Highland Outdoors | Summer 2021 by highland-outdoors

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FROM THE EDITOR STAFF

Publisher, Editor-in-Chief Dylan Jones Senior Editor, Designer Nikki Forrester All The Other Things Dylan Jones, Nikki Forrester

CONTRIBUTORS

Mark H. Anderson, Jimmy Christhilf, Derek Clark, Nikki Forrester, Kerry Hensley, Chris Jackson, David S. Johnston, Dylan Jones, Jessica McDonald, Craig Miller, Cam Moore, Kristen Wickert, Molly Wolff

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The journey here has by no means been an easy one. We faced uncertainties with our jobs, we worried about our loved ones, and we navigated an endless stream of information. At times, we felt so overwhelmed that we questioned if and how we could move forward. Yet here we are, resilient and adaptive as we, once again, redefine how we want to live our lives. In many ways, the experience of the past year mirrors our experiences of venturing outdoors. There are the challenges we willfully impose as we push ourselves to hike further, paddle harder, and run faster. And then there are the challenges imposed upon us by unpredictable weather and West Virginia’s notoriously rugged terrain. Almost always, outdoor pursuits involve a perfectly blended mix of the two. But somehow, we keep coming back for more. Perhaps it’s because moments of hardship can push us to accomplish truly astonishing things. From figuring out how to get your kiddos on the water to growing the Mountain State’s burgeoning bike scene to uncovering the mysteries of the universe, 6

HIGHLAND OUTDOORS

SUMMER 2021

it’s amazing what we can do when we work together. As we embark on a new adventure into a reopening world, I’m inspired to see the explosion of collaborative energy taking place around the state. Ideas are flowing and momentum is building. We’re on the cusp of some great things, folks, and we’re beyond thrilled to be part of the journey. So, the question is, where do we go from here? If there’s one thing that last year showed me, it’s that challenging times give us a chance to reflect and refocus. They create space to find solitude and solace in a world that’s increasingly connected and unceasingly demanding. We won’t forget the struggles that brought us here, but we can also hold onto the lessons we learned along the way. As my summer calendar starts to fill up with events, vacations, and other fun endeavors, I’m beginning to feel a slight longing for the slowness and spontaneity of unplanned time. While I don’t want to say that the grass is always greener, I will proudly say that the summer jungles of Appalachia most definitely are. I can’t wait for all the planned and impromptu outings throughout the state’s leafy hills, where I can find moments for myself and daydream about the next big adventure. I hope that your summer overflows with joy, hugs, travel, and, of course, some time to reflect on what makes this such a wonderful place to call home. w Nikki Forrester

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EDITORIAL POLICY

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COVER

Bring on the summer! The sun is shining. The birds are chirping. The jungles of West Virginia are in full form. And, well, it feels great to get back out into the world again. We’re hugging our friends, visiting our families, and even travelling beyond the bounds of our state’s borders. There’s a renewed sense of hope as life starts to feel a bit more normal and far more social.

CONTENTS 12

MAKING A SPLASH

THE JOY OF THE SUFFERFEST

CREEKYONEERING WILD, WONDERFUL, Misadventures in West Virginia’s wildest drainages AND RADIO By Mark H. Anderson QUIET

Getting your family out on the water

By Nikki Forrester

Chris Jackson

By Molly Wolff

Andy Forron dropping in at Wolf Creek Park, pg. 34.

By Kerry Hensley

HOWLIN’ HARDPACK

UPS AND DOWNS

Fayetteville’s Wolf Creek Trails

Appalachian ultrarunning

WHEN THERE’S A WILL, THERE’S A WADE

By Dylan Jones

By Derek Clark

By Craig Miller

EVERY ISSUE 8

BRIEFS

PROFILE

GALLERY

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BRIEFS

WV HIGHLANDS CONSERVANCY PREPARES TO LAUNCH VOLUNTEER STEWARDSHIP PROGRAM IN DOLLY SODS By HO Staff

Throughout the outdoor literature canon, there are seemingly endless accounts of treasured places being loved to death. Many would argue that, in West Virginia, the Dolly Sods Wilderness is at the top of that list. This 17,776-acre wilderness area is no stranger to steady use throughout the year by throngs of in and out of state visitors. While public land is open to all, and folks should always feel welcome to enjoy their public lands, wild places like Dolly Sods have a carrying capacity. Increased and consistent visitation can show visible impacts to overused areas like parking lots, roads, backcountry campsites, and trails. Last year’s explosion in tourism to the Sods, no doubt brought on by folks looking to head to the hills during the COVID-19 pandemic, resulted in traffic jams, trampled plants, cutting of standing trees, trashing of campsites, and plenty of

TP-topped poop bombs right off the trails (gross, folks). David Johnston, lead contact for the program and member of the WVHC Public Lands Committee (PLC), said the project grew organically from discussions within the committee about the need to respond to rapidly increased visitation and pressures from the growing impacts on the landscape. “We all saw what was happening at Dolly Sods and all over the country last year, and we thought we ought to do something about it,” Johnston said. “WVHC was instrumental in the designation of the Dolly Sods Wilderness, and we have a special sense of stewardship for the area.” The PLC worked with the MNF to discuss primary areas of need and developed the program to “chip away” at some of the urgent issues affecting the Sods. According to Johnston, the initial push will focus on the Wilderness Stewards Program, which will station trained volunteers at popular trailheads on weekends to educate visitors about wilderness etiquette and Leave No Trace ethics. Volunteers will discuss the special characteristics of a designated wilderness, how to prepare for navigation and weather challenges, how to choose a campsite, how to find wood for and build a proper camp-

fire, the importance of packing out food scraps and trash, and how to properly pee and poo in nature. The MNF will also construct voluntary sign-in boxes at trailheads using materials donated by WVHC, and volunteers will keep them supplied and maintained, forwarding the information to the Forest Service. Johnston said the first step in being able to make needed change in the Sods involves having information, and these voluntary hiker check-in ledgers are a great way to collect and supply data to the MNF. “It’s one thing to say we know a whole lot of people are going back there, but to make a case for increasing resources, we need hard numbers to help with that,” Johnston said. Latter stages of the project will involve yearly inventory and assessment of backcountry campsites, as well as trail crews to do rehabilitation and maintenance work guided by the MNF. Johnston, along with fellow WVHC volunteers, staged a dry run of the messaging for the trailhead stewardship aspect of the program over the rainy Memorial Day weekend, and said the team was pleased with the result. “We were pleasantly surprised with how open people were in talking with us and asking questions,” Johnston said. “We came away with a good feeling that this is something of value and would help in the long-term to preserve the area.” No special skills or background is required to participate as a Wilderness Steward. Interested folks are encouraged to complete two self-guided online courses on the principles of wilderness and Leave No Trace ethics. The MNF plans to provide training on effective trailhead messaging. The program is not ready to kick off yet, but if you’d like to learn more or sign up to become a wilderness steward when available, follow the WVHC Facebook page for updates on news and trainings: facebook. com/WVHighlandsConservancy/ w

Illegal cutting of standing trees in Dolly Sods Wilderness.

HIGHLAND OUTDOORS

SUMMER 2021

Jimmy Christhilf

Wilderness lovers, rejoice! The West Virginia Highlands Conservancy (WVHC) and some of its dedicated volunteers are working on a partnership with the Monongahela National Forest (MNF) to launch a stewardship program in the Dolly Sods Wilderness. The program seeks to address negative impacts to the landscape brought on by increased visitation and poor backcountry etiquette.

GREAT AMERICAN OUTDOORS ACT FUNDS NINE PROJECTS IN THE MONONGAHELA NATIONAL FOREST By HO Staff access, the Red Creek Bridge for Dolly Sods Wilderness access, and the West Fork Greenbrier Bridge for Laurel Fork Wilderness access. While these projects sound benign, addressing the aging infrastructure throughout the MNF is the first step to maintaining and improving recreational and ecological access for generations to come. “With more than 778 miles of forest roads, we are always working to upkeep and improve access for the public. You might even say it’s a never-ending job,” Bridges said. “These types of projects fit right in with the purpose of the GAOA funding to improve conditions, enhance the visitor experience, strengthen local economies, and expand equitable access to recreation sites across the Forest Service.”

The Red Creek Bridge, slated to be replaced with GAOA funds.

David S. Johnston

As our Congress discusses updates to the country’s aging infrastructure, the Monongahela National Forest (MNF) is already getting to work. The MNF recently announced plans to address the backlog of deferred maintenance via nine projects that span the MNF’s various ranger districts. The plans include upgrading a campground, replacing several aging bridges, updating drainages and culverts for fisheries, and making improvements to an existing fire tower for future public use. These projects will be completed with funds from the Great American Outdoors Act (GAOA), an historic piece of bipartisan legislation signed into law on August 4, 2020. The GAOA provides $1.9 billion annually over the next five years to spruce up America’s national parks, forests, wildlife refuges, and other public lands. It also fully funds the Land and Water Conservation Fund to the tune of $900 million annually via revenue from offshore oil and gas leases. Upcoming projects include rehabilita-

tion of the Lake Sherwood Campground in White Sulphur Springs, which will add new ADA-accessible bathhouse buildings, update the utility and sewer infrastructure, and repair the existing amphitheater. According to Kelly Bridges, public affairs officer for the MNF, some of these projects are in the contracting phase and folks can expect to see some of the improvements this year. “We are really excited about the opportunity to make infrastructure improvements at Lake Sherwood; it’s been a beloved recreation area for decades and many people feel a deep connection to this site,” Bridges said. “We’re looking forward to invasive species removal which will improve access to the lake for boaters and swimmers, and rebuilding the amphitheater will allow us to offer interpretive programs there in the future.” Bridge replacements include the Elleber North Fork Deer Creek Bridge, the Tumbling Rock Bridge for timbering and recreation access, the Tea Creek Bridge at Williams River for Cranberry Wilderness

Two projects are slated to assist the safe passage of aquatic life, including a new culvert and aquatic organism bridge near the Stonecoal Dispersed Camping Area on Forest Road 209, and stream crossing structures for trout fisheries in the Marlinton-White Sulphur Ranger District. “These projects enhance habitat for aquatic organisms, including brook trout, which is also something we are always working toward,” Bridges said. Perhaps the most interesting project involves lightning protection improvements to the Red Oak Fire Tower to ready the structure for public rental. The 80-foot tower sits atop Red Oak Ridge in Webster County at an elevation of 3,704 feet. If you’ve never spent the night in a fire tower, it’s time to place that on your bucket list. If you’d like to see more of these projects across the MNF, you can use the public comment system to let MNF officials know when opportunities arise. As always, consider contacting your representatives to thank them for supporting the GAOA and let them know that West Virginians cherish their public lands and want to see more funding funneled into the Mountain State. w

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NEW RIVER GORGE GATEWAY TOWNS POISED FOR GROWTH By HO Staff The redesignation of the New River Gorge (NRG) National Park and Preserve is national news these days, and the region’s gateway towns are positioning themselves for an explosion of outdoor recreation-fueled growth. Beckley, the state’s ninth largest city, is leaning on West Virginia Senators Joe Manchin (D) and Shelley Moore Capito (R) to include federal earmarks for urban recreation development and trail connectivity. Beckley mayor Rob Rappold, working with the New River Gorge Regional Development Authority, recently announced an $8 million recreation development proposal that seeks to put the city on the map as a gateway town to the NRG. The proposal focuses on the Piney Creek Gorge and includes plans to construct a welcome center and a city park at the historic Alfred Beckley Mill, an amphitheater for Theatre West Virginia. It also includes plans to build a trailhead to connect existing hiking trails

in the scenic gorge. “This development will be the catalyst for the Piney Creek Gorge to become a destination for outdoor recreation and cultural enthusiasts,” said Corey Lilly, executive director of the Piney Creek Watershed Association, about the proposal. Kanawha Valley towns like Montgomery and Smithers, both en route to the NRG from Charleston, are also hedging bets on an economic resurgence by leveraging their proximity to America’s 63rd national park. Montgomery mayor Greg Ingram is hoping that recreation opportunities can pull the old mining town of Montgomery out of an economic slump. Kanawha County Commissioner Ben Salango submitted a funding request to Manchin’s office for a $40 million federal earmark to fuel the transition. Kanawha County officials expect to hear back about the funding request in June. w Stay tuned to our website for more developments as this story unfolds throughout the year.

East of the Mississippi By Cam Moore

Summer is the time to escape the sweltering lowlands and head for the hills. Few places in West Virginia are better for a cool dip in a remote mountain river than the Cranberry Wilderness. In 2009, expansion of the Cranberry to 47,815 acres crowned it the largest wilderness area east of the Mississippi. In terms of land mass, the Cranberry Wilderness (human population: 0, bear population: 200) is just a tad bigger than Washington, DC (human population: 692,683, bear population: 0). Bounded on the east side by the unreasonably beautiful Highland Scenic Highway, the Cranberry boasts over 50 miles of trails that wander through the darkest red spruce forests, the deepest mud holes, the brightest psychedelic fall colors, and the clearest rushing rivers. The mountain spirits of the Cranberry take it upon themselves to guard its heart by sending hungry bears to gnaw the few remaining trail signs into sawdust, and by commanding the rhododendron and laurel thickets to grow back over the trails the day after they are trimmed. It’s a great place to get utterly and hopelessly lost, to watch a coyote hunt in the rain, to have a bear tear apart a three-foot diameter tree in your campsite (true story), to have a two-mile day hike somehow become a 12-mile odyssey, to hear bobcats screaming at dusk, to swim with river otters at dawn, and to glean ineffable knowledge that can only be found in true wilderness. w Cam Moore is a resident of Canaan Valley, the highest large valley East of the Mississippi, and a lover of all things West Virginia.

Piney Creek Gorge. Photo courtesy Piney Creek Watershed Association.

MAKING A SPLASH Getting Your Family Out on the Water

Words and photos by Molly Wolff

n Instagram, family adventures on the water are all smiles, hugs, laughs, and cooperative picture-perfect moments. In reality, these adventures are ticking-time-bomb opportunities for meltdowns, blood sugar swings, soggy shoes, and nature poop catastrophes. Sounds fun, right? Despite that harrowing list, it most definitely is fun. My husband Dave and I grew up playing on the water and have been whitewater professionals for over 15 years. Even though getting our two kids out on a river or lake is one of our favorite things to do, it is far from a seamless experience. We’re currently deep into what some veteran parents call “the thick of it.” Our kids Arthur and Ellen are three and five, respectively. There’s the old adage that two-year-olds are tough, but three-yearolds are just smarter and faster. This always ensures a hilarious and mildly 12 HIGHLAND OUTDOORS

nerve-wracking experience. We’ve heard things get easier when your kids turn four or five, which is encouraging. But, for now, we’re just trying to have fun, learn a few things, and keep the meltdowns to a minimum. When Arthur and Ellen each turned nine months old, we took them on their first rafting trips down the friendly and safe rapids of the Upper New River. We used our own raft and kept the river sections fairly short so we could swim, play, and bail quickly if exhaustion hit or a summer storm suddenly dropped the temperature by 20 degrees. Did I mention kids don’t like rapidly changing temps? However, Dave and I believe that being a bit uncomfortable is great for the kids. The experience teaches them resilience, patience, and problem-solving skills. At the same time, we don’t want to push them too hard and discourage them from seeking out these adventures later in life. Our

SUMMER 2021

motto remains after being field-tested on two kiddos: keep it simple, have fun, overpack, and bail before the adventure turns south. Fortunately, this approach has worked, and we still go on plenty of family rafting trips. Because our kids are still small, one of us holds them while the other person steers our 10.5-foot raft through wave trains. In flatwater sections, Arthur and Ellen typically float downstream next to the boat. The easiest way to splash around in the water with your family during the summer is to drive to a creek and hike a short distance to a swimming hole. There are plenty of hidden gems in state parks, national forests, and the New River Gorge National Park. We also take advantage of the beautiful lakes in southern West Virginia, like Plum Orchard Lake here in Fayette County. We really enjoy bringing a few crafts out so we can take turns

paddling. Small kids do fairly well riding on the front of a stand-up paddle board with an adult. At the age of four, Arthur was able to gracefully maneuver a child-size, sit-on-top kayak around the lake. It’s amazing to see them light up when they realize they can control their own destiny on the water.

Top left: Molly and Arthur on the Smokehole. Top Right: David and Ellen on a SUP board in Plum Orchard Lake. Bottom right: Ellen enjoying nature’s aquatic bounty.

But the ultimate chillout family experience is river tubing. During the summer of 2020, we sought out river and camping experiences to get us through the pandemic safely and distantly. Our favorite trip took place in the spectacular Smokehole Canyon section on the South Branch of the Potomac River. We scored a great campsite where the river makes a sweeping horseshoe bend, allowing for an incredible self-supported river tubing trip on class I moving water. Dave and I floated in our tubes while the kids splashed around like fish between the clear, shallow riffles. When we rounded the big bend an hour later, we were just about back to where we started. The smiles on Arthur’s and Ellen’s faces proved the trip to be a hit. On the last evening of our trip, a storm rolled through and the temperature plummeted. I wanted to get everyone out for one more round of tubing around the bend, but the kiddos were beat. I decided to go on a solo mission instead. The sun was setting, illuminating both the towering limestone cliffs and the mist over the river. For once, I was all alone as I watched a bald

eagle swoop over the river. It was a good reminder that, as parents, we need some solo time as well. Splashes and smiles are important aspects of a child’s life, but the most important bit of advice is that your kids should always have a lifejacket (or PFD) on when they’re in or around a body of water—no exceptions. The moment we step foot out of the car, the PFDs go right on the kids. We always do our best to supervise, but young children tend to fly head-first toward bodies of water, and the ever-present PFD makes sure they’ll be safer. Free-flowing rivers and creeks almost always have invisible or unpredictable currents and lakes often have low visibility, increasing

the risks for everyone who likes to play in the water. Packing the right gear for the day is also critical, whether you’re in a boat, a tube, or hanging out creekside. I always pack an abundance of snacks, more than enough water for each person, PFDs, sunscreen, a warm layer, and a change of clothes. Even on a hot summer day, you can get pretty cold playing in the water—that extra dry layer can save the day. If you are new to water sports, there are plenty of ways to get outside without much experience. If you want to learn how to SUP with your family, check out Mountain Surf Paddle Sports in Fayetteville. There are also tons of flatwater and highland-outdoors.com 13

whitewater outfitters throughout West Virginia that can guide your family down the river, including ACE Adventure Resort and Adventures on the Gorge in the New River region, and other smaller outfitters that offer unique experiences. Further north, Blackwater Outdoor Adventures and Cheat River Outfitters offer tubing, ducky, and rafting trips along the various sections of the amazing Cheat River. Trips range from class I-III, which are perfect for families with younger children or those who are new to paddling. As your kids get older, there are plenty of options to help your family advance your skills and safety in the water. Private instructions for kayaking, canoeing, SUP,

and whitewater rescue, as well as other water activities, are offered through certified American Canoe Association (ACA) instructors. This training will boost your confidence, help you teach your family members, and give you the tools to handle emergency situations. Getting First Aid and CPR certifications is also extremely valuable if you’re regularly leading your family and friends on outdoor adventures—especially when little ones are on or near the water. While these trainings won’t prepare you for downriver potty time or negotiating who gets the last cookie, they might save a life. The outdoor education adage still applies: seek qualified instruction before

Arthur Wolff’s first kayaking outing in Plum Orchard Lake.

14 HIGHLAND OUTDOORS

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taking on a new water sport. Getting your kids out on the water helps instill a lifelong passion for water sports and the outdoors. Paddling is an activity that people can enjoy from their early months until their last days. Once I am too old to paddle, I plan on having my kids tote me around out there on the lake, diapers and all. But when that day comes, I’ll get the last cookie. w Molly Wolff is a mom, adventure seeker, and professional photographer trying to balance it all out. Paddling is her favorite pastime— sharing that joy with her two kids makes it even sweeter.

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THE JOY OF THE

SUFFERFEST BY NIKKI FORRESTER

nly a quarter mile to go. The soles of my feet ached. My back and shoulders could barely bear the weight of my 40-pound backpack. With ten brutal miles already under my boots, the prospect of another one was deflating. My brain was weary, bouncing between thoughts. What’s ten more minutes after I’ve already hiked for hours? Did I really need to bring those beers? I pressed on, slowly falling behind my adventure partners, Dylan, Owen, and Michelle. We were

16 HIGHLAND OUTDOORS

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silent, taking one careful step at a time across an exposed outcrop of flaky sandstone in the Dolly Sods Wilderness. We stopped ten minutes later. Owen and Dylan checked the map for the umpteenth time. Our campsite should have been right there, but we didn’t see any semblance of human life—no barren tent spots, no cut branches, no fire rings. We continued on. Only a quarter mile to go.

Fifteen minutes later, we stopped again. Each of us drifted off the trail in a different direction. I scoured the terrain; there must be a campsite somewhere, anywhere. I wandered in large circles, anticipating the moment when I could shout, “I’ve found it!” But to no avail. No one else found a promising spot, so we walked on as Dylan said, “Only a quarter mile to go.” We started to get desperate, questioning whether there was a campsite anywhere close. We didn’t want to build a new one, but we were all exhausted and couldn’t keep going for much longer. I knew that if I sat down to take a break, I’d never get up again, so I adjusted my frayed backpack straps and took another step. Thirty minutes later, we stopped again to prowl around for a campsite. Owen stumbled into the woods and proudly proclaimed he found something. A wave of relief flooded through me as I rushed toward the campsite— we were home. The archaic campsite looked as though it had been unused for at least twenty years. The soil-capped stones that lined a small fire ring had mostly sunken into the earth; a stout sapling sprouted amidst the ancient ash. I dropped my pack, wiggled my lightened limbs, and set out to explore our nest for the evening. Although the exhaustion lingered, it was overwhelmed by the comfort that comes with knowing I was done for the day. Dylan and I placed our tent in a grassy meadow near a spruce thicket and cracked a beer (it was worth its weight in gold). Then we scrambled up a large boulder that overlooked the expansive Appalachian wilderness. We spent the rest of the evening on the boulder, cooking dinner, chatting, and gazing into the stars. We built a small fire, prepared to discard the ashes and welcome the next rains that would wash away any evidence of our arrival. Inevitably, we laughed about our journey here—the endless excitement at the beginning of the trip followed by several

periods of being lost. We didn’t see anyone that day, save for one pot-bellied, tote-carrying man with chiseled calves —our trail fairy who graciously pointed us in the right direction when we had no idea where to go. We revealed our inner monologues during the final stretch of the day, growing closer over our solitary struggles. Michelle calls these moments ‘going inward.’ You can’t talk, you can’t laugh, you can’t do anything but focus on getting yourself through whatever it is you’re going through. The next morning was a breeze compared to the day before. We rose slowly, brewed coffee, and cooked a hearty breakfast of grits, bacon, cheese, and dried ramps. There was absolutely no rush to get back on the trail. When noon approached, we finally packed up and continued along our route. Despite consuming two hefty meals, liters of water, and several beers, my pack didn’t feel any lighter. About a quarter mile later, we came across the established campsite, most likely the one noted on the map. There were ideal nooks within the spruce forest for tents and a grander rock outcrop overlooking verdant mountains and steep drainages. At first, I wished we’d continued hiking just a little longer the day before, but then realized that we experienced the timeless joy of a campsite from days of yore. I hoped it would stay untouched for another twenty years. We carried on down the trail, dropping in elevation through a diverse cove forest, an ecosystem unique to the Appalachian Mountains. Birch, sugar maple, and bigtooth aspen glowed in the ambient sunlight. Their backlit leaves showcased faint hues of yellow, orange, and red, a perfect contrast to the rigid, dark needles of hemlock and spruce. The autumnal decay of plant life renewed the land itself, providing immense depth and texture to the ravine. We descended the trail and bushwhacked through waist-high nettles to arrive at a waterfall

gushing over drenched, dangling moss. The nettle stings dissipated within a few minutes, much longer than it took us to forget about our tribulations from the previous day. In retrospect, we didn’t forget about the struggles of that trip, the sufferfest we collectively endured simply to haul hefty packs through uncharted terrain (at least to us). We still reminisce about the endless slog, the exhaustion, the quiet. We remember the moments of uncertainty about where we were going and whether we could make it. And yet, we look back at that trip as one of the best backpacking adventures of our lives. After hitting rock bottom on rocky scree, flavorless food tasted utterly divine; a sip of water felt as though it hydrated every single cell in my body. The forest and creek took on an intensely vivid quality, perhaps because I was more open to absorb every aspect of my surroundings. I couldn’t wait to do it again, and neither could they. Every May, Michelle, Owen, Dylan, and I set out into the forests of West Virginia, eager for complete immersion in spring greens and raging creeks. Our annual backpacking trip is also the first of but a few backpacking outings each year. We’re never in shape and we always bring too much. Sure, we could slim down or train more, but I’ve come to relish in the inevitable discomfort. The following year, we set out into the dark depths of the Otter Creek Wilderness. I took the lead on trip planning, sought advice from a good friend who’s been venturing there for years, and mapped out our route. The forecast didn’t look great, but this being our annual trip, we couldn’t back out. We started out our adventure with unbridled enthusiasm. But as we ventured further into the wilderness, the route became choked with downed trees and the trail eroded into a muddy mass on the hillside. We scrambled over and under giant trunks.

“THERE’S AN ADAGE THAT IF YOU NEVER GO OUT IN THE RAIN, YOU’LL NEVER DO ANYTHING OUTDOORS IN WEST VIRGINIA.” highland-outdoors.com 17

Left: Lowimpact camping in the Cranberry. Bottom: Checking the map in Dolly Sods, only a quarter mile to go! Previous: The author kneedeep in the bone-chilling Middle Fork Williams River in the Cranberry Wilderness. All photos by Dylan Jones.

Michelle, keenly attuned to her surroundings, mindfully placed each foot as her backpack effortlessly followed in her wake. I attempted to do the same but was ensnared in an aboveground strainer. My shirt snagged on a branch, my arm started to bleed, and my backpack lurched forward, tumbling my body over the tree. Finesse is not my strong suit. We continued our quest through the matrix of debris as we noticed hints of a storm approaching. “Maybe it’ll blow over,” I said with the hopeless optimism that comes with living in a place where it perpetually rains. I felt a raindrop on my hand, then another on my face. We stopped, deciding to gear up in Gortex before it was too late. The steady drizzle persisted until we arrived at our campsite. Dylan and I quickly set up our tent and a tarp, then managed to start a small fire with an oatmeal packet wrapper and some relatively dry hemlock twigs. Thirty minutes later, the skies opened, releasing sheets of rain. Michelle, Owen, and I huddled under the tarp, as the acoustics of the torrential storm engulfed us. Water pooled in the tarp depressions, filling and releasing buckets of rain. After many nights of wet camping, Owen and Dylan had perfected their auto-burp technology, a system of rigging a tarp to be periodically self-draining. Dylan, showcasing his own hopeless optimism, attempted to keep the fire going with diminishing returns. Water poured down his back and funneled into 18 HIGHLAND OUTDOORS

SUMMER 2021

a gap between his rain jacket and rain pants, soaking every inch of his baselayers. Thirty minutes later, he accepted the fire’s fate and joined us under the tarp, significantly wetter than he would have been if he had just abandoned the idea of a fire before the deluge. We swapped stories and sipped whiskey for several hours before crawling into our tents. My sleeping bag embraced me in downy warmth and I drifted off to sleep, comforted by the sound of heavy raindrops pattering against the fly. Although we never embark on an adventure in pursuit of suffering, we invariably experience elements of suffering, often born from the elements themselves. There’s an adage that if you never go out in the rain, you’ll never do anything outdoors in West Virginia. Another is that there is no bad weather, only bad gear. We take both to heart, rarely letting the forecast deter us and always bringing waterproof layers and fresh tent socks. With another successful sufferfest in the books, Dylan and I geared up for our next adventure, a three-night trip in the lush Cranberry Wilderness, the largest wilderness area east of the Mississippi. We cruised along the Highland Scenic Highway as the sun illuminated leaves mottled with greens, yellows, and reds. It was a perfect September day, a harbinger of our idyllic West Virginia adventure week, or so I hoped. But the second we pulled into the parking lot at the trail head, it started to rain. We waited in the car, munching on a lunch of leftovers and wishing the storm would pass. Twenty minutes later, we committed to another

wet hike in the woods. Moving at a brisk pace, we booted up, put on our rain gear, and prepped our packs. I brought too much stuff (of course), so my pack cover jutted out in various directions to encase a water bottle, pair of sandals, and loose sleeve of crackers. The rain poured down, finding every crack between my backpack and its cover. The sleeve of crackers swung left to right in a puddle that accumulated in my pack cover, sloshing in tune with my steps.

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The trail wound through a sweeping spruce forest, each tree spaced apart enough to command individual appreciation. Rolling hummocks of neon green moss coated the floor, freshly fluffed from the ample moisture. Wet West Virginia woods have an unparalleled beauty. We passed through the spacious woods and entered an encroaching rhododendron thicket. As a shorter human, I get whacked from head to toe with saturated branches. I looked up as another couple approached us. “Are you enjoying the car wash?” a woman giggled. They forgot their rain gear and turned around to head for the dry respite of their car. We wished them well and carried on through the tunnel of soggy bushes. After six miles or so, we checked the map and discovered we were approaching our campsite destination. We ventured off trail in opposite directions but found nothing resembling a campsite. It felt like the Dolly Sods trip all over again. We walked for another fifteen minutes, consulted the map, and wandered around again. I inspected a boulder outcrop and discovered the faintest hint of an old fire pit. The moment I’ve been waiting for, “I found it!”

highland-outdoors.com 19

I woke up the next morning to the sun filtering through a misty canopy. We did our camp chores without any sense of urgency. When the caffeine hit, we set off, eager to explore new trails. As we 20 HIGHLAND OUTDOORS

descended the trail, which felt more like an eroded creek bed, I noticed a cluster of bright red mushrooms. Then another and another. I glanced around to see yellow, orange, brown, and black fungi. They were everywhere. It was a fungal fairy tale, all made possible by the rain and the mycelial miracle of the underground. The rest of our trip featured warm, sunny days. We took refreshing dips in the Williams River and lounged on a rock, basking in the sun. By all definitions, it was the perfect weather for a backpacking trip. But when I reflect on that adventure, it’s the soaking slog through the misty spruce forest and the mushroom extravaganza that I cherish most. We’re fortunate to live in a place so abundant with water; life flourishes before our eyes as rain trans-

SUMMER 2021

forms the landscapes that surround us. Along with the external world, I treasure the internal world I seem to only explore when conditions are less than ideal. I only go inward when I’m hauling a heavy pack over exhausting terrain or getting drenched through the rhododendron car wash. The outward challenges provide those increasingly rare opportunities to check in, put my life into perspective, and convince myself that I’m strong (and stubborn) enough to carry on. After all, there’s only a quarter mile to go. w Nikki Forrester is senior editor of Highland Outdoors and looks forward to the many sufferfests that will inevitably happen in the future.

Dylan Jones

I dropped my pack and did a happy dance as the rain lightened up around me. We hung our wet gear on wet branches and changed into dry clothes. We gently constructed a cozy nest of hemlock needles upon which to set our tent. Despite the misshapen pack covers, our gear stayed dry, except for one corner of Dylan’s sleeping bag. He built a small, but impressive fire with some wet, fallen twigs—just warm enough to evaporate the moisture off his bag. After a quiet, peaceful night in the woods, we crawled into our tent and fell asleep.

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C R E E K Y O N E E R I N G

MISADVENTURES IN WEST VIRGINIA’S

WILDEST D R AI NAG ES BY MARK H. ANDERSON

My legs tightly straddle a downed hemlock as I inch my way up the trunk. This precarious route has proven to be the only path forward as I push through a swath of forest knocked down the year before by Superstorm Sandy. To my left, a long, cascading waterfall is flush with water from days of relentless rain. Above me, just out of view, a large waterfall flows over a diagonal rockface, plunges off the edge of a cliff, and fans out in a white spray before crashing onto broken rocks at its base. I’m exploring the start of Coal Run, a streep tributary in the Otter Creek Wilderness. This spectacular feature marks the start of one of the highest and longest waterfall series I’ve seen in West Virginia, and it isn’t noted on any maps. highland-outdoors.com 23

y friend Kevin Williams is behind me, sweaty and grinning in a way that suggests he might be a little annoyed. We’ve been off trail, climbing up and along an impossibly steep creek bed in the rugged wilderness for nearly four hours. Despite the effort, we’ve only covered about a mile of moss-covered slides and small waterfalls. Early on in our trek, we encountered a debris jam blocking our way and had to traverse high above the creek through impenetrable rhododendron thickets, colloquially known as ‘hells’. This is my fourth trip up Coal Run and Kevin’s first. We’re here thrashing through the thick vegetation because the heavy rains had us dreaming of far-flung waterfalls bulging with whitewater. Kevin had previously climbed a steep tributary of Red Creek with me in the Dolly Sods Wilderness, so was well aware of what he was getting into. Today’s excursion, however, is much harder than we expected due to the damage wrought by Superstorm Sandy’s high winds and wet, heavy snow. The creek and its bank are littered with downed trees, including a large area at around 2,600-feet elevation that looks like it had been stomped down by a giant foot. The final ascent to the amphitheatre that contains the largest waterfall remains blocked by this tangle of trees. A steep wall of rock blocks us to the left; a steep incline on the right makes passage all the more difficult. Reaching the upper waterfall has never been easy—this time it was nearly impossible. Stinging nettle around the base of the falls offered a final bulwark. But we finally make it, taking in an ephemeral waterfall series at its highest flow of my six trips to the area over the past decade. We’re creekyoneering—our colloquial term describing the experience of bushwhacking and bouldering along the steep mountain creeks of the East. It’s somewhat like canyoneering, a niche sport prac-

ticed in Western slot canyons, the European Alps, and elsewhere around the world. Although the mode of travel through a stream bed is similar, creekyoneering often ends up being quite different from its drier and rockier Western counterpart. Ascending or descending a steep, trail-less stream in Appalachia involves a venerable gladiator course of obstacles, some of which come and go as storms move earth and forest around. Fearless creekyoneers must traverse slick streambeds, thick rhododendron hells, complicated rock formations, knots of downed trees, and deep pools filled with cold water. This mix of bouldering, wading, and wrestling with thick vegetation—usually with a long trail approach or bushwhack through the woods to reach the creek—demands persistence and a high tolerance for pain. I once broke a rib in a fall on slick rock during a trip on a Blackwater River tributary. On another outing, Clare, my spouse and adventure partner, and I took much longer than planned to climb an Otter Creek tributary and had trouble finding our exit trail. The fumbles put us back at our vehicle well after dark and more than 14 hours after starting. No matter our level of physical fitness, we’re always exhausted after a trip. Several intrepid friends joined us on our excursions, saying afterward that once was enough. The Canaan Valley region has held a reputation for inhospitable terrain since the 1800s when white settlers reached the region. “There is a tract of country containing from seven to nine hundred square miles, entirely uninhabited, and so inaccessible that it has rarely been penetrated even by the most adventurous,” wrote David Hunter Strother, under the nom de plume Porte Crayon, in A Visit to the Virginian Canaan. According to Strother’s account, “The settlers on its borders speak of it with dread, as an ill-omened region, filled with bears, panthers, impassable laurel-

brakes and dangerous precipices.” The lumber and coal companies of the Industrial Age arrived soon after Porte Crayon’s account, tearing through and forever altering that impenetrable wilderness. The region, however, has since healed considerably. Vast tracts of secondgrowth forest now belong to all of us as public land, and much of its wildness has returned. Even with the superb trail and forest access in north-central West Virginia, natural superlatives remain hidden in the deep creases of the mountains. A stream bed can be a pathway—albeit a torturous one—through otherwise inaccessible terrain. The steep creeks that line the region’s major canyons reach seldom-seen waterfalls, small pockets of old-growth trees, and boulder-choked cataracts. These trips taught me to look closely at the

Appalachian forest, where myriad flora and fauna thrive.

forest road, and returned to our vehicles chilled and soaked.

Chip Chase, owner of White Grass Touring Center, introduced us to creekyoneering on a humid July trip in 2006. We fought our way up Red Run, a pristine tributary to the Dry Fork that drains the western side of Canaan Mountain. The objective was to reach Red Run Falls, a 25-foot sheer drop, and continue upstream as far as daylight allowed.

Clare and I were hooked. We schemed with Chip on our next creekyoneering outing. We went deep into the Blackwater River’s canyon downstream from its famous namesake falls, exploring the upper stretch and its many rapids. Blackwater Canyon is one of the state’s undisputable crown jewels, stretching 13 miles as the river carves a 1,300-foot notch through the highlands. Several steep tributaries—some easy to reach and others more remote—provide a high concentration of creekyoneering opportunities. Although we had only been on a few trips, they had an enduring feature: they all took hours longer to complete than planned.

After reaching the falls, we rock hopped upstream and dipped in Red Run’s cool waters, stained deepred by tannins from decomposing spruce and hemlock needles in the surrounding soil. We didn’t make it very far before a powerful thunderstorm bore down heavily upon us, forcing a chaotic retreat well short of our planned exit point. We scrambled up the slippery shoulder of the creek’s steep canyon to a parallel

Above: Clare Anderson creek stomping. Left: Clare Anderson in a boulder-choked chimney more reminiscent of a slot canyon out West. All photos by Mark H. Anderson.

With several successful creekyoneering adventures under our belts, we began dreaming about our next outing. Chip bestowed upon us an highland-outdoors.com 25

Clare Anderson amongst the housesized boulders of Big Run.

invaluable map of the Dolly Sods Wilderness made by Mary Ann Honcharik, a local photographer and explorer. Honcharik had extensively mapped Dolly Sods and the surrounding area, generously sharing special places she discovered on her outings. She used stars to mark numerous waterfalls and cascades in the Sods and nearby Roaring Plains. Dunkenbarger Run, a steep tributary of Big Stonecoal Run, caught our attention because it was packed with stars in a short section that drops more than 300 feet in just a half-mile. We put a group together, waited for low water, and headed for the stars. But getting to Dunkenbarger Run wasn’t as easy as the topo maps suggested. The first 26 HIGHLAND OUTDOORS

step was to reach the streambed of Big Stonecoal Run, protected by a steep gorge and dense forest with bands of rhododendron. Dunkenbarger Run, shrouded in thick vegetation and mystery, was even steeper. This was our first mission in nearly vertical terrain; clamoring along the bank was no longer an option. It became quickly apparent that staying in the creekbed was mandatory. This was real creekyoneering, the way canyoneers explore out West. Dunkenbarger Run’s long bedrock slides and tumbled boulder jams effectively hollowed out its path through endless maws of rhododendron hells and under the low canopy of the dense spruce-hardwood forest.

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“ASCENDING OR DESCENDING A STEEP, TRAIL- LESS STREAM IN APPAL ACHIA INVOLVES A VENERABLE GL ADIATOR COURSE OF OBSTACLES.”

The top of Dunkenbarger’s steep canyon is guarded by a 20-foot, streamwide waterfall that drops onto jagged rocks. We couldn’t climb the falls without rope. The banks were also choked with vegetation so thick it would have taken hours to move a hundred yards. To one side near the top of the canyon was a large hemlock, whose shade prevented undergrowth and provided partial passage after crawling through a rhododendron hell to reach it. Dunkenbarger’s upstream stretch lazily meanders along the relatively flat, high plateau of the Allegheny Front. Although the technical creekyoneering portion of the day was done, we still had to wade through the creek’s numerous pools, passing stands of rhody and thick mats of moss, cranberries, and carnivorous sundew. We reached the Dunkenbarger Trail late in the afternoon and, in what is an overarching theme of our misadventures, arrived at our vehicles as the sun went down.

Mark H. Anderson

Over the next decade Clare and I explored more of the region’s steep creeks, timing our outings with low water. The geology of the Potomac Highlands region creates a recurring set of features that we witnessed across numerous streams. Near the surface is Pottsville sandstone that creates hard lips where vertical waterfalls form above a softer, more erosive layer of Mauch Chunk shale that is dominated by slides and boulder jams. We made several climbs up the North Fork of the Blackwater. Its numerous waterfalls punctuate a rugged gorge despite its water being polluted by acid-mine drainage from the closed coal mines of yesteryear in Doug-

las, Coketon, and Thomas. Pendleton Run and Shays Run, both within the bounds of Blackwater Falls State Park, feature numerous large falls and rough bushwhack routes along their banks frequented by nature photographers and adventurous anglers. One of the most stunning Blackwater creeks is Big Run—a large tributary fed by Big Run Bog, a national natural landmark. Big Run begins its 1,000-foot descent into Blackwater Canyon at a 20-foot waterfall, followed by near-continuous slides, giant boulders, and falls. The creekyoneering road has been dotted with failure— many streams on our list remain unexplored despite valiant attempts. Coal Run certainly started out that way. We explored it three times in one summer; the first two attempts resulted in bailing before reaching the biggest water features. But we persevered, each time pushing a bit further, finally reaching the spectacular upper waterfall on the third outing. There’s something about the unmistakable hunch of knowing there are unknown destinations in the far-flung creekside corners of West Virginia that, at the end of the day, might not even be destinations at all. Ultimately, that’s what keeps us crawling back, on hands and knees, through the boulder-clogged and laurel-choked landscapes, places where the ingredients of bedrock, water, and time combine to serve up our beloved creekyoneering routes. w Mark H. Anderson i s a journalist, photographer, and multisport traveler. He has a huge crush on the West Virginia highlands.

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By Kerry Hensley

ucked away amidst the rolling Allegheny Mountains, Green Bank, West Virginia, is home to one of the world’s premier astronomical observatories. There, radio telescopes tune in to the whispers of the universe, night and day. It’s a place unlike any other on Earth. The expansive grounds of Green Bank Observatory are dotted with what appear to be eight oversized satellite dishes, the largest with a dish bigger than a football field and taller than the world’s highest roller coaster. Instead of receiving TV signals, these dishes detect radiation from objects in space in the form of radio waves. Invisible to the human eye, radio waves travel from distant stars and galaxies and pass through Earth’s atmosphere to the ground, where they are collected by radio telescopes. From there, these radio signals are decoded by scientists eager to learn more about our universe. Some of Green Bank’s radio telescopes have graced the grounds since 1958, shortly after the National Science Foundation selected Green Bank as the site of its new radio astronomy observatory. These venerable telescopes are joined by the crown jewel of the observatory: the 328-foot-diameter Green Bank Telescope (GBT), which celebrated its twentieth birthday last summer. With a dish area of 2.4 acres, the GBT is the largest fully steerable radio telescope in the world. The GBT’s massive metal support structure can rotate and tilt, allowing the telescope to point in almost any direction. It’s also exceptionally precise—the GBT can resolve fine details equivalent to discerning the presence of a quarter at a distance of three miles. It does this using two thousand tiny motors that gently press on the thin aluminum

panels lining the dish to maintain the dish’s shape. The GBT’s size and precision makes it great for studying faraway galaxies, but it’s also sensitive to radio waves generated by nearby objects, like refrigerators, vacuum cleaners, Bluetooth devices, and vehicles. “So many things have that technology that can cause interference baked in now,” said Jill Malusky, public relations specialist at Green Bank Observatory. If the GBT can detect a signal from a galaxy millions of light-years away, “imagine how bright of a signal your cell phone sitting next to it is going to be,” says Amber Bonsall, a scientific data analyst at Green Bank Observatory. Because interference can be extremely harmful to radio astronomy, the remote town of Green Bank, population 182, was the perfect place to establish an observatory. To protect the observatory from radio interference, the Federal Communications Commission, a government agency that regulates radio, cable, and satellite communications, established the National Radio Quiet Zone around the observatory in 1958. This 13,000-squaremile expanse restricts human-made radio transmissions and extends into Virginia and western Maryland. While residents near the perimeter of the Quiet Zone probably don’t notice any restrictions, the restrictions become progressively more stringent closer to the observatory. At Green Bank, there are no microwaves, no cell service, and no Wi-Fi. “We always joke that it’s like living in the 1960s,” said Bonsall, who lives on site. She has an old-school landline—stretchy spiral cord and all—and her cell phone is “essentially a glorified alarm clock.”

highland-outdoors.com 29

“It’s a very odd experience because most people are like, ‘I can’t live without my cell phone!’ It’s amazing how quickly you get used to not having it,” she added.

in my throat. This is amazing. This is nothing like we ever would have expected.” The radio waves detected by Balick and Brown weren’t from an ordinary gas cloud. Instead, they were from a supermassive black hole, containing more than four million times the mass of our Sun, lurking at the center of our galaxy. The discovery turned black holes from science fiction into fact, and scientists have since found even larger black holes at the centers of other galaxies. In 2019, astronomers took the first-ever picture of a supermassive black hole in a galaxy over 50 million light-years away, using a network of radio telescopes all over the world—including those at Green Bank.

Many Green Bank residents, including Bonsall, happily give up cell service and Wi-Fi to live in such a peaceful place and to be part of some of the biggest discoveries in the history of astronomy. From identifying a black hole in the Milky Way to the search for extraterrestrial life, Green Bank Observatory provides scientists and West Virginians an extraordinary view of the universe.

A BLACK HOLE BOMBSHELL In the early 1970s, Green Bank was the place to be for radio astronomy. Scientists from around the world used the telescopes to discover a dense, rapidly spinning object called a pulsar in the remains of an exploded star, find molecules in interstellar space, and measure the rotation of galaxies outside our own. These discoveries helped us understand what happens at the end of a star’s lifetime, showed us that molecules— including those important for life—are common in our galaxy, and led to our current understanding of dark matter, a difficult-to-detect form of matter that scientists believe makes up 85 percent of our universe.

ICE STORM VS GIANT TELESCOPE Scientists also use the telescopes at Green Bank to observe objects a little closer than the Milky Way’s center. As robotic landers and rovers make their way from Earth to their destinations across the solar system, radio telescopes around the world keep tabs on their journeys. Most recently, the GBT tracked NASA’s Perseverance Mars rover as it made its final descent to the Martian surface in February 2021.

Bruce Balick, an emeritus professor of astronomy at the University of Washington, used the telescopes at Green Bank during this astronomical heyday. Balick and his research partner, Robert Brown, the former Deputy Director of the National Radio Astronomy Observatory, set out to observe clouds of gas where stars are thought to form, including one at the center of the Milky Way. Despite the name, astronomers don’t typically listen to radio signals. Instead, the signals are recorded as squiggly lines on a sheet of paper, like an astronomical polygraph machine. (Today, a computer does the recording.) As Balick and Brown maneuvered the telescopes to observe different gas clouds, the signals were almost nonexistent. “Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing. And then finally we went to [the center of the Milky Way], and POW!” said Balick. “My stomach ended up 30 HIGHLAND OUTDOORS

In true West Virginia fashion, the weather did not cooperate. The morning of the landing, a snowstorm enveloped the observatory. Although the snow wouldn’t affect the radio signal itself, piles of heavy snow can deform the panels of the dish, altering the signal and preventing researchers from observing the rover’s landing on Mars. Top: Computer operators Sandy Braun (standing) and IBM employee Marry Jennings in NRAO’s Charlottesville, VA computer room in 1967. Employees made the daily drive from Greenbank to Charlottesville with tapes of fresh data from the GBO telescope, using a keypunch to transfer handwritten processing programs to cards. Middle: Workers hoisting the 40-ton polar shaft for the 140-foot telescope. The world’s largest metal bearing at the time was bolted to the end. It took six hours to lift and place the shaft onto its pedestal. Bottom: Scientists working the state-of-the-art control room for the 300-foot telescope circa 1970.

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In the hours leading up to the landing, the operators instructed the telescope to follow the Sun as it moved across the sky, hoping that the faint warmth would melt the snow. Intermittently, they nodded the GBT’s massive head as far toward the ground as possible—into the so-called “snow dump” position—to get rid of any snow in the dish. Usually, the GBT would start tracking the rover hours before landing, but for the safety of the telescope it

Various ages of human technology present themselves in the pastoral tableaus of Greenbank in Pocahontas County. All photos in this story courtesy Greenbank Observatory.

was critical to continue the snow dumping routine and delay the observations as long as possible. “Even then, it was a possibility that, because of the weather, we weren’t even going to be able to do it,” Bonsall said. With the countdown clock ticking, the GBT locked on to the signal from Perseverance. Bonsall and Green Bank scientist Will Armentrout monitored the signal as Perseverance entered Mars’s atmosphere and began its harrowing seven-minute journey to the surface. When Bonsall tracked the InSight Mars lander in 2018, the room was packed with other members of the Green Bank observatory team, scientists from NASA, and even Boy Scouts. But on the day of Perseverance’s landing, it was just Bonsall and Armentrout, masked and six feet apart. “It was really, really nerve wracking,” said Bonsall. “We sat there in complete silence for a good five minutes, and at one point one of us said “did it land?”” Finally, a small bump appeared in the signal, indicating that Perseverance had touched down. For a few

brief moments, Bonsall and Armentrout were the only people in the world who knew that Perseverance had landed safely, except for a few scientists at the Effelsberg telescope in Germany who turned a radio eye to Mars as well. With its descent completed, Perseverance began its mission. The rover is searching for specific minerals and molecules on Mars’s surface and creating caches of promising samples. A future mission will collect these samples and return them to Earth, so scientists can study them to determine if the Red Planet ever hosted life.

SEARCHING THE COSMIC HAYSTACK While Perseverance looks for life on the surface of our planetary next-door neighbor, Green Bank astronomers are undertaking their own search for life beyond Earth. Since humans have the ability to transmit radio waves, many astronomers believe that other intelligent life in the universe could develop the same technology, making radio telescopes a good tool for the search. highland-outdoors.com 31

In 1960, Green Bank astronomer Frank Drake undertook the first ever radio search for intelligent extraterrestrial life, sifting through the cosmic haystack in search of unusual signals that may indicate other intelligence. He pointed a telescope at two nearby stars for 150 hours over the course of a few months. The search came up short, but it led to a conference at Green Bank where a group of astronomers, including Carl Sagan, gathered to discuss the search for extraterrestrial life. The conference centered around the Drake Equation, a mathematical formula that estimates how many potential civilizations in the Milky Way might be able to communicate with us. Currently, estimates range anywhere 32 HIGHLAND OUTDOORS

from tens of millions of civilizations to just us, alone in the galaxy.

MEMORIES OF THE OBSERVATORY

Today, the search for extraterrestrial civilizations continues with the Breakthrough Listen project, which relies on the GBT as well as the Parkes Observatory in Australia and the Automated Planet Finder Telescope in California. Since the project started in 2016, Breakthrough Listen has collected petabytes of data (equivalent to the capacity of several million CDs) from the million stars closest to Earth, the center of the Milky Way, and the hundred closest galaxies to ours. So far, the universe seems to be quiet. But if there’s someone or something out there that wants to be heard, Green Bank may be the first to know.

As the birthplace of American radio astronomy, Green Bank is a place of many superlatives and firsts, from the world’s largest fully steerable telescope to the one-of-a-kind Radio Quiet Zone that protects it. Every year, tens of thousands of visitors flock to Green Bank to get their astronomy fix and enjoy the lush, green mountains and brilliant, starry skies of Pocahontas County.

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Professional astronomers from around the world make the pilgrimage to West Virginia to use the Green Bank telescopes, although increasingly many observe remotely. For those who get the chance to visit, the observatory evokes fond memo-

ries. “Anytime I come to the east coast, it is so tempting to rent a car and make the drive through the mountains,” says Balick. He and his wife cherished their time in Green Bank. “We loved the fact that everybody at the observatory was so friendly.” Professionals aren’t the only ones who use the telescopes at Green Bank; students from all 50 states participate in the educational programs at the observatory. West Virginian middle schoolers attending the Governor’s STEM Institute spend two weeks in the summer bunking in the observatory dormitory and learning about radio astronomy. These students get a rare chance to engage in astronomy research by designing a project, collecting data, and preparing a proposal to be granted observing time on the GBT. When students aren’t working on their research projects, they can go hiking, mountain biking, and spelunking in the surrounding mountains.

Frank Drake (left) is credited with the formulation of the worldfamous Drake Equation, which estimates how many civilizations in the Milky Way might be able to communicate with us.

In 2006, I was one of those middle schoolers. I woke each morning to the Rhododendron Song blaring in the bunkhouse, watched the telescope’s recording pens write the story of the Milky Way, and spent hours scrutinizing data. Looking back on it now, I’m stunned that they let a bunch of eighth graders use one of the largest telescopes in the world. The experience didn’t quite turn me into a radio astronomer, but it did set me on my current path as an astronomy graduate student. Whenever Green Bank is mentioned in conference talks or seminars, I feel a quiet spark of joy. How lucky West Virginians are to have a connection to Green Bank, a place that connects us, in turn, to the universe. w Kerry Hensley is an astronomy PhD candidate and science writer in Boston, where she tells anyone who will listen about how great the stars are in West Virginia.

highland-outdoors.com 33

Howlin’ Hardpack Fayetteville’s

Wolf

Creek

Trails

By Dylan Jones

34 HIGHLAND OUTDOORS

feet on the pedals, and point her straight. I choose a clean line off the lip of the boulder, let off the brakes, and, before I know it, I’m down the ramp and flying along the loamy forest floor. My fellow compadres hoot and holler, and the next rider lines up to zoom down the ramp. We’re mountain biking at Wolf Creek Park, the newest addition to the burgeoning mountain bike scene in Fayetteville. While the redesignation of the New River Gorge (NRG) as the country’s newest national park has made waves in national media, the story of the Wolf Creek Trails has been the buzz around town.

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But the trail system’s instant success is more than yet another feather in Fayetteville’s blossoming outdoor recreation cap. It’s a paragon of the transformative power of the outdoor recreation economy, something I hope continues to flex its monetary muscle throughout West Virginia’s hills and hollows. As the euphoric rush of endorphins and adrenaline carries me over feature after feature, I think about what these trails mean for Fayetteville and for the state. It feels like we’re entering the golden age of mountain biking in West Virginia, and I’m grateful to be here witnessing it.

Dylan Jones

e round a hairpin turn atop a large boulder after a snaking, steep hill climb. I grab my brakes and plant my left foot, gulping as I look over the edge of the 15-foot-tall monolith standing alone like a sentry in the thick forest. To the right, a 10-foot sheer drop leads to a sloped mound of dirt. To the left, the ledgey lip of the boulder leads to a 45-degree wooden ramp. The ramp, about three feet wide, is big enough to safely ride down, but I still shudder at the thought of accidently riding off the edge and plummeting 10 feet to the forest floor below. I walk my bike back a few feet, plant my

Bike Party By the time we finish our ride, I can barely pedal the final short hill to the trailhead. After hours of flying through flowy ribbons of manicured dirt, trudging through rock gardens, sessioning scary rock drops, and trying to balance our way across skinny log bridges, we’ve only covered about half of Wolf Creek’s 17 completed miles. I’m drenched in sweat, my calves are cramping, and I’m already scheming our next trip. For local residents, many of whom helped build the trails, Wolf Creek offers endless features and fun trails to continue enjoying for decades to come. There are technical rock gardens, flowy downhill sections, and lines traversing exposed rock slabs. “Wolf Creek has a little bit of everything,” says Andy Forron, owner of New River Bikes in Fayetteville. “There’s even a jump line. It’s got some bike park elements smack in the middle of the woods, which is just awesome.” One of the most iconic features is a series of downed trees on the Corona trail that were sawn to serve as narrow bridges, known in the mountain bike world as skinnies. Forron says that building actual bridges would have exhausted most of the project’s budget, so the crew got creative and utilized the fallen trees as logs to create the skinnies over a low-lying, swampy section. After making my way across each successively harder skinny, I can parrot the claim that they’re far more fun to ride than a standard bridge—if you can make it all the way across. “Corona is really the showcase trail that we spent the most time on, it’s got the downhills and the skinnies, and has the most features to offer for all types of riders,” says Sam Chaber, a Fayetteville-based trailbuilder who was hired to build the Wolf Creek Trails. But Moonshine Hollow is his favorite trail to ride. “It’s just a classic, old-school, Appalachian tech trail. I’m proud of those rock gardens we built.” Forron’s favorite trail is also Moonshine Hollow, a technical masterpiece that pays homage to the rugged trails of places like Davis and Canaan Valley. “It’s three miles of one chunky rock move after another with very few breaks,” Forron says.

Chris Jackson

Fortunately for novice riders, the most challenging moves are alternate lines to the main trails, so people aren’t forced to ride them. “As you get better, you can start attempting harder stuff,” Forron says. “The progression element is really great.”

Left: Nikki Forrester points her straight and cruises down a wooden ramp. Right: Abbie Newell and Brittany Chaber having a bike party.

highland-outdoors.com 35

A Community Effort Located just south of downtown Fayetteville, Wolf Creek Park is a 1,046-acre former mining site that was purchased by the Fayette County Urban Renewal Authority (FCURA) 36 HIGHLAND OUTDOORS

in 2004. It’s billed as a mixed-use development, blurring residential, commercial, and recreational use within its bounds. Fayette County envisioned Wolf Creek Park being a ‘live, learn, work, play’ community, which is a modern urban model of an inclusive community where folks can do all those things without having to travel outside the confines of the parcel. A few businesses, such as local craft brewery Bridge Brew Works and some governmental offices, reside in Wolf Creek along with a handful of residences. The park also features the Birding & Nature Center, an outdoor classroom that plays host to the well-attended New River Birding & Nature Festival. According to Fayette County Assistant Resource Coordinator Abbie Newell, the park’s outdoor recreation

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component had stalled out due to various holdups. “Initially, the development was going in a few different directions,” says Newell, who’s also president of the Fayette Trail Coalition. “We went to a lot of county meetings and advocated for singletrack and multi-use trails.” After three years of community effort and the completion of the first phase of trail construction, Wolf Creek Park is finally living up to its promise. In 2017, a group of locals, including Chaber and Forron, started bushwhacking around the property to see where the twisting ribbons of singletrack could go, marking out potential routes. The first few years of trail development, mostly involving route flagging and brush cutting, were completed solely by dedicated volunteers. Newell and Forron, who are

Right: Michael Boyes also having a bike party.

Chris Jackson

Craig Reger, owner of Range Finder Coffee in downtown Fayetteville, had been turned off from mountain biking for years until the Wolf Creek Trails got him back on two wheels. “Within the course of a few months, my riding went from novice to beyond what I thought I’d ever ride because of the progressive nature of the trail system,” Reger says. “I’d go on group rides and throw caution to the wind, hitting drops and jumps and blasting through rock gardens. There’s nothing like cruising with your homies and having a bike party.”

Above: Andy Forron pops a wheelie on a skinny.

“There’s nothing like cruising with your homies and having a bike party.” married, worked many volunteer days together. “I feel ownership, and I feel like I helped build this awesome asset,” Newell says. “It’s really cool to ride past a feature and know you helped make it.”

Chris Jackson

In 2020, the FCURA secured funding and contracted SC Resources, a trailbuilding company owned by Chaber, to build off the volunteer momentum and finalize 17 miles of trail. Chaber started by talking to the community and seeing how they could elevate Wolf Creek to be a step up from the Arrowhead Trails, a 14-mile, beginner-friendly trail system in the New River Gorge National Park. “We wanted to build something unique to have two differ-

ent zones and two different riding experiences,” Chaber says. Chaber and his two-man crew started work in March of 2020, right as the COVID-19 pandemic was shutting the country down. Volunteers remained critical throughout last year’s building blitz, and the project provided them an opportunity to safely cut brush and build trails when everything else was closed. “There’s a huge sense of pride in it because we had 30 or 40 folks show up on every monthly trail day,” says Chaber. “It was a grand old time.” Forron, who’s been building trails since his youth, still has a soft spot for cutting brush. “You’re looking forward, and it’s all brush and trees

and saplings. Then you turn around and see this corridor cut out through the understory where the trail is going to be, there’s just something about seeing it open up that I still love.” But trailbuilding is far more complex than simply clearing a path through the woods. Professional trailbuilders like Chaber scour topographical maps and images generated by light detection and ranging (LiDAR) to get a general idea of the terrain and how they can use it to create engaging trails. Next, the crew goes out and walks the terrain, searching for features like rocks, downed trees, creeks, and natural undulations that will make for inter-

Although Chaber’s only been mountain biking for a few years, his trails feel and ride like those of someone who’s been flying through the woods on two wheels for far longer. “Everyone is kind of shocked when I tell them that,” he says. “But even if you’re not a mountain biker, you can still know what people want. I was never a good artist per se, but I like to think of trail building as my kind of art.” Because the system was constructed on land owned by the county, Chaber’s team and the loyal volunteers didn’t have to go through the red tape involved with building trails on federal public lands. Chaber recalls the freedom of using a blank landscape to create something that he knew people would enjoy. “We’d be out working and could hear riders coming down some of the hills, whooping and hollering through the woods,” he says. The team astonishingly built 17 miles of trail in six months, making it the NRG region’s largest bike-specific trail system. “Wolf Creek more than doubled the amount of bike-specific trails in the area,” says Forron. “It’s also been a great showpiece for volunteer work and community involvement.”

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With an additional 10 miles planned for phase two of trail development, Wolf Creek is bound to become a destination among the likes of Big Bear Lake Trail Center in Preston County, Canaan Valley in Tucker County, and the Snowshoe Ride Center in Pocahontas County, further cementing West Virginia’s status as a mountain biking mecca.

Path to Prosperity Historically, economic development— especially in Appalachia—has been limited to extractive industry, manufacturing, and brick-and-mortar businesses like shops and restaurants. But the trail-town movement seeks to upend that model, showing that a place can, in fact, turn a trail into a dollar. “We’re definitely seeing an increase in visitors. Whenever there’s a new trail system, people want to go check it out,” Forron says, adding that one of Wolf Creek’s several trail counters averages around 350 unique users per month. When a community invests money in a purpose-built trail system, riders will travel to use it. As it turns out, those riders have money and will spend it on their trips. Newell says that doubling the amount of mountain bike trails in Fayetteville in a single year has provided a “huge influx of money” to Fayette County. While she says it’s hard to quantify just how much, she points to the constant presence of

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cars, mostly from out-of-state, at the trailheads and how many folks stop into Fayetteville’s various shops to get info about the trails. “I have a lot of customers coming through Range Finder that tell me how they’re here for mountain biking because they keep hearing about Wolf Creek trails,” says Reger, who typically serves up espresso to visiting rock climbers. Newell also pointed me to a 2019 West Virginia University study on the economic impacts of mountain biking in West Virginia, which found that, on average, non-local riders spend nearly $400 on a weekend visit, and about $143 for a day trip. “If you multiply that by even just a portion of the 1.8 million visitors that the national park is estimated to receive this year, it’s a huge impact,” Newell says. “Now that we have been gifted national park status, it’s even more critical that we become a little more diversified in our offerings because the 20 per cent increase in visitation is happening.” Adam Stephens, operations manager of Arrowhead Bike Farm (ABF), says the Wolf Creek Trails have undoubtedly been a boon for local business. Located adjacent to the Arrowhead Trails and just two miles from Wolf Creek Park, ABF is a bike shop that also features a campground and a beer garden. “We couldn’t be more stoked to have Wolf Creek as another asset to our commu-

Brittany Chaber riding one of the challenging, alternate lines.

Chris Jackson

esting and fun riding. “That’s why we built things the way we did, to make it a bit harder and improve everyone’s abilities,” Chaber says.

nity, it completes our recreation portfolio and we’ll retain long-term benefits from the trail system,” Stephens says. “I’m most excited about people seeing that it’s worth driving five hours to come and ride here.” It’s not just visiting riders who are pumping up the local economy. When trail construction began, Reger bought a bike from Forron at New River Bikes, eager to test out the new miles. “All of a sudden, you have this community effort to pump up businesses,” Reger says. “We’re all getting our bikes fixed; we’re all going to Bridge Brew for a beer and some food afterwards. You’re supporting local businesses, drinking really great beer, perusing the shops in town, getting some coffee and all that jazz.” In a county that is no stranger to the boom-and-bust cycle of extractive industry, those who are tirelessly working to further the transition to the post-coal economy are thrilled to see the fruits of their labor benefiting the region. “It’s a win for the community and the state as well,” Chaber says. “In West Virginia, we’ve already extracted all our resources, and that money always leaves the state. It’s nice when a trail build like this happens because all the money that comes in is staying in-state and recirculating here.”

Trailmap for the Future Newell hinted that they’re planning to develop three other parcels in Fayette County that, if the funds materialize, could add an additional 50 miles of trails. “The explosion of people getting into mountain biking from the Arrowhead Trails was amazing, but it didn’t make us a multi-day destination,” she

says. “If the community can get all this done, we’re poised to be a huge destination for mountain biking.” The Wolf Creek Trails can serve as a blueprint for other communities looking to invest in trails as conversations about recreation infrastructure ramp up around the state. “This says that the powers that be see the importance of trail infrastructure and the things that can happen when you make cycling more accessible,” Stephens says. “It’s positively affected people’s perception of government investing in trails, not just for quality of life, but also for the economic benefits that help us develop our tourism economy.” After riding there, I can’t help but feel that projects like this should be a no-brainer for local governments and planning groups sitting on swaths of undeveloped land. I live in Canaan Valley, where a robust trail system brings in mountain bikers every weekend, benefitting area businesses and providing a crucial boost to the local recreation economy. Considering that West Virginia is the most mountainous state in the country, this is a model that could potentially be implemented in counties from the Ohio River to the Potomac. “Wolf Creek offers a glimmer of insight into what can be done with more investment,” Newell says. “Mountain biking can be a huge economic driver if we, as a state, can get our act together. There’s so much potential.” w Dylan Jones is publisher of Highland Outdoors and an avid mountain biker. He encourages you to get involved with local trail coalitions to advocate for more trails and a better future for West Virginia. Viva la Appalachia!

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By Derek Clark

Sure, it’s never easy to run that far, especially since these races commonly take place on trails. Ultrarunning events have a reputation for being difficult because runners have to account for many variables, including distance, terrain, elevation, surface type, weather, navigation, and nutrition. At the same time, they have to be aware of their own physical and psychological limitations and how they play into each of those factors. But ultrarunning also isn’t as unreasonable as it might sound. As a kid growing up in Preston County, WV, I spent countless hours wandering the woods for entertainment. Though pretending to be the Appalachian version of Indiana Jones netted me zero ancient artifacts, I gained much appreciation for long hours in the forest. By the age of 15, those hours-long hikes morphed into brief runs that helped me survive excruciatingly difficult high school 5K cross-country races. Longer events still seemed extreme to me, set aside purely for “real” runners. But the running aspect seemed straightforward enough; get out often and move as fast as you can for as long as you can. My parents usually encouraged me to get out for runs, probably to get a break from the punk music blasting from my room as I played video games on my archaic IBM. Those first seasons of running were filled with mistakes: Reebok cross-training shoes, cotton clothing, excessive pavement pounding, running too fast and too often, questionable coaching, terrible or absent nutritional intake, chronic 40 HIGHLAND OUTDOORS

dehydration, and practices that usually finished with vomiting in the cow pasture adjacent to the school. As the years passed and my contributions to the cow pasture diminished, my competitive mind drifted to longer events. Suddenly 10Ks, half-marathons, marathons, and races of odd in-betweener distances seemed reasonable. What’s five more miles once you’ve done 26? Apparently, a few wires in my brain had fried from all that punk music and hair bleach. There’s a stereotype that a “typical” runner obsesses over miles and paces, running the same boring, paved loop everyday like clockwork. Trail and ultrarunning appealed to me not because I love running, but because I thrive on the liberating feeling of moving quickly through nature, constantly calculating the next move and creating adventures—just like when I was a kid. It sounds strange to non-runners, but the miles naturally fall into place. Some miles are peaceful, others border on meditative. Usually I’m chasing a beautiful view, a perfect photograph, or foraging for treats like blackberries, birch twigs, huckleberries, and ramps. Other times, a run is a scavenger hunt. I’ve come across everything from antlers and dropped backpacking tents to an electric church organ and even abandoned towns. My favorite runs—the ones that really pique my interest—involve creature encounters. Years ago, I inadvertently snuck up on a lone black bear in a misty pine grove while it drizzled spring rain. As the bear crashed through a fallen tree to escape, my initial thought was, “What’s that big dog doing in here? Oh.” On another wet, gray day when I almost didn’t leave my house because of a migraine, I only made it down the road a mile before scaring a bear walking toward me. It stared at me for a few seconds before reluctantly scampering off. My best bear

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encounter was last spring when I closely witnessed a mother tending to two cubs atop Cabin Mountain near Canaan Valley. I’ve spotted myriad other creatures along lengthy runs: barred owl, bald eagle, blue heron, pheasant, porcupine, ruffed grouse, woodcock, fisher, mink, beaver, and bobcat. Rarely a run goes by without spotting whitetail deer, wild turkeys, red-tailed hawks, Punxatawney Phils, and Alvin, Simon, or Theodore. And I’ll never forget the timber rattlesnake encounters common among the rocky outcrops on Chestnut Ridge. I once found two mating on the trail and have been scarred ever since.

Derek Clark

ndurance athletes are an oddity to most people; ultramarathoners are an even more peculiar breed. While ultrarunning has grown in popularity in the last decade, it remains on the fringe. I’ve been asked, ”Why would you do that to yourself?” Even lifelong runners wonder why ultrarunners take on events ranging from 50 km to 100 miles and beyond.

globe, I went out for a midweek run on the Laurel Highlands Hiking Trail. I carried enough fluid for my planned 18 mile out-and-back, but at the halfway turnaround point, I felt good. Why not make it a marathon and enjoy the nice day? Then it turned unseasonably hot and humid. Of course, I ran out of water and had no way to purify more. The backup plan began with drinking an unopened can of Iron City Light that was mysteriously lying next to a cherry tree. Shortly after drinking the warm beer, I left the trail and shuffled to a state DNR building where I explained to the officer, while sweaty, shirtless and loopy, that I had just ingested a random woods beer in a desperate attempt to counter the heatwave. He agreed on the surprising weather and was kind enough to refill a bottle.

Road 19, called the Road Across the Sky, became an unplanned test of mental fortitude. For over 10 miles, I stumbled like a zombie from lost focus and drowsiness.

But it was too little, too late. Before making it back to my vehicle, I’d become nearly immobilized by muscle and stomach cramps, immediately followed by the expulsion of that beer. I had to nap in my truck before I could get home and ended up pulling over twice to vomit.

Environmental exposure also presents challenges for even the most experienced ultrarunners. At the 2018 JFK 50-miler, a storm dumped several inches of snow that made the Appalachian Trail a mess of frigid, shin-deep pools. Running wasn’t enough to warm up, making me lethargic for hours. The solution became obvious after finally drinking hot chicken broth. At the other end of the spectrum, in the heat and humidity common to Highlands Sky or Kanawha Trace, I’ve had bonk-like brain fog resolve not with food but with a dunk in an ice-cold mountain creek. Listen to your body and actively look for solutions to problems.

Derek Clark, Courtesy Derek Clark

You don’t have to be tolerant of extreme pain to complete ultras, but you should enjoy puzzles, like figuring out how to avoid vomiting. Ultrarunners often try to hit the moving target of being comfortably uncomfortable, navigating the space between effort and pain. Experienced ultramarathoners become experts at preventing pain by being patient and attending to their needs as the run progresses. Being stubborn helps, but that’s preferably the last resort.

This isn’t to say that running is always butterflies and unicorns (mostly because the latter aren’t native to West Virginia). Long races require consistent training, which is often more eventful than the competitions. Some days you get it wrong, and other days you get it less wrong. On my 40th birthday, in typical August conditions, I ran 40 solo miles around Dolly Sods and Roaring Plains, eventually dehydrated despite filtering tons of water, and developed enough heat illness to vomit multiple times. There’s a reason you don’t see many ultramarathons scheduled in August—only the idiots like me show up. Last May, as COVID-19 engulfed the

It’s easy to mull over the hypothetical disaster scenarios during a race because our brains are wired to protect us, especially as our blood sugar levels drop, causing the dreaded bonk. The most likely scenario in racing is that you go too hard for your ability, don’t eat enough, bonk, struggle, and then consider quitting. Here’s your fix: if it’s not fun, slow down, eat more, make a friend out of a fellow competitor, and remember how lucky you are to experience nature. At the 2016 Highlands Sky 40-miler around the Dolly Sods Wilderness, I started hard and fast, ignorant to how the long, steep, and technical climbs would suck the life out of my legs in the first half. The straight-as-an-arrow section on Forest

The solution? Eat! A lot, and often. But what? Anything that sounds tasty at aid stations, which are stops along a race course that provide food, fluids, and safety. Early in an event, it’s possible to tolerate sugary junk food, though I favor PB&J, Nutella, bananas, grapes, potato chips, and trail mix. Eventually, many of us start craving savory foods like bacon, jerky, grilled cheese, or pizza. My secret weapon is a bacon cheeseburger, not a slimy energy gel. At the Highlands Sky, I rebounded after a few cups of Coke, strawberries, and handfuls of salty boiled potatoes, eventually feeling great for the final seven miles.

Even when I’ve devised the best plan and followed an optimal training routine, things went wrong that were out of my control, and problems tend to layer atop one another. At the Patapsco Valley 50K, I narrowly escaped a falling tree that was uprooted by high winds. And I bonked. At the Eastern States 100-miler, I was delirious and dropped my cell phone in the middle of the night. And I bonked—twice. At the inaugural Rim to River 100-miler in the New River Gorge, my new headlamp stopped working after a couple hours of use. Fortunately, I carried a cheap backup headlamp. Ideal? No, but better than sitting in pitch black woods until dawn. And at least I didn’t bonk. Or vomit. w Derek Clark is owner of Mountain Ridge Physical Therapy in Morgantown, WV. Check out more of his adventures on his blog: https:// mountainridgept.com/ highland-outdoors.com

John Garder wet wading into the chilling waters of the South Branch of the Potomac River.

By Craig Miller

Wade fishing for trout never gets old. Stream conditions are constantly changing. In fact, the only constant here is change itself. Like the relentless movement of a river, a fluid approach and open mindset create a blank canvas—one that is painted as the day unfolds. No two trips are the same. The guarantees of uncertainty and discovery lead me back again and again, every experience unique in its own way. Fortunately for adventurous anglers, the higher elevation streams that flow from the roof of the Mountain State present the perfect settings in which to take a dip and pursue our finned friends. 42 HIGHLAND OUTDOORS

Whether it be in a fast, shallow riffle that barely covers your ankles or waist deep in a pool of dreams, West Virginia’s 600 or so trout streams present opportunities for anglers of all skill levels and desires. I indulge in everything from little runs wide enough to jump over to the grand and extensive drainages like the Gauley, Elk, and Potamac rivers.

that numbs the body’s senses.

Trout—especially native brook trout— are high on the favorites list. Casting to these wild and elusive creatures in cool, cleansing waters produces big smiles and fond memories. Rainbow, brown, and tiger trout are oft in abundance. One might even hook a palomino trout, or as locals know them, the golden trout. These hatchery fluke and sheer freaks of nature present themselves as slivers of banana with a hint of strawberry, scurrying under the cover and confusion of moving water.

I’m also able to detect subtle differences in water temperature, occasionally uncovering an underwater spring as I wet wade through a pool. These cooler waters of these isolated springs draw trout near as the surrounding water temperatures increase. In a fascinating temperature inversion, springs also hold fish during the winter—their warmer confines will be more hospitable than the bone-numbing temperatures of snow and ice meltwater. Knowing where these little underwater anomalies are located in various streams is a good thing to file away in the memory bank.

Summertime is the right time, and wet wading for these fish is pure joy after spending months in synthetic or neoprene waders, wool socks, and heavy fleece pants. All those extra layers tally up to a lot of baggage, creating an artificial barrier

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Today, I’m wading in nothing but a pair of sandals and shorts. I can feel the hairs on my legs methodically waving back and forth in the cascading brook. The fluid dynamics against my skin help uncover variations in velocity, at times revealing micro-pockets of calm water that could potentially hold the catch of the day.

Fishing with a catch-and-release mindset, I take into consideration that trout are a cold-water species—one that becomes

Dylan Jones

he anticipation makes it nearly impossible to sleep. Yet another adventure in the mountain rivers of West Virginia is knocking on my doorstep and the restlessness is palpable. The day’s hours of planning and preparation added to the excitement; the crescendo of giddiness stretches the eyelids and lashes wide. Tomorrow’s angling trip is going to be a good one, even if I don’t get wink of shut-eye.

stressed as water temperatures climb into the dog days of summer. Dissolved oxygen content decreases with the rise in water temperature, leaving these fish in a state of lethargy, which can eventually result in death. Native brook trout are particularly sensitive, while the rainbows, browns, tigers, and palaminos tolerate slightly warmer conditions. A small digital thermometer is a useful tool—once the mercury climbs to 70 degrees, it’s time to take my fishing exploits elsewhere. On this particularly gorgeous July morning, the water registers at a chilling 64 degrees. I gently maneuver along the stream bottom to get into a proper casting location. Gracefully shuffling one foot after the other among the slick and irregular stream bottom is an art unto itself. Even when employing the utmost caution and calculation, a stumble or quick dip still happens to the most sure-footed billy goats. Luckily, when it’s warm outside, an unexpected swim typically results in little more than a bruised ego. The morning sun finally crests over the ancient spine of the Appalachians, and I can begin to see a cluster of small insects flying over the cover of a fallen limb. As daylight penetrates the thick forest canopy, glistening wildflowers with morning dew help to illuminate the stream. The faint silhouette of a fish appears just off to the side of the submerged timber, lurking below the water’s surface within mere inches of the hovering insect cluster. I think it’s a brook trout, and a nice one at that. There is no rush here; a strategic slow and lazy approach makes sense. The infamous Ferris Beuller quote echoes through my mind: “Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t

stop and look around once in awhile, you could miss it.” Heeding those thoughtful words, I take a deep breath and slowly pan my vision across the temperate landscape. The rugged terrain of rhododendrons, lined with boulders the size of small cars and a bisecting stream, can only be described as ‘God’s country.’ I have reached my destination, and a cast is in high order. Slow is smooth, and smooth is fast. My right hand cradles a small fly-fishing reel and accompanying six-foot bamboo rod, while my left is holding the brightly colored line. A metronomic rhythm begins as my body generates speed and distance, a series of pulls and tugs on the line that propels the practically weightless feathered creation in the airspace above the stream.

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The artificial fly touches down quietly on the surface and instantly disappears in a chaotic wave of turmoil. There’s nothing faint or subtle about this particular eat; the trout has given its immediate stamp of approval. The fly line slides through my hands as I impart tension and resistance, eventually tiring the hungry brook trout as it runs laps around the isolated pool. Taking a knee, I bend down and wet my hands before handling my prize, helping to ensure this beautiful foot-long brookie’s survival for future aquatic adventures. The trout healthily swims away, returning to its pristine home among the pocket of calm water and fallen limb. I can already feel this warm weather excursion into the mountainous coldwater is just what I needed today. It’s what I need everyday. w Craig Miller is a master angler and owner of Serenity Now Outfitters in Lewisburg, WV. highland-outdoors.com 43

about science and nature under the moniker Kaydubs the Hiking Scientist. Her Instagram account has amassed over 28,000 followers, and she’s currently working on a guidebook for the Appalachian Trail. Wickert stopped by during a fieldwork trip to Canaan Valley. We engaged in a classic Appalachian porch chat about her quest to help people care about nature and understand their role in protecting it. This interview has been edited for length and clarity.

How did you get into natural history?

KRISTEN WICKERT By Nikki Forrester West Virginia is home to one of the most biodiverse and resilient ecosystems on the planet. Our Appalachian habitat also cultivates an array of astonishingly talented natural historians. From an eight-year-old who can identify a catfish from its skeleton to an 80-year-old who can name every plant species on a hike, an understanding and appreciation of the wild thrives across cultures and age groups in the Mountain State. Kristen Wickert works tirelessly to keep this love and knowledge of the natural world alive. She earned her masters and PhD degrees at West Virginia University (WVU) studying invasive species, including the hemlock woolly adelgid and the malodorous tree-of-heaven. Now, as an employee of the West Virginia Department of Agriculture, she’s tackling issues with the destructive spotted lanternfly. Alongside her full-time job, she creates educational social media posts and videos 44 HIGHLAND OUTDOORS

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I have a lot of fond memories of being a little kid and being entertained by plants. My favorite book when I was little was The Secret Garden. I used to keep a tally of how many times I read it on the front cover. I was also super enamored with My Side of the Mountain. It gave me an understanding of plants and their uses and engrained that idea of being connected to the wilderness. My stepdad had Audubon books that I used to carry in a backpack. I would go out behind the house and try to identify things with his books. Once you learn something outside, it’s hard to not see it anymore on hikes. It still happens to me; when someone teaches me a new insect, mushroom or plant, I begin to see it everywhere.

What brought you to West Virginia? I’m a native of eastern Pennsylvania. I got a bachelor’s degree in forest science at Penn State and then I went to Texas for a year and worked as a forester. A year later, I was offered a position at WVU as a master’s student to work on hemlock woolly adelgid (Adelges tsugae). I worked all over the place in West Virginia, Tennessee, Ohio, Maryland, and Pennsylvania but I really fell in love with the forests of West Virginia. So I stayed at WVU with the same advisor for my PhD, which focused on Verticillium wilt of tree-of-heaven (Ailanthus altissima) and today I am happy to be a forever resident of West Virginia.

What was the focus of your PhD research? Verticillium, which is a native fungus that was found infecting the invasive tree-of-heaven in Pennsylvania in 2002. This fungus could potentially act as a biological control for the invasive tree species, but researchers wanted to see if it could kill co-occurring native tree species such as oak, cherry, and pine. They even wanted to see if the fungus would jump to non-native ornamental species like blue spruce, which is common in people’s yards, to be sure it didn’t negatively impact the horticultural landscape industry. I did a lot of tests to see how broad the host range was for the fungus as well as work on its pathogenicity and genetics. The work from my PhD ended up contributing, along with 20 years of other research, to it being funded for a registered bio control this year by the federal government. The funding will be used to conduct some final tests and formulate the fungus so scientists can use it in the field to help control the spread of the invasive tree-of-heaven.

Which invasive species do you work on now? I’m the spotted lanternfly coordinator and the plant pathologist with the West Virginia Department of Agriculture. Spotted lanternfly is an invasive insect from Asia. It was introduced accidentally in landscaping supplies close to Philadelphia in 2014. Since then, it has spread throughout Pennsylvania, and to West Virginia, Ohio, New York, Connecticut, Maryland and Virginia with single hitchhiker occurrences in other states like Maine, New Hampshire and even California. The first spotted lanternfly in West Virginia was found in 2019. Our populations are in the eastern panhandle, where there’s a lot of traffic along Route 81. The spotted lanternfly jumps onto vehicles, where it can hang on at very high speeds, and then just get off and lay eggs in a new location.

How does the spotted lanternfly impact plants in West Virginia? It causes a lot of problems that probably aren’t fully understood at this

Jessica McDonald

PROFILE

Left: Dylan Jones. Right top and bottom: Kristen Wickert

Left: Wickert installing a spotted lanternfly trap. Top right: The colorful spotted lanternfly. Bottom right: A grouping of spotted lanternflies.

point. It doesn’t have any predators here, so its population booms which leads it to be a nuisance pest. It feeds on and establishes on the invasive tree-of-heaven, but it also moves to other plant species we care about like red maple, black walnut, basil, and cucumber. The number one plant that it infests and damages is grapevines. It really depletes a grape vine’s production because it feeds on sugars and other resources that would otherwise go to the fruit. It also secretes a honey dew liquid that promotes the growth of black sooty mold on the foliage, which prevents photosynthesis. There are cases of grapevines dying after the bugs have been on them for only a few years.

How do you control the spotted lanternfly? The transportation factor is really tough. You could take care of a population, and then a truck could park there the next day and reintroduce it. The West Virginia Department of Agriculture and the United States Department of Agriculture are working hard to control it because we are the leading front of the insect’s range. One way we do this is by using circle traps that go around trees. When the insects feed on trees that have a trap, they get stuck in the mesh and climb up into a bag that has a

toxic strip that kills them. Additionally, we use targeted systemic pesticides on tree-of-heaven that host high populations of spotted lanternfly. We focus on education and outreach to alert the public to this pest and inform them on how they can help slow the spread in their own yards. There’s also a lot of hardcore, interesting science going on to figure out the best methods for controlling the spotted lanternfly with biological controls, such as other insects, fungi, and birds so in the future we may have more eco-friendly options to control this invasive bug.

What are some challenges of using other species to control invasives? There is constantly something new to learn about in the realm of invasive species management. Even people who have spent full 40-year careers in this field can’t keep up with all the new invasives. Some people ask why researchers don’t release biological controls now to fix the problem now, but you need to make sure it won’t kill something else. It’s really a double-edged sword; you could solve the problem today, but you could also cause another problem down the road. A really good example of a potential biocontrol for the spotted lanternfly is being researched today. There is a para-

sitoid wasp, Anastatus orientalis, that lays its eggs in the eggs of spotted lanternfly so the wasp could potentially act as a biocontrol and kill it. However, where the wasp is from Asia, it also lays its eggs in the eggs of Saturniid moths, those really big, beautiful moths like Cecropia and Polyphemus. We have a very closely related species to those Asian moths here. Because the spotted lanternfly is so numerous, it could bolster a really large population of the parasitioid wasp, but that could, in turn, knock out our native moths, potentially impacting pollination and the food chain. There are all these connections that we don’t know about yet, so we really need to understand the potential impacts before releasing another species.

You’re working on a guidebook for the entire Appalachian Trail, too. What’s that project involve? The guidebook will have around 600 species of trees, shrubs, herbaceous plants, and mushrooms that occur along the trail. I plan on including about 150 trees, 50 shrubs and vines, 100 mushrooms, and the rest are herbaceous plants. I took photos of common species while I was section hiking the AT and then I had to identify all of them and write a blurb for them. highland-outdoors.com 45

Wickert uses Instagram to share science stories with the world, such as these two posts about cecropia moths and snapping turtles.

The format I settled on for each species is to have a picture, for example of a pink flower. I describe the flower color, which is how the species is categorized, and when it blooms and produces fruit. I include the height, geographic range, and the plant family. Then there’s a blurb of 100 words saying the plant has “alternately arranged leaves that are very distinct and produces bright red berries.” I’ll have fun facts too, like “this plant helps bears poop.” It’s a beginner’s guide to organisms hikers will likely encounter on the trail.

How do you use social media for science education? When I was in Texas, my friend showed me this new app called Instagram. I drove across the entire state doing field work for my job and started posting pictures of plants I saw and explaining why they were cool. It got more intense when I went to grad school because I was reading papers about all the things I was studying and could make more detailed descriptions about biochemistry or ecology. I realized a lot of people did not have access to this information and that I knew how to explain it in a way everyone could understand. I don’t know how my Instagram got attention, but it just started blowing up with followers and opportunities. It’s a full-time job. There’s even a science to what I post about and when. Sometimes I condense four scientific papers into a 100-word post about a flower, which can take me two solid hours to do. Other times I post quick, fun fact posts about bugs or mushrooms. I make some posts about my personal life. And, of course, there are pictures of my cat Tabitha in the rotation. 46 HIGHLAND OUTDOORS

What drives you to invest in science education? I always try to make my science education content accessible because deep down I want people to care about nature. Instead of looking out at the world as a bunch of green, I want to help people realize there are individual species, and that some species are “good” and some are “bad” for our local ecosystem. The individual species all play an important role and sometimes you can’t get a certain species back once it’s been replaced by another. By sharing my knowledge of the natural world around us, I hope that I can empower people to care about our world.

What can we do to help care for the natural world? It’s so important to not introduce species that aren’t from where you live because everything you put in your yard has an ecological impact. Some aspects of the horticulture industry push people to buy these big, beautiful, exotic flowers, but beauty is in the eye of the beholder. For instance, tree-of-heaven was brought to Philadelphia from Asia as a horticultural specimen because it is beautiful. It has these gorgeous tropical leaves and colorful pompoms of seeds. But it escaped and became really prolific, and in America, there are only a handful of insects that interact with it and it destroys native habitats. Whereas native black cherry trees have these really pretty white flowers. If you planted a black cherry tree, it would bring a lot of native, co-evolved insect diversity to your yard because it interacts with hundreds of species. Those insects

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then attract a lot of birds because it’s all connected through the food web promoting a healthier ecosystem.

Why is West Virginia a great home base for you? A lot of places are still pristine here. We have large chunks of land that still have a fighting chance against invasive species and other environmental impacts. It’s very emotional sometimes when I go to certain areas of the Monongahela National Forest and see the beauty of a place with only native species. I know a lot of the land has been logged in the past and it’s not the same as the original old-growth forest. The Monongahela National Forest still supports a lot of our native fauna and some species that can only be found in native West Virginian ecosystems like the candy darter (Etheostoma osburni) and the West Virginia northern flying squirrel (Glaucomys sabrinus fuscus). West Virginia is so special because people are really connected with nature; we almost have to be because it’s part of our daily lives. We have the pawpaw festival in Morgantown, the chestnut festival in Rowelsburg, and the Mountain State Forest Festival in Elkins, along with plenty more examples across the state. We have amazing access to the outdoors and we directly rely on our environment for our way of life. People are rooted here, and nature is part of our culture. I really feel like proper land management education can help preserve our Appalachian culture. w Learn more at https://www.instagram.com/ kaydubsthehikingscientist/

GALLERY

This shot of the Milky Way rising over North Fork Mountain in Pendleton County took a bit of planning and more than a little bit of luck. I needed a night where the Milky Way would be angled in the sky but end at the apex of the North Fork Mountain ridgeline. In addition, the moon needed to be to the west and bright enough to illuminate the cliffs and hillside but set early enough to allow a dark sky for the Milky Way. There are only a few days a year where this comes together, and the appointed day was cloudy and rainy. But with the help of a friend who monitored radar while I had no data service, I decided to climb the North Fork Mountain Trail in anticipation of clearing skies. This is a panorama of two exposures, one of the foreground while the moon was up, and one of the Milky Way after the moon set. Photo and caption by David S. Johnston. Check out more of his work: https://pbase.com/dsjtecserv/dolly_sods

Highland Outdoors | Summer 2021

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