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This summer, a fistful of paddle strokes and a healthy dose of rejuvenating bellyflops into a true mountain lake might just be what the doctor ordered. What’s even more therapeutic? How about a double dose of fresh mountain air, backcountry hikes and mountaintop sunsets? But be warned – prepare for the effects of mountain therapy to be immediate and most certainly habit forming.
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HIGHLAND OUTDOORS
SUMMER 2022
FROM THE EDITORS STAFF
Publisher, Editor-in-Chief Dylan Jones Senior Editor, Designer Nikki Forrester Copy Editor Amanda Larch Pretty Much Everything Else Dylan Jones, Nikki Forrester
CONTRIBUTORS
Kevin Adkins, Gabe DeWitt, Philip Duncan, James Erjavec, Nikki Forrester, Nikki Fox, Justin Harris, David Johnston, Dylan Jones, Tyler Keay, Garrick Kwan, Amanda Larch, Ryan Maurer, Kyle Mills, Cam Moore, Greg Moore, Molly Wolff, Jay Young
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SUBMISSIONS
Please send pitches and photos to dylan@highland-outdoors.com
EDITORIAL POLICY
Our editorial content is not influenced by advertisers.
SUSTAINABILITY
Highland Outdoors is printed on ecofriendy paper and is a carbon-neutral business certifed by Aclymate. Please consider passing this issue along or recycling it when you’re done.
DISCLAIMER
Outdoor activities are inherently risky. Highland Outdoors will not be held responsible for your decision to play outdoors.
COVER
Nick McGettigan gettin’ in the meat of Big Splat on the Lower Big Sandy Creek in Preston County, WV. Photo by Justin Harris. Copyright © 2022 by Highland Outdoors. All rights reserved.
6
HIGHLAND OUTDOORS
SUMMER 2022
Dylan Jones
Here at Highland Outdoors, we believe in dropping everything and getting out when the rivers are running. So, instead of staying home and being responsible when we had scheduled time to write the letter from the editors, we blew off work to go for an overnight float on the Smokehole Canyon. At Highland Outdoors, we also believe in doing mental gymnastics to justify intentionally engaging in such spontaneous derelictions of duty. Take a moment and consider the following: you can’t control the weather, but you can control when you work. Plus, you can work when you’re dead. Furthermore, water is life, and, as such, you should float on it and embrace your commune with dihydrogen monoxide, the most quintessential of all chemical bonds. See? Makes sense now, doesn’t it? The aforementioned thought experiments have been presented to you to further justify why we don’t have a letter from the editors for you this issue. You might be thinking, “Well, I’m currently reading a letter from the editors right now.” While you are correct in your assessment that you are, in fact, reading, this word salad is but a last-minute substitute for our standard course of action: a premeditated letter where we typically espouse our love for West Virginia or explain new goings-on with the magazine. Welp, that’s all, folks. Perhaps this sorry excuse for top-notch work will encourage you to drum up an excuse to blow off work and do the same. Plus, as the top-tier graphic designers say, more white space is better. Cheers, mate! w Dylan Jones & Nikki Forrester Paddlers-in-Chief
CONTENTS
Dave Smallwood admires formations in the American Spirit Room during a survey trip in the Great Savannah Cave System, pg. 28
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12
16
22
THE LAKE BEFORE TIME
HIGHLAND OUTDOORS PHOTO CONTEST
WILDERNESS STEWARDSHIP AT DOLLY SODS
A MOMENT IN TIME
By Dylan Jones
By Justin Harris
Nikki Fox
By David Johnston
28
36
40
15 LEAGUES UNDER WV
LEARNING THE ROPES
RIDERS ON THE STORM
The Race for WV’s Longest Cave System
Lessons From a Life of Climbing
Meeks Mountain Trails Uplift Hurricane
By Kyle Mills
By Nikki Forrester
By Amanda Larch
EVERY ISSUE 8
BRIEFS
44
PROFILE
47
GALLERY
highland-outdoors.com
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BRIEFS
TURKEY HUNTER FINDS ULTIMATE GROUND SCORE By Nikki Forrester
The duo had a lead on a hen and gobbler, but the birds trailed off, sending Adkins and his father-in-law further down the hollow. As they walked down the creek channel, they noticed massive amounts of debris piled up along the creek, remnants of a flash flood that ripped through the area two days before. Adkins noticed an object that looked like a giant root ball among the creek gravel. “It still had a bunch of mud and everything on it—and then I realized it had teeth,” he says. Adkins, who started turkey hunting in high school, is used to finding skulls in the woods. Upon picking up the 16-inch long, toothed skull, he discovered that it weighed about 30 pounds. He peeled off some of the mud, but still couldn’t tell which animal the skull belonged to. With piqued curiosity, he set the skull aside so he could retrieve it after wrapping up his trip. “I was just thinking about it the whole time because I’ve seen a bunch of different types of skulls, but there was something different about it,” he says. When Adkins returned to the skull, he washed it in the creek, thinking it was from a pig, cow, or even a prehistoric animal. “I realized how stuck some of the clay was in the skull. It even had gravel embedded in the roof of the mouth. As I cleaned off the top of the nose area, I could see something that looked like hair that was matted down, but it almost looked fossilized.” Adkins told his father-in-law he thought the skull was older than anything he had found before and decided to take it home. As Adkins hiked out of the woods with the skull in his turkey vest, he started searching the internet for images of cow, horse, and pig skulls—none of them matched. He expanded his search to a bison, young mammoth, and even a walrus, since the 8
HIGHLAND OUTDOORS
skull appeared to have tusk holes. When Adkins and his father-in-law returned home, they enlisted help from family members and posted a photo of the skull on social media with hopes of confirming an identification. By Sunday evening, they had eliminated all modern-day species as well as recently extinct animals. Then his dad mentioned the giant ground sloth, which Adkins previously ruled out due to differences in the number of teeth and shape of the cheek bones. “I started looking into it a bit deeper, seeing skulls very similar to the one I had,” says Adkins. But minor differences prevented him from confirming an identification. On Monday morning, Adkins’s wife recommended he call the West Virginia Geological Survey. Over the phone, Adkins explained he wanted to contact someone who could verify what he believed was a giant ground sloth skull. He was connected to a doctor at the geological survey who reached out to Gregory McDonald, a ground sloth expert based in Colorado. After seeing Adkins’s photos, McDonald confirmed that the skull was from the Jefferson’s ground sloth, Megalonyx jeffersonii. The Jefferson’s ground sloth, which was native to North America, lived from about 5 million to 11,000 years ago during the Pliocene and Pleistocene epochs. These sloths grew 8–10 feet in length and weighed 2,200–2,400 pounds, subsisting on leaves, twigs, and possibly nuts in forests and woodlands. This species had the broadest range of all the North American ground sloths, spanning habitats across the United States, northwestern Canada, and Mexico, until it went extinct toward the end of the Pleistocene epoch. Megalonyx jeffersonii was named after Thomas Jefferson, who investigated fossil bones from a ground sloth recovered in the 1790s from a cave in what is now Monroe County, WV. He named the animal “Mega-
SUMMER 2022
lonyx,” which means “giant claw,” before he realized it was a sloth and not a giant cat. Jefferson presented his research on Megalonyx to the American Philosophical Society in 1797, spawning the field of vertebrate paleontology in North America. More than two centuries later, Megalonyx jeffersonnii was designated the state fossil of West Virginia. Since making his discovery, Adkins has been working with researchers to uncover more about these ancient mammals. He plans on searching for additional fossil bones so scientists can perform carbon dating and extract DNA without compromising the extremely well-preserved skull. According to Adkins, someone from the Carnegie Museum of Natural History in Pittsburgh told him the condition of the skull rivals anything the museum currently has for the ground sloth. Adkins also plans to collect soil samples that can be analyzed to learn more about the environment. “The geography of our area has always fascinated me because of the Teays River and the lakes that were here before the last ice age,” says Adkins. “Hopefully when we get the age of the skull, we’ll be able to place the sloth into that timeline. It makes me a little giddy to be honest with you.” w To stay up to date on this sloth’s epic journey, check out Adkins’s public Facebook page here: shorturl.at/kKQX2
Courtesy Kevin Adkins
On Mother’s Day 2022, Kevin Adkins brought home a truly remarkable gift. Adkins, a resident of Red House in Putnam County, stumbled upon an ancient relic while turkey hunting with his father-in-law on a cool, clear morning.
WV CONSERVATION PROGRAM CELEBRATES 20 YEARS OF SERVICE By HO Staff The Stewards Individual Placements Program (SIP), a national conservation program based in West Virginia, is celebrating 20 years of supporting AmeriCorps Volunteers in Service to America (VISTA) volunteers in environmental and economic revitalization projects across the country. SIP was formed in 2002 to place VISTA volunteers throughout rural West Virginia to aid in community development and remediation of environmental damage wrought from pre-regulatory coal mining practices.
East of the Mississippi
By Cam Moore
“We want to continue the momentum that we’ve built,” said SIP corps director April Elkins Badtke. “Now that we’re a national program, we want to continue to work with rural communities across the country to help them identify the resources they need to thrive.” w
Summer has finally clothed the Mountain State in a blanket of rich greenery. That means it’s time for sun, heat, and the annual drying out of our muddy mountain bike trails (let it be known that we have the best mud east of the Mississippi). Speaking of dryness, it’s time to pay homage to the driest place in West Virginia, which is also one of the driest places east of the Mississippi! You guessed it: the sunshine-soaked streets of the greater Upper Tract metropolis (population 621). Upper Tract is pretty darn dry by eastern standards, receiving about the same amount of annual rainfall as Santa Cruz, California, some 2,700 miles to the west. Even more impressive, during several years of the Dust Bowl in the 1930s, Upper Tract received less than 10 inches per year of lifegiving rain—that’s as dry as the cactus-studded Sonoran Desert in Arizona. And just like the desert, Upper Tract is home to juniper trees and prickly pear cacti. So, what is the bizarre Appalachian phenomenon that helps explain this meteorological oddity? Well, as with most things in the Mountain State, it’s the mountains! Upper Tract sits just east in the “rain shadow” of both the hulking plateau of Spruce Knob on the Allegheny Front and the knife-edge ridgeline of North Fork Mountain. As weather systems travel across the country, they slam into these cloud-stopping walls that rise from the lowlands, proverbially shouting “YOU SHALL NOT PASS!” a la Gandalf, the best fictional wizard east of the Mississippi. As the storms stall out atop the Allegheny Front, they dump all their moisture in the form of precipitation, leaving Upper Tract parched and sunny on the other side. So, next time you wake up in your waterlogged tent on a misty mountaintop and start combing the moss out of your beard, remember, there is a sunny, dry, cacti-hosting valley a short drive away. w
If you’re a mover and a shaker, SIP wants to help you help others! To learn more about SIP, or to get involved as a community organizer or a volunteer, visit www.stewardslegacy.org.
Cam Moore is a resident of Canaan Valley, the highest large valley east of the Mississippi, and a lover of all things West Virginia.
SIP, which started in Charleston and now operates from Beckley, was originally supported via a partnership with Friends of the Blackwater, a watershed advocacy organization based in Tucker County. In 2015, SIP became part of Conservation Legacy, a national organization that supports locally based conservation initiatives. In addition to its 20th year, SIP is also celebrating its status as the longest-running VISTA program in the country. Since 2002, SIP has placed 1,200 VISTA volunteers across America that have completed a total of 2,496,000 hours of service. SIP staff have coordinated over 100,000 volunteers who have monitored water quality in over 46,000 waterways, restored over 3.1 million acres of degraded land, and planted more than 107,000 trees. Here in the Mountain State, some of SIP’s project highlights include helping the Rural Appalachian Improvement League establish a community center in Mullens following the devastating 2001 flood. SIP also provided VISTA volunteers to Friends of the Cheat, a watershed advocacy organization based in Preston County, to help teach residents how to monitor water quality throughout the Cheat River watershed. In 2020, during the height of the COVID-19 pandemic, SIP was contracted by the state of Colorado to develop the nation’s first contact tracing program. The program was managed out of SIP’s office in Beckley and resulted in the placement of 150 VISTA volunteer contact tracers across America.
highland-outdoors.com
9
THE LAKE BEFORE TIME By Dylan Jones
W
est Virginia has only one natural lake: Trout Pond, a two-acre body of water near Wardensville in Hardy County. But did you know that the western portion of West Virginia was once covered by a massive proglacial lake that extended far into Ohio? If you did, impressive! You’re part of a very small fluvial minority. If you didn’t, you’d best fasten your geologic seatbelt, because it’s time for some good ol’ fashioned lake-splaining.
scapes we adore today. Some 750,000 to 1 million years ago, the Earth-pulverizing ebb and flow of these glaciers—some up to three miles thick—resulted in the damming of the region’s ancestral rivers and the subsequent creation of Lake Tight. This sprawling body of water, named for geologist William G. Tight, covered an estimated 10,000 square miles in western West Virginia, southeastern Ohio, and northwestern Kentucky (see Figure 1).
About 2 million years ago, the Quaternary glaciations of the Pleistocene epoch began an icy cycle of advancement and retreat that undoubtedly played a massive role in shaping the Appalachian land-
Prior to the Pleistocene era, most rivers in the northeastern United States did not follow the familiar watercourses we know today. The Teays River, the ancestral river that became the modern New and
Kanawha rivers, flowed northward from its headwaters in North Carolina through Virginia, West Virginia, Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois before joining the ancestral Mississippi River system. According to Dr. Steven Kite, emeritus professor of geology and geography at West Virginia University, neither the Ohio River nor the Great Lakes existed during this time. “There were huge changes in all these drainages when half the continent was covered with ice,” says Kite. “One by one, these watersheds were deflected and rerouted south around the natural ice dam of the glaciers.” As the Pleistocene glaciers advanced through Ohio, their relentless grinding pushed sediments further south with each new glaciation. These sediment deposits piled up in the region’s mountainous valleys, some reaching 400 feet in depth. While these glaciers never actually reached into present-day West Virginia, their presence heavily influenced the hydrology of the Mountain State.
Figure 1—A GIS model showing Lake Tight in blue. Islands that would have existed above the lake’s estimated water level are shown in brown, and yellow areas denote exposures of paleomagnetically reversed sediments. The red line shows the Teays River’s path prior to glacial damming. The green line shows the limit of glaciation, marking the southernmost glacial advancement and where the natural impoundment of the Teays River occurred. Image reprinted from “A New Map of Pleistocene Proglacial Lake Tight Based on GIS Modeling and Analysis,” by James Erjavec, 2018, Ohio Journal of Science, Vol. 118, pg. 61.
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When the icy curtain of the glaciers finally reached the Teays Valley in Ohio, the river hit a literal wall and began back-filling its mainstem as well as its numerous tributaries well into western West Virginia. Unlike the narrow, glacially carved Finger Lakes in New York State, Lake Tight resembled the meandering, dendritic reaches of Summersville Lake, which was formed when the
Gauley River was dammed in 1966. In 2018, James Erjavec, geologist and GIS analyst, created a map of Lake Tight, estimating it to have a volume of 268 cubic miles—nearly 2.3 times the volume of Lake Erie—and an average depth of 140 feet, with some pockets nearing 300 feet in depth. Geologists still debate whether the natural dam that blocked the Teays was a sheer wall of ice or a wall of sediment from the outwash of meltwater coming off the glacier. Dr. Kite, however, thinks it was likely a combination of the two. “I can’t prove this, but I think both situations were right at different times,” he says. “Early on, it might have been the sediments coming off the glacier that caused the valleys to fill up and block the drainage, but as the glacier kept advancing, the ice itself could have become the dam.”
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Perhaps most fascinating is the discovery of paleomagnetically reversed sediments in areas once covered by Lake Tight. These magnetized particles have been dated to a period from 790,000 to 880,000 years ago, when Earth’s magnetic poles were reversed. “As these unconsolidated sediments settled out of the water column, the magnetic particles aligned with the Earth’s magnetic field at that time,” says Kite. “Some of those particles retained that core magnetic orientation, which shows that they were deposited when the North Magnetic Pole was in the south.” The glacial damming of the Teays River effectively ended its reign as one of the major river systems on the North American continent. But, as Kite explained, the truly dramatic hydrological changes that shaped our modern rivers began when the last ice age ended. “What people overlook is the period after Lake Tight, which is when it really starts to get exciting,” he says. “Not only is the water getting rid of that sediment, but it’s also cutting down the bedrock even further. We owe a lot more of our topography to what went on after Lake Tight than from the lake itself.” The rerouting of the region’s major river systems cut fresh channels, forming new river canyons in Appalachia’s unstable terrain. Although consolidated sediments aren’t anywhere near as hard as bedrock, water has but one destiny: take the path of least resistance. “It was easier for these rivers to cut through the bedrock than to flow over top of the sediment,” says Kite. “Around Teays Depot, there’s 180 feet of sediment that blocked the Teays River, so what we now know as the Kanawha River ended up taking the route that we see today.” The next time you find yourself in western West Virginia, take a look at the seemingly countless hills and hollows that extend as far as the eye can see. Stop for a minute and picture a sea of ice in the distance. Then imagine a colony of giant ground sloths browsing among the shores of those hollows, flooded with deep, blue water from the lake before time. w Dylan Jones is publisher of Highland Outdoors and is a selfdescribed geology nerd. He tries his best not to lake-splain in a condescending way when sharing his stoke for West Virginia’s fascinating geologic history. highland-outdoors.com 11
THE INAUGURAL
PHOTO CONTEST I am thrilled to officially announce our first print magazine photo contest! This is the fruition of a dream I’ve had since taking over the magazine in 2018. West Virginia is home to a bustling community of talented photographers at all skill levels. Highland Outdoors is an inclusive and supportive community effort, and we encourage anyone who’s willing to put themselves out there to send in their shots. If you don’t own a top-tier DSLR rig with fancy glass, no worries. Smartphone cameras are pretty advanced these days, and we’ve published plenty of cell-phone photos in the mag throughout the years. As they say, the best camera is the one you’ve got on you. If you think you’ve got a special shot, it’s got a shot at winning. We’ll publish the winning images in our winter 2022 issue. If you’re interested in submitting, please carefully read the contest rules. I can’t wait to see what you send our way. Thanks in advance to our judges, and to everyone who submits their photos. Without further ado, let’s get into the nitty gritty details! -Dylan Jones, Publisher
CONTEST RULES We know rules aren’t fun, but we live in a society, and we need rules to keep things on track. If you’re planning to submit a photo, please read this section carefully.
We will not accept any photos showing illegal activities. If we have reason to question the legality of anything depicted in your image, we reserve the right to disqualify it.
We’re West Virginia’s Outdoor Magazine, and our lovely state is worthy of its own photo contest. As such, submissions must be from locations in West Virginia. Any photos found to be from out-of-state locations will be disqualified.
Please do not send photo illustrations or images depicting altered reality. This includes abstract images or clearly altered (Photoshopped) images. Panoramas and composite images are OK so long as they do not clearly misrepresent reality. Any image deemed to be a photo illustration will be disqualified.
Do not submit an image with a watermark, signature, or logo. This helps maintain anonymity during the judging process. Any photographer who submits an image with a watermark will be asked to remove it and resubmit. If that cannot be accomplished, the image will be disqualified. We will not accept any photos showing abuse, misuse, or degradation of wild animals, plants, or landscape features. 12 HIGHLAND OUTDOORS
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If your photo contains a recognizable person or minor under the age of 18, the recognizable person or the minor’s parent/legal guardian must sign a photo release form. If we decide a release form is needed, we will contact you following your submission. This is easy to do and shouldn’t deter you from submitting your photograph.
CATEGORIES
LANDSCAPE
WILDLIFE
ADVENTURE
Send us your most fantastical photos showing off West Virginia’s beauty. There are only two rules here: locations must be in WV, and there can’t be any people in your images (animals are OK, but photos with a wild animal as the primary subject should be submitted under the wildlife category). Buildings are acceptable if they showcase historic and/or cultural elements or if they are part of the landscape.
The wildlife category is for, you guessed it, photos of our amazing flora and fauna. Plants, bugs, bears—it doesn’t matter. If it’s wild and it’s living, it’s fair game for your submission! A few rules here: keep it wild! We will not accept photos of domesticated animals, captive wild animals, or wild animals feeding at manmade food sources. And just like the landscape category, no humans!
So, what about us crazy hominids that like to do radical activities in the great outdoors? Cue the adventure category! This is for any photo that shows human-powered adventure in the mountains (no motorized recreation, please). Whether it’s a high-speed capture of a skier, a photo of an angler casting in a mountain stream, or a snap of adventurous souls being dwarfed by our big landscapes, we want to see it!
PRIZES! There will be eight winning photographs. All eight photographs will be published in our Winter 2022 issue. The overall winner will receive: $300, a one-year subscription, a shirt, a hat, and a sticker pack. The overall runner-up will receive: $200, a one-year subscription, a shirt, a hat, and a sticker pack. Each category winner will receive: $100, a one-year subscription, a shirt, and a sticker pack. Each category runner-up will receive: $50, a one-year subscription, a hat, and a sticker pack.
Left to right: David Johnston, Dylan Jones, Molly Wolff
SUBMISSION GUIDELINES » All submissions must be received by August 15, 2022. » Submit all entries directly via email to dylan@highland-outdoors.com with Highland Outdoors 2022 Photo Contest Submission in the subject line. » You may submit one photo per category for a total of three photos per entrant. Do not submit multiple photos for a single category. » Maximum file size: 4 megabytes (MB). » To ensure that photos are judged fairly, please size your photo(s) for viewing on a screen. Please submit vertical images close to but no larger than 2,400 pixels (PX) on the vertical side. Please submit horizontal images close to but no larger than 2,400 PX on the horizontal side. If a panorama or other oddly sized image is chosen, we will work with you to size it properly for print. We recommend that you apply sharpening settings for viewing on a screen. The DPI/ PPI doesn’t matter if you size your photo properly. Please don’t submit a high-resolution file. If your image is selected, we will ask you to send a high-resolution file with specific parameters. » We prefer photos to be submitted in the sRBG colorspace. If that’s over your head, or you’re unsure how to change the colorspace of your photograph, no worries.
Photographer’s Rights and Use of Images by Highland Outdoors The photographer will retain all rights to their submitted photo(s), regardless of selection for publication. If submitted photo(s) are selected for publication, the photographer agrees to grant Highland Outdoors permission to publish the photo(s) in its winter 2022 print publication as well as the digital version of the article that will appear on www.highland-outdoors.com. Highland Outdoors may use any winning photograph(s) for use in materials promoting our Winter 2022 issue. Basically, we don’t own your photos— you do!
MEET THE JUDGES I am honored to have a fantastic panel of judges joining me to help select the winning photographs. Each judge brings a unique perspective and set of skills to the panel, and all have had many photos—including cover shots—published in the mag throughout the years.
GABE DEWITT Gabe DeWitt is an artist, engineer, and mountaineer based in Morgantown, WV. He is driven professionally and artistically by an insatiable inquisitiveness. He believes everything in our observable universe can be boiled down to one simple question: Why? From the curiosity of a child to the most focused minds on the planet, this is the fundamental question Gabe asks to guide his work. He’s a consummate adventurer who channels his love for free-diving in his innovative underwater photography. He’s shot on assignment in Alaska, Patagonia, and Japan, and has been published in National Geographic, Nature Conservancy magazine, Kayak Session magazine, Rock & Ice magazine, and, most importantly, Highland Outdoors magazine.
DAVID JOHNSTON David Johnston has enjoyed the privilege of photographing the great outdoors all over the country. When he retired, he headed straight for the West Virginia highlands. Now a resident of Dryfork, WV, he specializes in landscape photography with a focus on panoramas, astrophotography, and botanical macros. He is a juried artist with Tamarack Marketplace and has exhibited at Tamarack: The Best of West Virginia, the West Virginia Culture Center, the annual Cortland Acres Photography Exhibit, and the North American Nature Photography Association’s annual showcase. He serves as a liaison for the Cortland Acres Exhibit and is the coordinator for the Dolly Sods Wilderness Stewards, which is dedicated to preserving Dolly Sods and other West Virginia wilderness areas.
DYLAN JONES Dylan Jones is publisher and editor-in-chief of Highland Outdoors and lives in Canaan Valley with his wife Nikki. He discovered his love of photography while creating over-edited images with an iPhone in the Tetons back in 2013. He’s been fortunate to spend nearly a decade working with the wonderful community of talented photographers that call West Virginia home. He enjoys shooting landscapes, adventure sports, and cats. He’s had his images published in the National Geographic Explorer’s Journal, Wonderful West Virginia magazine, Harvest Hollow magazine, West Virginia ArtWorks magazine, and, of course, Highland Outdoors. He’s been proud to exhibit several images in the annual Cortland Acres Photography Exhibit.
Molly Wolff is an adventurer, artist, and proud momma of two wild kiddos in Fayetteville, WV. Her images have been published in WV Tourism, Tamarack: The Best of West Virginia, Highland Outdoors magazine (woohoo!), Blue Ridge Outdoors magazine, and many more. She was named the Blue Ridge Outdoors 2019 Photographer of the Year and was selected as a WV Wonder Woman in 2021. She advocates for inclusivity in the outdoor world and is a voice for people living with chronic illness, including herself. Adventure sports are her favorite photo subject, along with moody landscapes, nature macros, and her kids’ endless shenanigans. She believes photography is a fantastic avenue by which to zone out the chatter and zoom in on the things we love.
All photos courtesy of the judges
MOLLY WOLFF
#TakeInTucker
SCAVENGER HUNT Hit the open road this summer and explore all the cool sites and natural beauty across Tucker County with the #TakeInTucker Challenge! Stop by the Tucker County CVB and grab a passport to get started. Visit all five stops along the scenic driving loop, placing stickers for each location on your passport, and be entered to win a $250 gift card.
Scan here for more information.
highland-outdoors.com 15
WILDERNESS STEWARDSHIP AT DOLLY SODS LEVERAGING THE AUTHORITY OF THE RESOURCE Words and photos by David Johnston
O
n October 3, 2020, a massive traffic jam occurred. While there’s nothing unusual about a traffic jam, this particular jam was extraordinary because it occurred on a single-lane forest road on a Saturday afternoon in West Virginia. Forest Road 75, typically an empty, potholed gravel path, runs adjacent to the Dolly Sods Wilderness and Bear Rocks Preserve in one of the more remote and wild areas of the Mountain State. Law enforcement was called in to close access to new traffic while they worked for several hours to untangle the gridlock at the top of the mountain. Hundreds of visitors who planned to escape the pandemic lockdown and enjoy a scenic excursion instead found themselves stuck in traffic, likely worse than they experience at home. This was the crux of a trend that has been steadily building over many years, even before the pandemic, and which continues today. Dolly Sods, designated by Congress as a federal wilderness area in 1974, has long been considered one of the crown jewels of eastern wilderness areas. The purpose of designated wilderness, as described in the Wilderness Act of 1964, is to provide a refuge for people to experience untamed wildness, away from the trappings of modern civilization. The values of wilderness include absence of permanent evidence of human occupation, where natural processes are allowed to play out free of human control, an opportunity for solitude and primitive recreation, and protection of significant educational, scientific, or historical resources.
highland-outdoors.com 17
“The essential characteristic of wilderness lies in its wildness, and there is no question that this is challenged by the influx of visitors.”
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As word of “the Sods” spread, accelerated in recent years by social media and enabled by improved road access from eastern metropolises, visitation levels have grown exponentially. Even well-intentioned and savvy visitors make an impact, and not all of the new visitors have an understanding of how to recreate in a sustainable manner while preserving wilderness values. The result has been increasingly visible degradation of the wilderness character of Dolly Sods. This ranges from physical depredations such as felled or defaced trees and “camp furniture” made of excavated rock slabs to fields of “toilet paper flowers” and, sometimes, actual ground turds. Further, increased visitation results in subtle changes, such as a decreased opportunity for solitude and the intrusion of viewsheds and natural soundscapes by drones and other low-flying aircraft. But not all is lost—Dolly Sods is still a wonderful scenic area, and though solitude may have decreased in the busiest areas, the opportunity to find it is not completely compromised. Located atop the mighty Allegheny Front on the highest plateau east of the Mississippi River, the Sods encompasses the Red Creek watershed, characterized by scenic vistas, hardwood and coniferous forests, heathlands of blueberry, and other hardy vegetation communities. Flagged spruce trees testify to the incessant winds and bitter weather conditions. Red Creek, stained deep red from natural tannins, and its tributaries begin in fascinating sphagnum bogs and beaver dams, creating waterfalls, cascades, and dramatic views of those natural features from ledges and cliffs of the canyon walls above.
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Canaan Valley, WV ⁞ Blackwater Falls ⁞ Timberline Mtn
Apart from its spectacular natural history, Dolly Sods also has a unique sociocultural history that makes it even more special as a public resource. Along with the majority of the West Virginia highlands, the primeval spruce and hemlock forests were logged to the ground in the early 20th century. Following the clear-cutting, fires inevitably started in the remaining slash, which burned all the way through several feet of organic soil down to bare rock, leaving a barren wasteland, from which nature has created the beautiful, but still evolving, plains we see today. The area was then used and abused as an artillery practice range during World War II, and unexploded ordnances are still present and occasionally found today. While this may sound incompatible with wilderness values, Dolly Sods provides a living laboratory for experiencing and studying landscape-scale recovery through natural processes with minimal interference by humans. The essential characteristic of wilderness lies in its wildness, and there is no question that this is challenged by the influx of visitors. Wilderness was created to provide a refuge from the pervasive influence of civilization, and while people intended to visit and experience wilderness, the Wilderness Act of 1964 explicitly states that wilderness is to be an area “untrammeled [not controlled or restrained] by man, where man himself is a visitor who does not remain.” The increasPrevious, clockwise from top left: An unnecessary and permanent directional marker; an overused campsite showing illegal removal of standing timber; an egregious example of “rock furniture” featuring a large mat of living moss that was ripped from the ground and placed as upholstery.
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ingly visible evidence of human presence, coupled with overt impacts on natural features, interference with natural processes, and disturbance of the homes of creatures, threatens the essential wilderness character of Dolly Sods. Though longtime friends of Dolly Sods have been saying for years that “somebody ought to do something about this,” it came to a head in late 2020 after the overwhelming barrage of visitors fled to the wildlands during the pandemic. The West Virginia Highlands Conservancy (WVHC) has a special connection with Dolly Sods, as it played a role in its original wilderness designation and its later expansion. Members of WVHC’s Public Lands Committee realized they had a responsibility to step up and see what they could do to preserve it. Members of WVHC reached out to officials at the Monongahela National Forest (MNF) to ascertain how a group of volunteers might supplement and enhance the Forest Service’s own efforts to manage and protect the wilderness. They got an enthusiastic response from MNF leadership, which has struggled with a shortfall of personnel and other resources needed to properly manage recreation areas. Volunteers could take on labor-intensive field stewardship and free up resources for more specialized management jobs. WVHC and MNF worked out the specific elements of a volunteer stewardship program and entered into a partnership. In June 2021, the Dolly Sods Wilderness Stewards was born. The centerpiece of the plan is the Wilderness Trailhead Stewards program. Volunteers post up at popular trailheads to meet visitors coming in for a hike, and serve as a resource for information on what to expect and how to experience the wilderness in a way that’s compatible with its health and preservation. During the conversation, volunteers work in key messages based on Leave No Trace (LNT) principles that are customized for the particular challenges of Dolly Sods. This includes helping hikers be prepared for rapidly changing weather and trail conditions, navigation tactics, and considerations for low-impact camping. A surprising number of people arrive at the trailhead without a map of any kind, or plan on relying only on their smartphones. Volunteers provide trail maps (printed by WVHC) in both regular and waterproof paper, and help day hikers and backpackers plan routes based on their available time, goals, experience, and abilities. The stewards program’s approach draws on an LNT technique called Authority of the Resource that leverages the sincere desire most visitors possess to enjoy nature without damaging it and leave it intact for the next person. Many people are simply unaware of how recreation in their city park, or even other parts of the forest, may not be compatible or appro20 HIGHLAND OUTDOORS
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priate in a wilderness area. Rather than appealing to rules and regulations (which volunteers can’t enforce), volunteers cite the resource itself as the reason for engaging in behavior consistent with its protection. Once aware of the underlying reasons for rules and for ethical backcountry practices, most people are willing, even eager, to recalibrate their behavior and experience the wilderness, mindful of their own impacts. This approach works. During the program’s first year, volunteers were overwhelmed by the positive response from visitors. The Trailhead Stewards initially expected to squeeze their programmatic messaging into a short conversation, but instead found many people asking for more information, which gave them additional opportunities to work in key messages about wilderness. They frequently get effusive thanks for providing resources to help folks have a more enjoyable visit. Although effective, the Trailhead Stewards initiative is no panacea for the slew of issues threatening the wilderness character of Dolly Sods. As more people discover the wonders of this iconic area, which they are welcome to do, visitation is expected to remain high. This collective effort to inform visitors is a step toward minimizing our cumulative impact, which will help preserve Dolly Sods to be experienced as a true wilderness by the next generation. w If you would like to get involved in the Trailhead Stewards or our other programs, visit https://www.wvhighlands.org/ dolly-sods-wilderness-stewards/. David Johnston is an outdoor enthusiast and photographer based in the WV highlands, and coordinator of the Dolly Sods Wilderness Stewards, who enjoys lurking around trailheads.
A Wilderness Steward volunteer provides a map and route info to day hikers at a trailhead.
April 22- 23, 2023
June 25, 2022
August 27 - 28, 2022
You deserve a Runcation! For More Information please visit www.canaanvalleyhalfmarathon.com
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A MOMENT IN TIME WORDS AND PHOTOS BY JUSTIN HARRIS
WITHIN SOME OF THE DEEPEST AND MOST REMOTE RIVER VALLEYS OF THE APPALACHIAN MOUNTAINS, AN EXTRAORDINARY SCENE UNFOLDS SEASON AFTER SEASON. The few souls that practice this niche discipline of whitewater kayaking are known as steep creekers. These gradient hunters gather beside campfires in small tribes while studying topographic maps, weather reports, and river gauges in search of the next elusive whitewater gem. To outsiders, this enigmatic sport draws curiosity through the one lens that allows a glimpse into this otherwise inaccessible world: whitewater photography. Photoboating combines the high-stakes disciplines of whitewater action sports photography with kayaking in remote river settings. This unique art form represents the marriage of my two biggest passions and has but one clear-cut goal: nail the shot. I began my career over a decade ago on the class III James River in Richmond, VA, dreaming of one day capturing images of paddlers navigating the 24 HIGHLAND OUTDOORS
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most obscure class V whitewater runs in the Appalachians. Years later, I was given the opportunity to train under the best photoboaters in the business on the Upper Yough in Friendsville, MD, and spent three seasons honing my craft in the hopes of exploring the legendary creeks I had only read about in American Whitewater descriptions. This training involved both physical and psychological challenges. Photoboating, it turns out, is a very lonely job. What many don’t realize is that in order to nail that perfect waterfall shot, we must stay far enough ahead of the group to be able to get into position. This means we must run the drop first, and we must run it alone. There are no safety boaters nearby to help clean up the yard sale of gear should a swim occur, and with thousands of dollars of camera gear stashed between our legs, the only option is a perfect line.
Shane McManus drops into a Tolkienesque scene on the rhododendronchoked narrows of Hemlock Run. Located high on Chestnut Ridge near Coopers Rock State Forest, this elusive creek only comes in after extremely heavy rainfall, making it a premier gem of a run when most other creeks are too dangerous to paddle.
Above: Matthew Centofanti, aka CheesePoof, stomps a massive boof off Wonder Falls, the iconic 18-foot, riverwide waterfall on the Lower Big Sandy. The Big Sandy Creek flows through Preston County into the Cheat River Canyon near the abandoned town of Jenkinsburg. Previous: Andrew Gunnoe takes the seal launch off the Big Splat rapid on the Lower Big Sandy near Rockville, WV. Set among a dreamy backdrop of boulders and hemlocks, Big Splat is one of the most photogenic—and dangerous—rapids on the Big Sandy Creek.
As the kayaking crew waits in an eddy above the horizon line for their opportunity to be posterized for social media and magazine covers (just like this one! - Editor), we photoboaters are crawling through thick mountain laurel traps, taking sharp spruce branches to the face, and awkwardly scrambling over wet rocks in order to get in position for the perfect angle and exposure—all in a matter of seconds. It is a high-pressure situation; calm nerves and a steady hand are keys to success. Years of shooting raft trips down the Upper Youghiogheny allowed me to craft the anarchy of these moments into an instance of controlled chaos. When a locally famous guide expertly maneuvers a raft full of paying customers downstream through world-famous rapids, there is but one chance to nail that moment. That pressure ramps up even more when trying to capture the perfect boof shot. In kayaking, boofing is the art of propelling yourself off a drop in the river with enough speed and force to keep the bow of your boat above the surface of the water upon landing. Essentially, you are making your kayak bellyflop. When done correctly, the impact of the hull creates the satisfying “boof” sound. This onomatopoeia is the signature move in whitewa-
ter kayaking, and capturing the perfect boof in mid-flight is the shot every photoboater wants to nail. Having talented kayakers for camera fodder is of great benefit, turning the boof shot into a team effort. Many disciplines of photography, such as macro or astrophotography, require precise camera settings, patience, and preparation before heading into the field. However, I’m extremely ADHD and have a habit of acting first and thinking later. I consider photoboating to be the most ADHDfriendly discipline of photography because preparation and set-up simply don’t exist on the river, where everything happens at breakneck speeds. It’s a shoot-on-the-fly scenario, and the continuous nature of a steep whitewater run means there’s very little time to compose not only your photos, but also yourself. The steeper the creek, the faster and harder that constant push becomes. This incessant flow tests the mind and its boundaries of safety, fear, and composure. It was in the crucible of that composure, this trial by water, that I was able to create specific photography techniques that I utilize in the field to this day. We often say that solo boating is good for the soul. While it can be dangerous, it is a quintessenhighland-outdoors.com 25
Paddlers looking to access the remote whitewater of the Middle Fork of the Tygart Gorge must first follow the unnatural lines of man and traverse the tracks of Appalachian industry near the Carrollton Covered Bridge, which was damaged by fire in 2017. Tommy Hagg demonstrates poise and focus while riding the pillow at the Heinzerling Rapid on the Upper Youghiogheny River in Friendsville, MD. While the Yough technically isn’t in West Virginia, it’s close enough to feel like it’s part of the Mountain State. This river is where I honed my photoboating craft.
tially ethereal experience to paddle whitewater alone. The gorges we frequent throughout West Virginia are Tolkienesque worlds; having the ability to capture them forms a deep connection with the river and its surrounding landscapes. It is the art of kayaking that allowed us to discover this world, and taking it all in completely alone in a class V river environment is addictive. Above all else, photoboating is important to me because it’s a way to give back to a sport and community that has given so much to my life. I am a history buff, and photography is a documentation of those hallowed whitewater moments that try and escape us as the years flow by. Photographers are thieves of time—we steal moments that would otherwise pass the world by as just a memory. Having the ability to capture our friends in mid-flight, in a symbiotic dance with nature, gracefully falling off rocks and careening through water, is a magical gift. Creating those images is our art, and the passion that comes with that art is what makes life wonderful. Photography has been one of the greatest gifts of my life, and I cherish every moment I’m able to spend—and capture—with my camera, my kayak, and the river. w Justin Harris owns Mountain River Media and lives in Canaan Valley with his wife Marcie. He spends his workweek photographing Ohio resorts so he can return to West Virginia to live the dirtbag kayaker and ski bum lifestyle. Kyle Mandler launches a mandatory boof off the second drop of the infamous rapid aptly named My Nerves are Shot and I Can’t Take it Anymore on the Upper Blackwater. Simply referred to among steep creekers as ‘Nerves,’ this photogenic rapid is just one of many nerve-wracking class V drops on the Blackwater River.
Explore the scenic areas of Marion County on a mountain biking excursion. Cruise one of our popular rail trails for a family-friendly activity or get your tires muddy riding the expansive network of trails at Valley Falls State Park. Get outside in Marion County, the Middle of Everywhere.
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A caver is dwarfed by the expanse of Monster Cavern in the Friars Hole Cave System. This massive chamber has a floor area of over 100,000 square feet and ceiling reaching 225 feet in height. Photo by Ryan Maurer
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FIFTEEN
LEAGUES
UNDER WV The Race for West Virginia’s Longest Cave
By Kyle Mills
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he process of surveying a cave is a blending of science and stamina, completed solely by niche crews of hobbyists. These highly specialized subterranean devotees are the unsung heroes of the underworld, often dedicating their time for no pay. The main rewards are mild hypothermia, heavy cave suits weighed down with mud as thick as peanut butter, and sore knees earned from hours of crawling through tight passages. At times, all this effort is expended to document but a few hundred feet of cave passage. But until a passage is recorded for the cave map, it can’t count toward the total known length of a cave system. Systematic cave surveying and documentation started with William Davies’s seminal work, The Caverns of West Virginia, which was published in 1949 by the West Virginia Geological Survey. Why study caves? Davies, in the introduction to The Caverns of West Virginia, gives as good of a response as any I’ve heard. “The answer can hardly be a reply concerning the financial rewards to be gained by an investor, for there are none. Nor can it be put in terms of the important effects caves have on man’s existence, for most people go through life without seeing a cave, to say nothing of entering one. However, the mere fact that caves exist; that they are part of the earth, and an integral part of its history is reason enough to warrant study.” The West Virginia Speleological Survey was formed soon after the book was published to continue Davies’s work, and for decades explorers have investigated and recorded what lies hidden beneath the Mountain State. This multi-generational effort has resulted in the documentation and description of over 4,500 caves and karst features in West Virginia to date. Naturally, figuring out which cave is the longest has been an enthusiastic mission of many groups over the years. Of those 4,500 known features, 125 caves are over a mile long. Of these 125, 12 caves are over 10 miles long. The third longest cave is the Hellhole System, with an impressive 43.6 miles of mapped passages. The Friars Hole and Great Savannah cave systems, both with over 50 miles of mapped passages, are neck-and-neck for the coveted title of “Longest Cave in West Virginia.” The race is on between two groups of cave surveyors to find and map undiscovered places in these two systems. In 2016, cave surveyor and photographer Nikki Fox made a historic discovery when she pushed a tight passage in Maxwelton Sink Cave and discovered Sweetwater River, uncovering over 12 new miles of previously undiscovered passages. This stream, which cuts through the lower layers of the Greenbrier limestone formation, is many hours from daylight and the most remote place I’ve ever visited. The northern reaches of Sweetwater end in a waterfilled tunnel very close to a passage in McClung Cave, then considered to be a separate cave. In 2019, a dive team was assembled that connected these caves via 30 HIGHLAND OUTDOORS
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submerged passages, officially establishing the Great Savannah Cave System. Nikki is involved in mapping all three major cave systems. In 2020, she invited me on a trip up Echo River, a northwest tributary of the Sweetwater River and the most isolated passage in the Great Savannah Cave System. I was excited to help create a map of its passages and finally see what lies 200 feet beneath Lost World Caverns, a two-mile-long cave open to the public near Lewisburg, WV. For years, I was a wild cave guide—a professional who leads clients off the tourist trail and into the “real” part of Lost World—and I hypothesized something must lie even deeper. But in all my years of exploring Lost World, I never found the missing link. The short loop we wanted to explore up Echo River was a place no one had ever been before and will likely never visit again. Several miles deep in the Great Savannah system exists a camp called The Retreat, which is where I stayed on the Echo River surveying trip. The conditions are spartan at best—Nikki’s cell phone playing “Big Rock Candy Mountain” was the only real luxury item around. A backpacking stove was left in camp, and we carried in some more fuel that we used to heat water collected from a nearby stream to add to our classic ‘dinner mix,’ a time-tested cave camp recipe of dehydrated potatoes and cheese powder. As I crawled in my sleeping bag, I felt a little like a traitor. The additional Echo River passage I helped Nikki map would be used to bump Great Savannah closer to passing Friars Hole in length, which is where my speleological allegiance lies. Since 2014, I have been helping with the exploration of the Friars Hole system. In that time, we made some notable discoveries, one of which was a subterranean river we named Big Water that helped extend the known length of the cave tantalizingly close to the 50-mile mark. Friars Hole and Great Savannah have similar exploration histories: individual caves were connected to make one large and complex system. In the case of Friars Hole, much of its original length was pieced together via surveys in the 1960s and 70s. Ever since the age of disco, it has reigned uncontested as the longest cave in the state. But, until recently, neither cave had reached the coveted 50-mile mark. We were determined to find the final passages that would push Friars Hole to 50 miles, and, in my eyes, no person in the West Virginia caving scene was more motivated to find undiscovered cave passages than my longtime friend and fellow Friars Hole devotee Keely Owens. Our “breakout trip” in Friars Hole, where we made a significant discovery that pushed the cave even further, is one I won’t soon forget. I traveled downstream with Keely, her daughter Nekka, Corey Hackley, and Jackie Lambert. We traversed large rooms, confusing intersections,
A caver rappels into Crookshank Pit, one of over 10 entrances to the Friars Hole Cave System. Monster Cavern, previously pictured, is roughly six hours of walking, crawling, and climbing from this entrance. Photo by Ryan Maurer
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exposed scrambles, open pits, and finally ended up in a large passage at the Kill Line—a giant rock pile in Friars Hole that separated the known from the unknown. Keely and Corey split off to go into a passage called Howli Mowli—a frigid, scary tunnel just big enough to wiggle through—while Jackie, Nekka, and I went to another section to look for a way beyond the Kill Line. Our team dug through deep mud with little luck and reached a point where we needed better digging tools to keep going. Jackie reported it was 6 p.m., so we decided to head back and wait at the Kill Line for Keely and Corey to return. Keely’s mother was expecting us to be out of the cave by 8. We started to get a little cold, but instead of worrying about Keely and Corey as the 8 p.m. deadline approached, I actually felt excited. They must have broken through. I got up and started walking around in little circles to keep warm. Jackie and Nekka joined in, and we all started laughing and singing a made-up song—anything to make the dark minutes pass by faster. After what seemed like an eternity, we heard voices and, shortly after, saw lights emerge from the void. As we packed up and raced for the exit to make the callout time, Keely enthusiastically described wiggling through loose rocks and finding multiple new passages on the other side, effectively passing through the Kill Line in a critical location that could potentially extend the cave system for miles. With Great Savannah’s length right on the heels of Friars Hole, this breakthrough was a much-needed boost for the project. For several months following Keely’s Kill Line discovery, Great Savannah and Friars Hole swapped leads in the length race but remained within a few hundred feet of each other. This leapfrogging made the friendly rivalry between the intermingling groups that much more intense. Jeers, sneers, side-eyed glares, and jokes about threats of sabotage were made between the two groups any time we were together. Most of the cavers involved with these projects are longtime friends despite their competing interests, and we are all members of the West Virginia Association for Cave Studies (WVACS). The WVACS field station in Frankford, West Virginia, has long been a lively scene, where a typical weekend looks like this: the two squads meet up and cordially antagonize each other on Friday night, map as much footage as they can on Saturday, and then they compare updated lengths on Sunday. By Christmas 2021, Friars Hole had squeaked into the lead again, and was only 23 feet short of the coveted 50-mile mark. The team knew exactly where to get the few remaining feet: behind the pizza oven in Fort Digiorno. Fort Digiorno is the cave camp in Friars Hole and my favorite place to camp in all of West Virginia. It is in total contrast to the harsh conditions of The Retreat in Great Savannah, or the “bottom of the world” feeling one gets in the Digger’s Hall camp in Hellhole. Fort Digiorno has LED lights throughout the camp, half-adozen hammock spots for cavers to avoid sleeping on the cold dirt, and a clean creek flowing through camp for gathering water. And Top: Chris Coates stands above a waterfall in the Cascade Causeway, a river passage in the Maxwelton Sink Cave. Bottom left: Project cavers set up in the Ghost Camp in the Maxwelton Sink Cave. Bottom right: Cave diver Brian Williams enters a sump in the McClung Cave. This 2019 dive connected the McClung and Maxwelton Sink caves to establish the Great Savannah Cave System. All photos by Nikki Fox
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ments in her survey book and told the dozen folks gathered for the event that Friars Hole was officially 50 miles long. We rang in the New Year in high style in the sixth-longest cave in the United States and the first cave in West Virginia to reach the 50-mile mark. Great Savannah followed suit a few weeks later, reaching the 50-mile mark and surpassing Friars Hole once again. At the time of publication, the official lengths show Great Savannah at 50.91 miles long and Friars Hole at 50.36. A recent discovery in Great Savannah at an overlooked lead—a place where the cave may continue but digging must be done—has that team excited for new passages. And the always-optimistic Friars Hole crew continues to push deeper into the unknown. Keely’s passage through the Kill Line has proven to be more fruitful than originally imagined, and tall, unexplored canyons still reach out of sight when we stop the survey for the day. This spirited competition will probably play out for another 40 years, and it’s hard to say which cave will ultimately come out on top (or on bottom). Far from Great Savannah, Friars Hole, and the karst features underneath Greenbrier Valley, Pendleton County’s legendary Hellhole Cave System offers unique challenges to even the most technically skilled and experienced cavers. Currently the third-longest cave in the state, Hellhole lies just underneath the shadow of Seneca Rocks, and has attracted subterranean mountaineers from far and wide, including Nikki, Keely, Corey, and me, to piece together its puzzle.
while the pizza oven sounds like the name of some speleothem, it’s just that: a literal pizza oven. The camp’s namesake cooking tool is just a cheap, collapsible oven, but it does the job wonderfully. Instead of the standard backpacking meals usually consumed at cave camp, we bake full-size pizzas, cookies, and cinnamon rolls. The relative luxury of Fort Digiorno made it an easy sell for our New Year’s Eve party, an underground tradition we’ve enjoyed now for several years. At 11:50 p.m. on December 31, 2021, we crawled into a crack behind the pizza oven and started anxiously mapping a small network of tubes that had yet to be surveyed. At the stroke of midnight on January 1, 2022, Keely wrote some measure34 HIGHLAND OUTDOORS
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Author’s note: The caves described in this story are on private land and are only accessed through affiliated caving organizations. If you are interested in going caving, visit the National Speleological Society website to find a grotto (caving club) nearest you, or go on a wild cave tour with a professional guide. Kyle Mills is a writer, cave explorer, and climbing guide. He lives at the Spruce Knob Mountain Center and just published his new book, Field Notes from the Alleghenies, which will be available at local bookstores this summer.
Nikki Fox
Amy Skowronski climbs a rope to access Thunder Dome, a pit in the Maxwelton Sink Cave, part of the 50-plus-mile Great Savannah Cave System.
Geologically, my bet is that the Hellhole System will ultimately contain the most traversable passage in any West Virginia cave. Hellhole is among the most technically challenging caves on Earth, and its 526-foot-tall drop in Perseverance Dome is the second-deepest pit in the continental United States. There is alluring evidence suggesting that all the caves below Germany Valley—including Hellhole—are interconnected. The stage is set for West Virginia’s first hundred-mile cave system to be established. The real question is: will my knees still be strong enough to crawl through when that time comes? w
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LEARNING THE ROPES LESSONS FROM A LIFE OF CLIMBING BY NIKKI FORRESTER
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limbing brought me to West Virginia. Clinging to the sandstone cliffs that rise from her ancient mountains made me fall in love with the hills and hollows that weave in between. But it all started further east in a cramped climbing gym with wooden walls and dusty holds in Charlottesville, Virginia. One of my friends started climbing as a way to tackle his fear of heights, and he thought my boyfriend and I might enjoy it, too. After the first climbing session, my boyfriend was hooked, and I was dragged along for the ride. We met an older fellow, a route setter at the gym who was keen to find some young guns interested in learning the ropes—literally. He became our mentor, teaching us how to tie knots, use a harness, place protective gear, and build anchors. He showed us how to move gracefully up routes and indoctrinated us into the Rock Warrior’s Way, a guide for building mental strength and fortitude while climbing. But perhaps the greatest impact he had on my life was introducing me to Seneca Rocks. Nearly every weekend, the three of us piled into the car and made the journey to Seneca, anxious to see the monumental Tuscarora sandstone fin breach the verdant mountains of Pendleton County. We set up camp at Seneca Shadows, ate pizza and fried potato wedges at the Front
Porch Restaurant, and spent all day scaling the cliffs in bids to reach the summit. I struggled up flakes and cracks, jamming my feet and hands wherever they would squeeze. I grasped the rock with every ounce of my strength and desperately yanked the weight of my body closer to the top. It was exhausting, terrifying, and exhilarating. There was something unparalleled about the struggle and reward of being perched atop the narrow fin of Seneca, peering out into the vast, undeveloped landscape of the Potomac Valley. We continued these regular pilgrimages to Seneca for several years, tackling as many routes as we could while growing closer to the climbing community. We made chili for the annual Chili Cookoff, where everyone shared stories of their alpine adventures and argued about the etiquette of traditional climbing, a style in which climbers place and remove protective gear as they go. I learned the lingo and became one of those people who never stops talking about what routes they climbed or wanted to climb one day. If you ever see someone across the room suddenly throw their right arm in the air, pretend to grab a micro hold, then spastically launch their right leg up at a 90-degree angle while yelling ‘psssaaaaat,’ they’re definitely talking about climbing.
Clockwise from top left: The author learning the ropes with Goran Suleta in Eldorado Canyon, CO, photo by Dylan Jones; taking a break on the way to the summit of Seneca Rocks, photo courtesy Nikki Forrester; participating in her first and only climbing competition in Boston, photo Garrick Kwan–Dark Horse Series; cruising up Hope Pathology (5.10a) at the New River Gorge, photo by Tyler Keay.
In 2013, I moved to Pittsburgh to start graduate school and immediately joined the local climbing gym – another cramped, wooden, dusty den. I made new friends who shared my passion for wrestling rocks. They introduced me to another climbing mecca in West Virginia, the New River Gorge, which quickly became my weekend home. We traveled down to the New every Friday and returned to Pittsburgh in the wee hours of Monday morning. After a few hours of sleep, I would stumble in to work totally exhausted but incredibly fulfilled. We camped, built giant bonfires, and flipped through guidebooks finding destinations that catered to everyone’s abilities and goals. In some ways, my experiences climbing at the New felt more lighthearted and easygoing than my days at Seneca. Perhaps because I got to hang out on the ground cheering my friends on instead of standing alone on an awkward belay ledge hundreds of feet in the air. But there was always an intensity and eagerness to push my limits. I quickly discovered that if I could climb harder, a world of possibilities would open up for me at the New.
I trained in the gym, crammed my toes into aggressive shoes, and ruined my skin with dry climbing chalk. Every weekend, I attempted more and more difficult climbing routes outside. I was thrilled when I started leading 5.10 climbs, a grade that describes intermediate routes that require a good bit of fitness and technique. My friend Sandra and I became the queens of 5.10, trading off leads and coaching each other through the challenging sections. We had a blast, but there was always a nagging feeling that I should be advancing my skills and capabilities. After all, my friends were cruising up even more strenuous routes. After I split up with the aforementioned boyfriend, I started dating another guy, a route setter at the gym who was (and remains) more invested in climbing than anyone I’ve ever met. We devised a training plan and spent all our time either climbing or talking about climbing. He picked out routes to project at the New, a process in which you repeatedly try the same route in the hopes of one day making it up without falling, and encouraged me to pick my own. I’ll never forget the feeling of clipping the highland-outdoors.com 37
Beach bouldering on the California coast
Instead of pushing through the frustration, I stopped and took a few minutes to appreciate the beautiful places through which I was traveling. Everyone I biked with was extremely supportive, cheering me on when I tried difficult moves and offering bits of advice when I struggled. And while they were all better than me, I didn’t care. I channeled that guy I met in the hammock; I just wanted to be outside having fun with my friends.
But instead of mastering a bunch of climbs at each grade, I started rushing the process, pushing myself into tougher and scarier terrain. I skipped over easier warm-up routes and hopped right into the nitty gritty climbs before I was physically or mentally prepared for them. I fell—a lot. Then I’d get frustrated, tear up, and give up. I was always in my head about what I was doing wrong and comparing myself to people who were climbing better than me. My friends would say, “I’ve seen you climb in the gym, you’re strong, you can definitely climb harder routes outside.” Although they had the best intentions, it just made me feel like I was underperforming and letting people down. I struggled with motivation but wasn’t ready to give up, which led me on a trip down to the Red River Gorge. I stayed at a bunkhouse with a bunch of climbing-obsessed folks and one guy who seemed a little tired of the scene. We went to the crag the next morning, and after working his way up one route, this guy, let’s call him Dylan, decided it’d be better to set up a hammock, drink a beer, and nap for the day. It was the first time I had been around some38 HIGHLAND OUTDOORS
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one who didn’t care about pushing his limits, he just wanted to have fun and enjoy spending time in a beautiful place with his friends. We talked for a while, and well, now we’re married and don’t climb anymore. OK, that’s not completely accurate. Dylan and I still climbed quite a bit when we started dating in 2016. We made weekend trips to the New and Seneca, and climbed during our travels to California, Colorado, Oregon, and France. But when I moved to Davis, other outdoor pursuits commanded my attention. I bought a mountain bike and was determined to learn how to hop over logs and navigate technical rock gardens. On the weekly group rides, my only goal was to not fall so far behind that I’d get lost. I took a beginner lesson at the Canaan Mountain Bike Festival and spent entire afternoons by myself on a single trail, not moving on until I cleared every move. Picking up a new sport was frustrating and painful; mountain biking is far more prone to injury than climbing. But starting fresh completely shifted my expectations and alleviated the pressure I had put on myself to perform. I tried to view every outing as a learning experience (sometimes unsuccessfully). When I had to walk my bike over tricky or scary trail sections, I focused on my surroundings, staring up into the red spruce forest or down at little patches of fluffy moss.
And yet, I can’t help but miss climbing. I long for the fitness, confidence, and level of mastery you can only achieve when you fully dedicate yourself to a sport. Every time I go to Seneca, I stare up at that prominent fin, remembering what it was like to sit on the summit and wondering how it would feel to lead a route again. It would be exhausting, terrifying, and exhilarating. But instead of focusing on my performance, I’d just enjoy being in a stunning place with people I love. Ultimately, it doesn’t really matter what role climbing plays in my present or future life because it’s already given me everything I could ever hope for from an outdoor activity. It forged my connections with amazing people, drew me to majestic landscapes, introduced me to endless outdoor adventures, and brought me home to West Virginia. w Nikki Forrester is associate editor of Highland Outdoors and wore a harness and mimed various climbing moves while writing every word of this piece. Pssaaaat!
Dylan Jones
anchors on my first 5.11 on lead. Everything fell right into place. I felt calm, smooth, and strong. My goal was always to make climbing look as effortless as possible. I wanted to feel like a gentle stream of water flowing up the rock. And for once, I did.
I felt the same way about cross-country skiing and paddling, two activities I picked up after moving to Tucker County. Instead of being hyper focused on a single sport, I now mediocrely dabble in many. I’ve backcountry skied through perfect pockets of powder, paddled 20 miles through a remote gorge lined by limestone cliffs, and biked along the quartzite ridge of the driest high-elevation mountain in Appalachia.
PRACTICE ON SATURDAY RACE ON SUNDAY
CASH PURSE & PRIZES
aAAC member Jess Talley / Louder Than 11
aAAC member Ken Etzel
For more info visit pocahontastrails.com For more info visit pocahontastrails.com
The Enduro Race will be held on National Forest System lands.
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RIDERS ON THE STORM MEEKS MOUNTAIN TRAILS UPLIFT HURRICANE
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hand-built trails spanning 500 acres, with the exception of one machine-built downhill slope for mountain bikes. These trails were all made possible by more than 375 people and 13,000 volunteer hours.
An avid mountain biker with a background in commercial real estate, Doerner joined the Hurricane Development Authority and was assigned the task of mapping out a potential trail system for running, hiking, and mountain biking. His initial goal was to build about a mile of trail with his kids in order to demonstrate his design and building master plan to others involved in the project.
Because the City of Hurricane’s property behind the City Park adjoins the Meeks family’s property, Doerner and other officials met with the family to let them know the trail system may encroach on their land. The Meeks, prominent local real estate developers who have a long history of supporting the community, were on board with the project from the beginning to advance their mission of seeing Hurricane grow and prosper.
few years ago, Brandon Doerner and his twin six-yearolds, Aaron and Katie, ventured into the woods behind the Hurricane City Park in Putnam County. Their mission: to break ground on what was to become the Meeks Mountain Trail System.
Doerner started laying out a plan for how he wanted the trail to look and feel, with the goal of bringing out scenic aspects for hikers and bikers. Word of the new trail system spread like wildfire through the community. Soon, local volunteers arrived at the trail site to help with construction, and once the initial two-mile loop was built, Doerner went public with the project. Today, the Meeks Mountain Trail system boasts 23 miles of 40 HIGHLAND OUTDOORS
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As trail-building progressed, the Meeks family agreed to a 10-year deal in which the city could lease their property for trail development at no cost. From that agreement, the Meeks Mountain Trail Alliance (MMTA), a nonprofit organization, was born, so members could maintain the trails on the Meeks’s land. “As I continued to let the Meeks know what was going on up there, they became more interested in allowing the rest of the property to be used,” Doerner said.
Courtesy MMTA
By Amanda Larch
“Hearing my trail come up in conversation makes me proud for what I and, more importantly, the great community of trail builders have been able to accomplish.” Andrew Linville Doerner used his extensive mountain biking experience to plan the trail system. First, he ventured out to find the lines, thinking about how to integrate certain features. On build days, he set pins in the ground every 20 feet, so the build team could connect the dots. “You have to follow the topo lines and try not to go against or fight the grades because it takes away from the experience,” Doerner described. Doerner also said he wanted to make the trail building process family-oriented by encouraging kids to tag along on build days. “We want the kids to be out there with us playing in the dirt and watching the process,” he said. Along with trail development, families enjoyed observing various wildlife, including turkeys, box turtles, eastern worm snakes, and spotted salamanders, and studying the flora of the area. “Trees are hard to learn for a lot of people, so it’s been fun teaching the kids the different leaves, barks, and colors,” Doerner said. MMTA’s goal is to complete 26 miles of trail for hikers, runners, and mountain bikers, which will help promote economic growth and healthy lifestyles. Doerner created the 25526 Trail Plan (the name is a nod to Hurricane’s zip code), which aims to build five miles of trail in two years and 26 miles in five years. Next for MMTA is building a venue, including a trailhead and pavilion. However, Doerner said, these efforts will require more financial support. The MMTA Sustainers Program was developed to provide financial support for these ventures and ensure the trails are maintained in the future. The nonprofit also created a scholarship program and awarded its first $500 scholarship last year to high school senior, Andrew Linville, who put in more than 250 volunteer hours on the trail. Any Putnam County student can apply for the scholarship, which involves trail time either by physically building the trail, providing marketing assistance, or developing something that benefits the trail system. Linville said it was an honor to receive the award from people he greatly respects. He even had a trail named after himself in recognition of his dedicated efforts—Lindy Land. “This means a tremendous amount to me because I was able to Previous: Aaron “Captain G” Gillispie dropping in on K&A Camp Connector in the Meeks Mountain Trail system.
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One draw of the trail system is encouraging businesses to locate, or relocate, to the area, as their employees could benefit from the outdoor recreation opportunities; this in turn continues to benefit the community by growing businesses and other amenities for tourists and visitors. Additionally, the trail system will encourage travelers to come to Hurricane, as well as organizations to host events on the trails, such as trail runs and relay races. MMTA hosts its own events on the trail system, including the inaugural Hurricane Hundred K this summer. Hurricane Mayor Scott Edwards said the trails not only benefit local residents, but also draw more people to the area. The trail system is right off Interstate 64, which encourages travelers to
attend events or check out the trails during food and fuel breaks. “There aren’t many communities and cities the size of Hurricane that have a 26-mile trail system this close,” Doerner said. “Meeks Mountain Trails began with some folks kicking an idea around and has evolved into something that is absolutely incredible,” Edwards said. “I have met and talked with many unique visitors out on the trails who came to Hurricane just to hike, bike, and run on the trails. I cannot express enough how proud the Hurricane City Council and city administration is of the vision that has come to life the last couple of years on that mountain, and we are excited to see what the future holds.” w Amanda Larch is copy editor of Highland Outdoors and a Hurricane native. She’s been following MMTA’s progress since the beginning and is eager to get back on the trails this summer.
Clockwise from top left: Jerry Kudlak and Chelsea Walker doing treadwork on the Adam Bomb trail; Jason Steorts hucks the wooden gap on Cease & Desist; the MMTA build team after finishing the Chasin’ Chelsea trail; Andrew Linville poses next to the heady silhouette of his namesake trail.
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Courtesy MMTA
leave a lasting mark on my community,” Linville said. “Hearing people talk about MMTA and hearing my trail come up in conversation makes me proud for what I and, more importantly, the great community of trail builders have been able to accomplish.”
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PROFILE What’s your backstory? I was born in New Jersey. We had a trout stream in our backyard and freshwater springs that you could drink out of; it was pretty nice. Then I moved to Hollywood in South Florida, where I met my wife Barbara in my last year of college. After college, we went out to California to the Bay Area, then moved to Alexandria, Virginia. We went down to the Mississippi coast for a few years, then back over to the Florida Panhandle before coming back to Washington D.C., where we lived for way too long. We finally escaped and ended up settling in Greenbrier County in West Virginia in 1991. We moved from our old farmhouse to Pocahontas County in 2007.
What brought you to West Virginia?
By Dylan Jones In 2019, Nikki and I traveled to Snowshoe to cover the UCI Mountain Bike World Cup. We stayed with good friends in their condo on top of the mountain. I walked out back one evening to savor a legendary Cheat Mountain sunset and came upon a large man in a straw hat with a beer in one hand and a spatula in the other flipping burgers on a charcoal grill. He had scabs on his shins immediately indicative of a mountain biker. He looked up at me, flashed a wide smile, and enthusiastically introduced himself. He had no idea who I was; I had no idea who he was. It didn’t matter. His stoke for biking, for the World Cup, and for life in general was palpable. Eric Lindberg is an incredibly kind and genuine individual who exudes his love and endless energy for mountain biking in West Virginia. A ramblin’ man who lived all over the country and ultimately settled on a rural farm in Pocahontas County, Eric has been a linchpin of the Pocahontas County mountain bike scene for decades. He’s spent countless hours riding and maintaining the region’s spiderweb of notoriously rugged backcountry trails. He was a founding member of Pocahontas Trails, the region’s International Mountain Bicycling Association (IMBA) chapter. By leveraging his collaborative skillset, he was instrumental in helping the Snowshoe Highlands trail system achieve Bronze, then Silver, status as an IMBA Ride Center—a major milestone and a first for any West Virginia trail network. He’s also humble. Not a big fan of the limelight, I had to twist his arm a bit to get this interview. And I sure am glad he agreed because his story is worth sharing. There’s no doubt in my mind that the Pocahontas County mountain bike scene wouldn’t be where it is today without his contributions. And I know others agree. Ride on! This interview has been edited for length and clarity. 44 HIGHLAND OUTDOORS
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When did you get into mountain biking? I built my first mountain bike when I was in Florida. There were no mountain bikes available there, but I was following what was going on with bikes on the West Coast and cobbled together a frame. But even on the Florida coast, with no elevation, I managed to break that frame in half. I bought my first real mountain bike when we moved to D.C. and started riding seriously on singletrack in the mid-80s.
How did you get involved with trail building and the mountain bike scene in Pocahontas County? Back then, the Forest Service got a number of [Recreational Trail Fund] grants, but the execution of those grants was really mismanaged. They were taking hand-cut singletrack and putting a machine on it and destroying it, working on the trails but not really improving them at all. There was no oversight going on and I just got really frustrated with it. I figured we needed to get some folks together and form a mountain bike club because there’s strength in
Courtesy Eric Lindberg
ERIC LINDBERG
I started kayaking in Mississippi but got heavy into boating when I lived in D.C. with the Potomac and all the other rivers around there. I spent lots of weekends paddling in West Virginia. I was just reflecting on Gauley Season back in the day when it was just two weeks long; we camped at the tailwaters and knew everybody in the boating community. When Barbara and I finally decided to leave the D.C. area, West Virginia reminded me of all the things I really liked. It was safe and wild; it was quiet and nice. When the end of the world happens, West Virginia still has 20 years because it’s so far behind.
numbers. Let’s get some people involved and see if we can have a voice to try and steer things in a better direction. That was the start of Pocahontas Trails.
What does Pocahontas Trails do? It really boils down to advocacy for new trails, working with land managers to improve trail conditions, and preserving the old-school character of our classic trails. Slatyfork has a huge mountain biking legacy that goes back to that trail maintenance. We also use trails to create economic opportunities for people that want to live here.
What was the mountain bike scene like before Pocahontas Trails came along? Events like the Fat Tire Festival and the 24 Hours of Snowshoe had come and gone; the area was languishing because there wasn’t really any trail maintenance going on. Everything was degraded. One of the first trail sessions we did was at Tea Creek Mountain. You couldn’t even push the bike up the trail to get to the downhill section. Your handlebars would get stuck in shrubs on both sides; the rhododendrons had completely closed it in. But now, it’s a great trail system once again. I like to think that Poca. Trails and the local community have been pretty instrumental in turning it around here.
What are some of the benefits of Pocahontas Trails being an IMBA chapter?
Did you form a positive relationship with the Forest Service during that time? We did. One interesting aspect is that we’ve been around long enough that there’s been a whole hierarchy change at the [Monongahela National Forest], and also at Snowshoe. The new leadership has made a huge impact on us achieving our goals. The Forest Service has shown a great willingness to provide assistance and work with our volunteers, and Snowshoe allowed us to come in and work on their backcountry trails, which inspired them to up their game with new backcountry trails and solid trail maintenance.
How did the Snowshoe Highlands Ride Center come about? As I mentioned, the trails were in disarray. A number of years ago, the Pocahontas County CVB started to fund trail maintenance. Initially it was just Greg Moore, who’s an old-school fixture in the West Virginia mountain bike scene, going out with a volunteer to clear the trails, which started making a significant difference. Meanwhile, Poca. Trails signed an agreement with the Forest Service that helped us do more trail work. We were also working to get a signed agreement with Snowshoe that granted Poca. Trails permission to do volunteer work on their trails and function as a group by hosting a tent at events. At the same time, Poca. Trails, the Pocahontas County CVB, Snowshoe, and others started working toward a shared goal of
Courtesy Eric Lindberg
It immediately gave us access to the land managers. The Forest Service and Snowshoe both understand IMBA, so the fact that we’re a chapter really helped. Early on, we hosted a regional IMBA summit at Snowshoe to discuss advocacy and how to build coalitions to bring divergent ideas together. It was well-attended by a lot of the East
Coast IMBA chapters and it helped put us on the map. We got Snowshoe and the local community involved. The Subaru trail crew came in and gave us a lot of good input on maintenance techniques. We learned from the folks that really knew what they were doing. It’s been really positive all around.
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What’s the added benefit of going from a Bronze to a Silver-level Ride Center? It just means that all the Ride Center elements are that much nicer. There’s more variety of trails, and those trails are better maintained. The signage is improving. The land managers have a better understanding of what their role is in coordinating and organizing our volunteers.
Is there momentum to achieve Gold Ride Center status? Oh, of course. SHARC meets almost every month and really attacks whatever needs to get done. Getting Gold status would be huge. We’d be the first Gold Ride Center east of the Rockies.
How important is mountain biking to the Pocahontas County economy these days?
resurrecting the prime days of mountain biking in Pocahontas County. All the pieces were coming into place; we were starting to communicate as a cohesive group about how we can improve the regional trail network. During that period, I came across the IMBA Ride Center criteria, and thought that whether we go for the Ride Center designation or not, it seemed like a good roadmap to improve tourism in our area. If you look at the criteria, it’s about much more than trails. You need lodging, restaurants, breweries, and amenities like bike wash stations and places to lock your bike. If you have that stuff, the area just gets better for everyone. We formed the Snowshoe Highlands Area Recreation Collaborative [SHARC] and started a big push that was pretty instrumental in bringing the community together to answer the big questions: What trail maintenance do we need? What new trails do we need? How should we map the area? What advertising campaigns do we need? What elements are we missing? We had to determine those gaps and then figure out how to fill them in.
How much work was involved in making the Ride Center happen? It took about two years, and that was with the pretty good foundation we had before we even started working towards the designation. We realized that, even with all the great trails we have, we really didn’t have any easy trails. There was a push for putting in new green-level flow trails and backcountry trails. The initial cost to become a Ride Center is also significant. You’re paying for the IMBA team to review your application, and then for a team to come put boots on the ground, or tires on the ground in this case, to check out the trail, evaluate it, and show you where your gaps are. Then you’ve got to go through and patch those gaps quickly. The Pocahontas County CVB and Snowshoe really stepped up to the plate with a chunk of change and the understanding that this designation helps everybody. Another key player was Doug Arbogast and the crew from West Virginia University Extension; they helped enormously with the application process by mapping out the area encompassed by the Ride Center and finding grant money. 46 HIGHLAND OUTDOORS
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What makes Pocahontas County special? The remoteness and the rural aspect of it. I’m sitting outside in the sun here doing this interview, listening to a bunch of birds chirp. I like the fact that I have to go 20 miles to get to the closest traffic light; that’s not so bad! There’s a good sense of community. It’s got its problems, but not nearly as many as anywhere else. One of the best parts of Pocahontas County is that you have to really want to be here.
What do you want for the future in West Virginia? I’d love it if a four-lane highway never comes through Pocahontas County. I’d like more trails, obviously. I’d like to see better trail connectivity, like some well-established mix of gravel and singletrack routes that can take you all over the region. I’m a little nervous about the recent growth, but I think it’s so rural here in Pocahontas County that it’s going to stay pretty rural for quite a while, at least in my lifetime. I can still go for a ride with my dog and not see a single person all day. If it stays manageable and well-done, I think we’ll be on the right track. w
Left: Philip Duncan. Top right: Pocahontas County CVB. Bottom right: Greg Moore
Clockwise from left: Eric Lindberg with pup Bailey after a day of trailwork in the highlands; Eric Lindberg (left) with officials from the USFS, Pochontas County CVB, and Snowshoe at the dedication ceremony for the Snowshoe Highlands Ride Center; Eric in his element: riding with his pups somewhere deep in the backcountry.
It’s significant. Five years ago, you only really saw bikes at the Greenbrier River Trail or downhill bikes at Snowshoe. But now you see cars with bikes everywhere. We’ve got 27 miles of new trails mapped out for Marlinton, which props up the community. Marlinton is having this little renaissance where things are starting to change. There’s a new bike shop, a local tavern, and more restaurants are starting to show up. You see young folks that are trying to raise a family here. If there are more trails, there are more businesses, there’s more stuff going on, and maybe people have a way to stay here.
GALLERY
Flying a drone over the New River Gorge National Park and Preserve is tricky. You’ve got National Park Service and Federal Aviation Administration regulations to contend with, which means you often need extra help to make it legally viable. I planned this Diamond Point sunrise shot for more than a year, recruiting Fayetteville local Adena Rhineheart and her son Austin to pose on the precipice. But on the dawn of Mother’s Day, the sky was overcast, the light as flat as a piece of Texas toast on the ground in northern Texas. It seemed as if a lot of effort was about to go to waste, but, at the last minute, the clouds cracked open and conditions became, well, like this. It’s a lesson I seem forced to learn over and over again: to shoot a good sunrise, you have to commit. You must pry your exhausted bum from bed and get out, even when it doesn’t seem worth it. That mentality often results in failure, but it also makes the sweet successes, like this shot, feel pretty amazing. Photo and caption by Jay Young.
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