five

West Virginia

While Virginia welcomes drivers with an endless row of signs laying out the local rules, West Virginia only has a battered old hint of a sign. Immediately after the state line, a quick descend out of the mountains and into a river valley begins. Civilization, too, has returned and there are houses and farms everywhere. It culminates in the town of Bradshaw where yet another fest is going on. The main road has been turned into a fairground and a traffic jam ensues. Apart from lots of pedestrians milling about everywhere, there is quite a few ATVs and a little children’s mock train.

After eventually managing to leaving town, I start to ponder whether the area looks poorer then the last state. This is something that seemingly happens at each border. I suspect it is only because one starts to look for the quality of houses and cars, both of which look old. The houses could at the least do with a new coat of paint. The cars are pick-up trucks or sports cars, most of long bygone eras. But when even the churches are tiny and derelict, I decide that this isn’t a psychological thing and the area really is rather poor.

Which doesn’t stop it from being aggressively and, I dare say, rather annoyingly settled. The roads are windy and busy and slow, something I don’t have to travel thousands of miles to experience. I had planned to keep going north, I am annoyed enough to amend my plans and turn east. After about an hour’s driving I reach Beckley where there are fast roads again. The northbound Interstate is a toll road, but there is another dual carriageway leading north-east so I take that one.

The drawback of fast roads is, that there is nothing much to report. I could bemoan the habit of American drivers to stay on left lanes forcing me to overtake on the right, the single most illegal thing on German motorways. But then, you don’t have to constantly watch out for cars popping up out of no where behind you.

The road merges with another Interstate, this time toll free. Past Weston, I leave it be and for the last couple of miles I roll along a deserted highway towards Elkins. Somewhere, a big sign points to Hidden Lane Road, somewhat defeating the point.

Elkins, perhaps little surprisingly, has a fest, blocking downtown and resulting in giant traffic jams. I arrive a little late though. People are starting to head home, leaving a giant garbage field behind. The streets are filled with discarded fast food containers. In a side street, the party is still going strong with fun rides and loud music.

Slowly I progress through town. Just beyond, near the airport, I spot a hotel sitting somewhat lonely on top a hill and can’t quite withstand its pull. But although the business district below features restaurants, Saturday evening after a fair is a bad time for going out. Even though it is a fine, sunny evening, I can’t quite convince myself to join the people queuing outside—a quick stop for unspeakable food and a fine dinner with TV in the hotel room instead.

Over night fog creeps in again and in the morning the sun is half-hidden behind a bleak curtain. I head south, past a factory for hardwood floors. Though the valley is wide and flat, the road once again hugs the hills to its side and winds along perhaps ten metres up from the valley floor. The villages seem to be doing the same thing. In Huttonsville I turn left and cross the valley. Just before starting to climb out the road passes the euphemistically yet threateningly named Huttonsville Correctional Center. The valley narrows but the road manages to stay straight for a while. But eventually it has to give in and resort to hairpins again. West Virginia is the Mountain State, after all.

Heading east, suddenly the forests turn seriously fall, a spectacle of sunshine enhanced colours and throngs of leaves dancing in the wind. I attempt to find a good spot to make a picture but fail. A sign points to a scenic overlook off the highway and I decide to follow it. A dirt road leads through dense forests uphill for maybe two miles. Eventually I reach a parking lot labelled Gaudiner Overlook. A trail leads to the actual overlook, but it is on the wrong side of the mountains and there is nothing to see. Literally nothing, thanks to fog.

Back at the highway, it starts climbing in earnest, too, but only for a short time before nosediving into the next valley and back into the world of fog. In Durbin, heavy fog and the sun collaborate on spooky light. At the station, a steam train is being readied, ghostly figures huddling stream slowly drifting steam.

The land here isn’t permanently settled but people live together in small villages. The road crosses mountain ridge after mountain ridge, closing in on the border with Virginia. At Brandywine (no hobbits), I leave the main highway. The map shows an alternative way across the mountains and into Virginia. First, I follow a small river down a cozy rural valley with small farms and a large military installation. But I can’t quite decide which of the roads turning left is the one from the map and won’t deadend after fifteen miles. While roads are numbered, the map makers have decided to not include those numbers in West Virginia for some reason. With a deadline in form of my flight later today looming, I refrain from experiments and turn around.

The punishment for my cowardice is dense traffic on the main road. Since it crosses the Appalachian Mountains with many a tight curve, bane of the American motorist, progress is slow and unnerving.