as golden books, rubber balls, a cooler with freshly picked oregano and a picnic blanket . He has previously insisted that we were going to run a hotdog stand or go to the beach, which I had to convince him was not happening - but since we live in West Virginia, I thought this wish wouldn't be too hard to gratify. A little Google-mapping found us North Mountain - 20 minutes away, but we had never gone there before, so we hopped in the car and headed for I-81 North. On the way up, I returned a call from my neighbor who wanted to give me some hosta bulbs she was dividing and told her where we were going. "I was born on that mountain" she said. Knowing her childhood history of mountain pentecostalism and its accompanying strangeness added a touch of eeriness to the adventure.

We drove west through the quaint little overgrown town in the valley, then through farms with grassy fields running into the deep leafy green forest of the mountain side - then up, up to the junction at the top and then with several back tracks to the junction, took all the different routes in turn.
The recent rains had made the forest undergrowth very lush - mounds of fine bright grasses like tiny bamboo swelled in sunnier spots, roadside weeds loomed with massive spreading leaves and bird songs echoed in the heavy moist air. Houses accessed by highly uncomfortable driveways were dotted along many of the roads - I wondered what stories they all held. I wondered even more when into our last junction route, we turned up a small winding road on the lower mountain side and I saw the small and decrepit properties that made one think of 'mountain people' and the sorrow, poverty and drug abuse that likely characterized many of these dwellings. This was in stark contrast to a place we had seen at the top of the mountain called Broomgrass Farm - a sustainable organic farming community. A sign at the entrance warned of bees. I pulled into the drive and spoke to a resident coming out in her Mini Cooper - she lived there alternatively with her home near DC and knew almost nothing of the area, but spoke highly of their community with its gardens, spa and sustainable features. As I drove away, I thought, It sounds sort of lovely, but dreadfully inconvenient for practicing hospitality when one lives in a gated organic community on top of a mountain. Native insects and plants are important, but so are native people.

Lunch time approached as we came out of Trinity Church road, which looked like a place in dire need of the work of our Triune God and His church, and we were growing hungry. I had become a bit lost. But being lost 20 minutes from home is not alarming, and I drove on with cheerful abandon. We came upon a large hilly orchard with its own packing plant and large paved truck lot, and I pulled off hoping to ask for directions. No one was in sight - perhaps they were all at lunch - but the mown grass near the adjoining peach orchard provided a lovely view of the foothills leading up to the mountain top, and I made bold to put down the picnic blanket which Walter had so thoughtfully packed and get out our lunch. We were near enough the road that I did not feel too intrusive. The peach orchard sloped downward below us, beyond them was a hill partly cleared and then topped with an orchard of young trees and then the dark lush North Mountain, topped with radio towers poking through the broccoli green tree tops and nestled among them, one very high and tiny looking brown house which I pointed out to the children. There is unique pleasure in seeing things very far away.

As we packed up the warm car, accompanied by sweat and sweat bees, I finally saw someone from whom to ask directions and we proceeded eastward. We had passed a farm stand earlier, which I had meant to return to, but never saw again, so when I saw signs with blackberries and arrows, I turned north and followed them. A further sign said Orr's Farm Market. That meant something delightful (to me at the moment, it meant likely restrooms). When we turned in the lane, I was thrilled to see a fenced field of American bison lolling about in the midday heat. This was more than a farmstand! The market was bustling, which seemed strange after the quiet loneliness of the mountain roads. How had I never come here when it was so close to us. Melons, apples, peaches, berries (the cart I picked up held several freshly lost blackberries which I chose to allow a certain child to consume unhindered) and barrels of candy and stacks of soap. The produce seconds racks at the back were of course the best thing - besides the restrooms, which were located in the packing plant. I wished it had been running, so the children could have watched the crates rolling along the conveyor belts, but all was still and dim and warm. The break room which I passed through was cool and white and someone had left a book about Laura Ingalls Wilder lying on the table. I came home with more peaches than I have bought in a long time, supposed seconds, which seemed in too fine of a condition to need that denigrating label, and somehow, an extra bag of green beans which had ended up in my grocery bag.

It was strange to emerge onto route 81 after that adventure and be so close to home. As I climbed the front porch and unlocked our door, I thought "That was a staycation day." We haven't had a summer vacation to speak of for awhile, but days like this provide that extra adventure that we love in road trips. And there are no pictures, because I didn't take a camera. Sometimes adventures are better that way.