play outside the perfect place to
Miles of hiking, biking, and water trails are waiting to be explored in Berkeley County, West Virginia. Two Audubon Society managed preserves are the perfect locations for bird watchers to spend the day. Serene fishing spots, championship golf, and world-class geocaching make for the perfect adventure vacation.
A whimsical, adventurous, and artistic look at the smallest flora and fauna of the Appalachian Mountains
Tiny Worlds draws readers into Rosalie Haizlett’s sketchbook of vibrant colors, textures, and original maps for an unforgettable journey through a treasured mountain range.
FROM THE EDITOR
Ahh, fall is finally here. The red maples are already blushing, and Canaan Valley— your favorite geological bathtub east of the Mississippi—officially logged three subfreezing mornings in a row in late August. Now that meteorological autumn has officially given summer the seasonal boot, it’s time to climb to the top of the nearest mountain and shout into the void the phrase that snow lovers pine to say in the thick of the dog days: Winter is coming!
Yeah, yeah, I know what you’re thinking. Jeez, Dylan, fall has barely even started and you’re already skipping past leaf-peeping season and going straight to winter? That’s right, dear reader. The true joy of fall isn’t found in the fractal kaleidoscope of technicolor leaves fleetingly flying through the crisp, dry air— it’s found in the knowledge that winter, arguably the most fleeting of seasons, is knocking on autumn’s doorstep.
If you’ve spent any time with me during the summer, you’ve likely endured a discussion about skiing. A few participants in these discussions have matched my zest for snow, while others have featured muffled groans or quickly closed out the conversation with a terse “shut up.” See, for me, I’ve had enough of summer when I’ve experienced three quintessential criteria: a whitewater paddling run, a backpacking trip, and a thunderstorm. After that, I’m ready to get out of the heat and humidity. While on a snack break during a sweaty, swampy bike ride, I’ll often close my eyes and imagine the heavenly feeling of drifting through a foot of fresh powder.
The first step, of course, is to blissfully drift through fall. Fortunately, for those who dwell in the West Virginia highlands, we tend to get our first taste of winter in late October or early November—still well within the bounds of meteorological autumn. Over the past few years, a group of friends here in Canaan Valley and I have placed bets on when the first snowflakes will fall from the sky (as reported by a National Weather Service Co-op observer on Canaan Mountain) as well as the first skiable day (skiable being defined as enough snow to obtain a seven-second glide before getting stuck to the grass or mud). In 2023, the first snow-
flakes were officially observed on Canaan Heights on October 31, and that eerie Halloween night’s accumulation resulted in the first skiable day the next morning.
And with that, I am ready to make my official predictions for this year: the first flakes will be observed on Canaan Mountain on October 17, and the first skiable day will be on November 7. You can join in and place your bet by mailing in your selected dates along with cold, hard cash or a check made out to Highland Outdoors*. With that said, I wish all of you a fantastical fall and can’t wait to see you on the slopes in a few short months—whether you’re ready for winter or not. w]
Dylan Jones
STAFF
Editor-in-Chief, Co-Publisher
Dylan Jones
Co-Publisher, Designer Nikki Forrester
Copy Editor Amanda Larch
Pretty Much Everything Else
Dylan Jones, Nikki Forrester
CONTRIBUTORS
Jess Daddio, Nikki Forrester, MacKenzie Hall, Anne Johnson, David Johnston, Dylan Jones, Randy Jones, Shane McManus, Ryan Maurer, John Nelson, Sandra Parks, Nathaniel Peck, Nico Zegre
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COVER
*Please send your bet to PO Box 700, Davis, WV. Bets are not refundable. Losers will not be notified. Official snow records can be found at data.canaanmtnsnow. com. We reserve the right to use any winning proceeds for the purchase of new telemark ski equipment and après ski beverages.
Kyle Rooke inspects a Cortinarius mushroom during the 19th annual West Virginia Mushroom Club Foray. Photo by Jess Daddio.
Copyright © 2024 by Highland Outdoors. All rights reserved.
Nikki Forrester
Reindeer moss and red-tinged leaves on a foggy afternoon in Dolly Sods, pg. 20.
PLEASE BE KIND TO YOUR RIVER FRIENDS
By Nikki Forrester
Nearly every county in West Virginia is experiencing moderate to extreme drought. This summer’s low amount of rainfall combined with historically high temperatures have stressed not only our towns and cities, but also the communities of organisms that call our rivers home. “We’re in a natural cycle to an extent with a La Niña year, so we expected it to be dry, but nothing like this,” said Chad Landress, forest fisheries biologist for the Monongahela National Forest. “Without a doubt, this is in the top five worst droughts statewide, and probably one of the worst that some of these watersheds have ever seen.”
Although many of our rivers and streams have experienced periods of low flow due to drought before, few have suffered from droughts for this long. These consistent low water levels mean that aquatic organisms are confined to a quarter or less of the volume they’re used to occupying. “Everyone’s crowded. They’re all competing for resources, like suitable habitat, food, and shelter, which can exacerbate stress, disease, and other impacts,” said Madison Ball, conservation program director at Friends of the Cheat.
Being restricted to small pools in the river also makes fish and other species more vulnerable to natural predation. “The eagles, ospreys, king fishers, otters, and raccoons are all doing really well this
year. They love the drought because it makes the fishing really easy for them,” Landress said.
Without consistent rain to replenish water levels, rivers lose their ability to neutralize or dilute pollutants, such as those from acid mine drainage. “Metals are accumulating in the rivers and they’re more concentrated,” Ball said. In addition, aquatic creatures are experiencing warmer water temperatures and reduced oxygen because there’s not enough water to buffer the air temperature. Landress said he recorded water temperatures in the upper 80s for some of the state’s trout streams and rivers. “Higher temperatures hold less oxygen, so it can actually completely eliminate certain species, like trout, from a cold-water system,” he said.
Many of our river creatures are stressed and at risk due to these low-flow conditions, but we have an opportunity to help them by being mindful about how our own actions might amplify the challenges they’re facing. At the moment, it’s best to avoid fishing since that increases pressure on fish that are already confined to small, warm pools. Even seemingly harmless activities, like driving down a gravel road along a river, can send plumes of gravel dust into the air and water, leading to large build-ups of sediment that negatively impact river creatures.
“Taking the Leave No Trace mentality to the river is really important,” Ball said, noting that one of the biggest impacts she’s observed this year is the construction of rock stacks and dams. While it can be tempting to build a rock dam to create a private pool in the river, this action can have cascading effects on the river organisms in that area and downstream. As the rock walls cook in the sun, these artificial pools collect sediment and heat up much faster than the rest of the river.
“If you’ve got candy darter or hellbender or good brook trout habitat and it starts to collect a bunch of sediment behind the dam, then you’ve destroyed that habitat completely,” said Landress. “You could drive a hellbender out of a nest rock that’s been there for 40 years.” Even smaller organisms, like crayfish, mayflies, and stone flies, can be crushed and killed when rocks are moved and stacked.
Instead of constructing rock dams to create personal swimming pools, it’s best to look for a pool of water that already exists. Natural pools function differently from artificial pools in that they don’t warm as quickly and sediment doesn’t accumulate. And thankfully, there are thousands of deep, beautiful pools to discover in our rivers, even during this period of extreme drought. “Just be mindful that you’re sharing these rivers with other organisms that are maybe going through a stressful time,” Ball said. “One way to think about it is that you’re there for a day or a weekend. These species are there for their lifespan.”
Actions taken at home can also go a long way to support creatures in West Virginia’s watersheds. Most towns in the state provide water to homes from river withdrawals. Some water conservation strategies include reducing water usage, fixing leaks, installing water-efficient appliances, landscaping with native plant species instead of grass, and planting trees along streams and rivers. “The less you use from the tap, the less that’s getting pulled out of the river and the more that can stay there for the critters,” Ball said. w
The mouth of Otter Creek on July 17, 2024. Photo by David Johnston.
BLACKWATER CANYON CONSERVED
By HO STAFF
Public land lovers, rejoice! A 2,700-acre swath of the Blackwater Canyon in Tucker County will soon become part of the Monongahela National Forest. In late August 2024, John Crites, the owner of Allegheny Wood Products (AWP), agreed to sell the land to the U.S. Forest Service (USFS). The parcel, which can be seen from the iconic Lindy Point overlook in Blackwater Falls State Park, encompasses a broad north-facing slope, part of the Blackwater River, and a portion of the Blackwater Canyon Trail.
“The Blackwater Canyon is one of the most fantastic places in the eastern United States,” said Judy Rodd, executive director of Friends of the Blackwater, a nonprofit organization formed in 2000. “This isn’t just 2,700 acres—it’s 2,700 unique acres.”
Towering maples, oaks, hemlocks, and red spruce carpet the slope, while rhododendron and mountain laurel line the banks of the Blackwater River. The forested landscape provides habitat for numerous wildlife species, including the endangered West Virginia northern flying squirrel, Cheat Mountain Salamander, and Indiana bat.
The Blackwater Canyon region also provides ample opportunities for outdoor recreation, from paddling the Blackwater to mountain biking through a network of duffy trails. As part of the land sale, a portion of the Blackwater Canyon Trail, a 10-mile rail trail that connects Thomas and Hendricks, will become fully owned by the public. As a result, the USFS can better maintain and promote the trail, Rodd said.
“The trail is hugely important as a link between the top of the mountain and the county seat in Parsons,” Rodd said. The Blackwater Canyon Trail was built in 1888 to transport coal and lumber, and remnants of coke ovens and railroad ties can still be seen along the trail today.
The roughly $14 million sale from AWP to the USFS was pushed forth by Sen. Joe Manchin and made possible by funds from the Land and Water Conservation Fund. The sale is expected to be completed by the end of the year.
For Rodd, the protection of this land holds special significance. “It’s my life’s work,” she said, noting that part of the motivation to establish Friends of the Blackwater was to get this exact swath of property under public ownership. “Like Senator Byrd said, it’s West Virginia’s scenic crown jewel. Now, it will stay as our scenic crown jewel and be open to everyone.” w
THE WATER COLUMN
By Nico Zegre
Over the past six issues, I’ve had the privilege of sharing the magic of West Virginia through the lens of water. We’ve explored the dynamic relationships between water, forests, soils, topography, weather, and climate change in West Virginia. Beyond providing potential fodder for uphill ski climbs or campfire conversations, I believe that understanding how the natural world works is the first step for nurturing hope in these uncertain climatological times.
But maintaining hope can be challenging in West Virginia, especially when considering our unfortunate position of having the greatest flood risk in the country. Given the critical importance of flood management, I am embarking on two new projects to help build flood-resilient communities in Appalachia. To focus fully on these efforts, I regret to inform you, dear reader, that this is the final installment of the Water Column. The first project, Preparing Agents of Change for Tomorrow, aims to empower high school-aged youth to participate in, and lead, flood-resilience planning in their communities. The second project, Flooding in Appalachian Streams and Headwater, will help communities build blueprints for resilience planning that recognize communal mistrust of “experts.”
Both projects center on hopefulness—the kind that stems from community members co-creating the knowledge, data, and tools needed to develop flood solutions. First, participants learn how rivers, weather, and land use affect flooding. Hazards can then be mapped to assess their community’s strengths and vulnerabilities, allowing them to develop community mitigation and adaptation plans. Including communities in the planning process increases the confidence, efficacy, and agency of community members to address the overwhelming challenges posed by floods.
I encourage you to follow along or participate in these two new projects to help be part of the solution. But you don’t need to be part of these efforts to be more hopeful and prepared for the future. I’ve found that once you start seeing hope in one context, you start seeing it everywhere. My family and I find hope in the rebirth of the Cheat River, which, just 30 years ago, was one of America’s most endangered rivers. Fortunately, there is no shortage of the forms that hope can take in West Virginia, and every West Virginian can find hope in a way that’s meaningful to them. Finally, I encourage you to learn about how your streams work by contacting your local watershed group at wvrivers. org/resources/watershed/. w
Nico Zegre is a WVU forest hydrologist who loves paddling on, swimming in, and telling stories about West Virginia water.
Dylan Jones
By Dylan Jones
If you’ve driven the scenic and remote stretch of U.S. Route 19 between Summersville and Interstate 79, you may have spotted a white shape resembling a mountain goat bolted to the rocky road cut just below the summit of Powell Mountain in Nicholas County. Good news, your eyes weren’t deceiving you—this seemingly random ruminant is a monument to the Powell Mountain Goat, a beloved female farm escapee that roamed these terraced cliffs for nearly 19 years.
West Virginia, like much of Appalachia, is ripe with natural curiosities and cultural oddities, and the Powell Mountain Goat certainly ranks among them. Referred to by her cult following of admirers—myself included—as the PMG, I first noticed her in 2011 on a solo trip to meet friends at the New River Gorge. I vividly recall glancing up at the road cut and noticing a snowwhite goat seemingly floating on a vertical section of rock. At first, I thought I was going crazy, tired from the long evening drive. Later that weekend, I mentioned it in passing to a friend, who confirmed that I had indeed seen a white alpine goat who lived freely among the steep cliffs.
The PMG’s origin story begins in 2000 on a rural farm in Muddlety, when a farmer purchased the three-month-old French Alpine goat from his brother. Given a stark warning that alpine goats tend to attempt escape, he erected a tall fence to keep her contained. But, as these athletic goats are wont to do, she somehow hopped Anne Johnson
the tall fence and headed for the hills just two hours after she arrived at the farm. After that, the former owner attempted to recapture her time and time again, even calling on animal control to employ tranquilizer darts to bring her down long enough to transport her safely back home. But, according to Anne Johnson, a photojournalist from Summersville who spent years documenting the PMG, “Each time they approached her, she’d somehow get up and take off running. They just couldn’t do anything to get her back.”
Not wanting to harm her, the farmer eventually gave up. He ultimately realized she was where she wanted to be, eking out a living atop Powell Mountain on the rocky cliffs that most resembled her natural habitat. Boasting an elevation of 2,488 feet, Powell Mountain is the second-highest peak traversed by Route 19 along its length from Pennsylvania to Florida. Motorists often encounter high winds, thunderstorms, and heavy fog, along with icy conditions in winter. And yet, she persisted. She was able to find shelter to stay warm and evade the hunger of coyotes, black bears, and rattlesnakes. According to Johnson, there was a period where she was seen gallivanting along the cliffs with a male goat. Allegedly she gave birth, as was evidenced by changes to her udder. But her partner and kid either left for greener pastures or perished in the wild. Or, as Johnson eloquently put it in an article she wrote, “She escaped predators, dodged the elements, and even endured lost love. Is there a lesson we could learn from the Powell Mountain Goat? Could we teach ourselves to be surefooted and climb hurdles when we only want to give up, or survive when the elements in our hearts are stormy and uninhabitable?”
As word grew of the free-ranging goat atop Powell Mountain, so did her celebrity status. Admirers were regularly seen parked on the shoulder of Route 19, cameras in hand, to catch a glimpse of the PMG. Not missing a beat, the Nicholas County tourism office placed her on the cover of its tourism brochure. Fans created a Facebook page that is still active today with over 14,000 followers. The Nicholas
Anne Johnson
Chronicle, the local newspaper, even hosted a competition to name her—the winning name was Willie, which, according to Johnson, was chosen because most people thought she was a male due to the low-hanging appearance of her udder.
For years I traveled to the New River Gorge nearly every weekend to rock climb, and I always gandered up at the road cut to see her. Sometimes I’d spot her right along the shoulder calmly munching wildflowers in the sunshine, but usually she was perched on a blank face of vertical rock. In late 2018, I drove by and did not see her; I just chalked it up to not being able to spot her while cruising at 65 miles per hour down the mountain. Then a few more trips followed without a sighting. Eventually, I hopped on the PMG’s famous Facebook page and discovered a string of comments stating that she had not been seen in quite some time. It wasn’t long before folks finally conceded that, after nearly 19 years of roaming Powell Mountain, she had likely crossed the rainbow bridge to goat heaven.
In August 2019, a contractor based in North Carolina who grew up in Braxton County created a likeness of the PMG and placed it low on a rock face where she was often seen. But, according to Johnson, the honorary cutout was quickly stolen, prompting the man to return and erect a more robust monument. “Because she’s so special to everyone, it really angered people that someone would do something like that,” Johnson said. The next time, the contractor used stronger material for the cutout, which his granddaughter painted. Then he asked friends to help him bolt the monument high up on the rock, and dialed up Johnson to document the installation. “It’s perfect since goats are just drawn to those cliff sides; they love to climb. That’s clearly why she chose to live there all those years.”
The monument remains today, stoically standing through fog, rain, and snow. The memory of the PMG will live on indefinitely, a testament to both her persistence and her cult status as an Appalachian oddity etched into the mystery books. Next time you take a cruise on Route 19, keep your eye out for the notorious PMG, and be reminded to live wild and free. w
Dylan Jones is publisher of Highland Outdoors and maintains that the Powell Mountain Goat is the G.O.A.T. of goats.
Anne Johnson
By Nikki Forrester
The animal world is replete with wonders. The largest animal on Earth, the blue whale, can weigh up to 190 tons, while the smallest animals, aquatic jellyfish-like parasites called Myxozoa, are roughly 100 times smaller than a grain of sand. There are also just outright weird animals, like the venomous duck-billed platypus and the slimetastic hagfish. But undoubtedly some of the planet’s strangest and most astonishing creatures are bats.
Globally, there are more than 1,400 species of bats. They live in the sweltering tropics, amidst chilly mountaintops, on remote islands, and in dense forests, feeding on everything from insects to fruit to frogs to fish, and in a few extremely rare cases, blood. As the only mammal that can fly, bats travel vast distances, a feat that’s all the more impressive given their small body size. The hoary bat, which occurs throughout the U.S., has an aver-
age wingspan under 12 inches and weighs slightly less than one AA battery. Despite its small stature, it traveled more than 1,000 miles from the Californian coast to Hawaii, established a viable population, and became the only endemic mammal on the island.
During migration, some bat species traverse hundreds of miles between their summer locales and their winter hibernation spots. Even in a single evening, bats can cover wide swaths of land. “Indiana bats can move nine miles between one roost tree to another overnight,” said Alexander Silvis, an endangered species coordinator for the West Virginia Division of Natural Resources. “And that doesn’t include how far they fly while they’re foraging, because they never fly in just a straight line.”
As nocturnal animals, bats have a unique way of navigating their quiet and dark environments—echolocation. They emit high-pitched sound waves that bounce off objects and send echoes in return, providing them with information about the whereabouts of prey, trees, structures, and other obstacles. Their ability to acquire information at rapid speeds while flying is made possible, in part, by their extremely fast larynx muscles, which can contract 200 times per second and emit a sound each time. It’s the fastest muscle ever found in mammals. Bat echolocation even inspired our own development of sonar and radar technologies.
At Home in the Mountains
West Virginia is home to 12 bat species that reside here full time, including three endangered species: the Indiana bat, the northern long-eared bat, and the Virginia big-eared bat. The eastern small-footed bat is the smallest bat in the state, weighing a mere five grams, the same as a nickel, while the hoary bat is the largest. Along with our resident bats, there are two bat species, the gray bat and the Seminole bat, that occasionally turn up in the state, for instance during hurricanes that push them north.
All of the bat species in West Virginia feed on insects, but they vary drastically in which insects they prefer. Red bats have delicate teeth for consuming soft, gooey moths, whereas big brown bats have strong jaws for crunching the hard shells
of flying beetles. “Their teeth are just as robust as a black bear’s relative to their size,” said Silvis. The voracious appetites of insectivorous bats also provide ample benefits to people. A little brown bat can eat 500 mosquitoes per hour, and various bat species consume agricultural pests, such as June beetles, corn earworm moths, and leafhoppers. According to the USGS, bats provide at least $4 billion and as much as $53 billion of natural pest control for the country’s agricultural industry every year.
Although bats are typically associated with caves, they occupy a variety of habitats in West Virginia. Only one species, the endangered Virginia big-eared bat, lives in caves year-round. “We have over half of the global population of that species in our state, so we have an outsized role in their conservation,” said Silvis. Depending on the season, there can be anywhere from a few individuals to more than 10,000 Virginia big-eared bats in a single cave.
Other species, such as the little brown bat, the northern long-eared bat, and the
tricolored bat, hibernate in caves or abandoned mines during the winter, but live in tree cavities, beneath peeling bark, nestled inside rock crevices, and occasionally in people’s attics during the summer. There are also the so called “tree bats,” which rarely, if ever, use caves, preferring instead to roost among the tree tops. These include the hoary bat, the red bat, and the silverhaired bat. To stay warm, tree bats rely on their high-loft, well-insulating fur. They even have a special lining of fur on the membrane of skin between their hind legs and tail. “They will actually fold it over themselves like a little blanket,” said Silvis. While many tree bat populations migrate to warmer pastures during the winter, West Virginia has one resident population of silver-haired bats that likes to stick around. “They just land on the ground, crawl under some leaf litter, and go into an extended state of torpor or hibernation,” Silvis described.
Many folks tend to fear bats, whether it be concerns about their ability to transmit
Top: A fluffy hoary bat, the largest bat species in the state. Photo by WVDNR.
Bottom: Red bats, like this one, have delicate teeth for eating moths and high-loft fur to keep warm in tree roosts. Photo by WVDNR.
Previous: Pooja Panigrahi admist a swirl of Virginia bigeared bats in a protected cave in West Virginia. Photo by Ryan Maurer.
rabies (did you know you’re 10 times more likely to get struck by lightning than to get rabies from a bat?) or the fact that they’re otherworldly animals associated with eerie Halloween nights. But for a small group of folks, the curious nature of these creatures is so enticing that they decided to dedicate their careers to studying them. “I didn’t grow up thinking, I’m gonna be the guy that studies bats and tracks them for a living,” said Jesse De La Cruz, a research associate and PhD candidate at Virginia Tech. De La Cruz grew up in Lumberport, West Virginia, and has been studying bats in the Mountain State and throughout the East Coast since 2012. “They’re just incredible. They’re a mammal that can fly, they’re nocturnal, they feed with echolocation, they form maternal bonds, and they live a lot longer than people think.”
In fact, bats break one of the basic tenants of animal biology—small creatures tend to have short lifespans. When accounting for body size, only 19 mammals are longer-lived than humans, and 18 of them are bats (the other is the naked mole rat). The longest-lived bat species can live at least 40 years in the wild, and researchers in West Virginia have found 30-yearold little brown bats, based on recapturing tagged individuals year after year. Bats also don’t appear to show signs of aging, such as gray hair or cancerous tumors.
Searching in the Silence
The very characteristics that make bats so unique also make them quite difficult to study. “They’re not these big animals that you can put a GPS collar on and have data beam to space and then beam to your computer,” said De La Cruz. Instead, scientists, including De La Cruz, must venture into the dark of night and the depths of caves to understand more about these elusive creatures.
During the summer, researchers set up finely woven nets called mist nests along corridors in the forest, such as old logging roads and trails, or near water resources where bats forage for insects. Although bats can detect the nets using echolocation, they still frequently get caught, allowing researchers to collect data on their species, sex, age, reproductive status, and health condition.
“Different bats have different personalities. Some of them are very calm. Others, not so much,” said Eric Schroder, bat project manager at AllStar Ecology, an environmental consulting organization based in Fairmont, West Virginia. “When I was first learning how to handle bats, somebody told me to think about holding an egg. You want to put enough pressure on them so they don’t wiggle away, but you obviously don’t want to hurt them.”
When individuals of endangered bat
species get caught in the nets, researchers place tiny radio transmitters on them so they can track the bat to its roost and keep tabs on how well, or poorly, the population is doing. While this approach is more fruitful than relying on colored bands that are difficult to see at night, it’s still challenging to track the radio signals. “Bats can cover large distances, so it’s hard to keep up with them, even with a plane,” said Silvis.
While mist netting and radiotagging are geat methods for collecting data about individual bats, it’s also time intensive and can be stressful for the bats. To gather data on the presence and absence of bat species in certain areas, researchers often rely on acoustic detection techniques.
“Because bats have to talk all the time so they don’t crash into trees and other objects, it’s really easy to eavesdrop on them,” said Silvis. Every year, Silvis and his colleagues drive specific monitoring routes throughout the state with special microphones mounted to the tops of their cars. Almost every bat species has a unique echolocation call, which reflects their diet and foraging behaviors. For instance, bats that forage in dense, cluttered forests have high frequency calls for gathering information about obstacles very quickly. In contrast, bats that forage in open areas tend to have lower frequency calls that travel farther in space.
During the winter, researchers conduct
Jesse De La Cruz studies bats in West Virginia and throughout the eastern U.S. using mist nets.
Photo by MacKenzie Hall.
bat counts for the species that hibernate in caves, such as the northern long-eared bat, the Indiana bat, the eastern small-footed bat, and the little brown bat. The largest known bat cave in West Virginia was, at one point, home to more than 100,000 bats. Silvis said working with local caving groups is imperative to bat monitoring efforts, as cavers provide information, access, and technical assistance. “We literally could not do the counts without them.”
Fungal Foes
Since 2006, scientists have uncovered heartbreaking trends regarding the health of our bat populations in West Virginia and throughout the U.S. When Schroder first started working as a bat biologist, it wasn’t uncommon to catch 10 or 20 bats in an evening, now he feels lucky to catch two or three. “Over the years, the overall number of bats that we catch is dwindling,” he said.
In February 2006, researchers documented the first case of white-nose syndrome (WNS) in a bat from a cave in Albany, New York. In January and February 2009, it was detected in four caves in Pendleton County, West Virginia. Now, the disease occurs in cave dwelling bats across 35 states as well as seven Canadian provinces. “At least 7 million bats, and potentially millions more at this point, have died from white-nose syndrome nationally,” said De La Cruz.
WNS is caused by a cold- and wet-tolerant fungus that infects the skin, muzzles, wings, and ears of bats. Although many bats are capable of fighting off the infection, it causes them to arouse from hibernation early and burn the precious fat reserves they need to survive the winter. “They wind up starving or they fly out to feed or drink, and then they freeze to death. It’s a pretty uncomfortable way for them to die,” said Silvis.
In just a few years, WNS decimated the state’s cave hibernating bats, causing more than 90% declines in little brown bats, tricolored bats, and northern long-eared bats. “The little brown bat used to be the most common bat in all of North America, and now it’s pretty much gone from the state of West Virginia,” Schroder said. By 2017, tricolored bats were gone from bat surveys in the state, prompting researchers to propose the species to be listed as endangered. “The northern long-eared bat has a soft spot in my heart,” said De La Cruz. “I’m afraid that I’m going to have to tell my grandchildren that I held the last northern bat. That’s a very real fear.”
A Glimmer of Hope
The precipitous declines in cave hibernating bats have made it seem all but impossible to fight the fungus and protect what limited populations of these bat species remain. Because the fungus can survive on cave ceilings, in the soil, and in the absence of bats, there’s almost no chance of fully eradicating it. But scientists have been experimenting with techniques to kill the fungus without negatively impacting bats and other species that rely on cave environments. For example, Silvis said he’s working with colleagues in Ohio and Pennsylvania to treat artificial hibernacula with a chemical that inhibits the growth of the fungus that causes WNS while the bats are gone for the summer. They’re also testing whether a certain wavelength of ultraviolet light can be used to kill the fungus in a small portion of a hibernation site without impacting the bats or other species. “We’re hoping that we can boost bat survival,” said Silvis. “But it’s a treatment, not a cure.”
Ultimately, the best bet for cave hibernating bats to combat WNS is evolving innate resistance to the disease. Just like humans, bats within a species can have vast differences in their genetic makeup. The more bats there are, the more genetic combos and the greater the probability that some bats happen to have some level of resistance to WNS. In New York and other regions of the northeast, the numbers of little brown bats have actually started increasing in recent years. “There were so many little brown bats that that depth and breadth of genetic variation allowed them to hit the bottom and behaviorally or genetically adapt,” said De La Cruz. And because little brown bats travel far distances and mate during fall swarms, they might be able to spread their resistance genes among populations. “At one point it felt very hopeless,” Silvis said. “Now there is hope on the horizon.”
Hope can also be found in West Virginia’s population of the endangered Virginia big-eared bat, which has been increasing
at a rate of roughly 4% annually since WNS arrived in the state. Although this species lives exclusively in caves, the Virginia big-eared bat isn’t susceptible to the fungus that causes WNS. Researchers aren’t exactly sure why, but these bats might have some traits that allow them to better resist the disease, such as bigger fat reserves and oils on their faces that inhibit the growth of the fungus. Declines in other bat species from WNS may have also eased some of the competition for resources, providing more opportunities for the Virginia big-eared bat. Prior to WNS, the Virginia big-eared bat was one of the rarest species in the state. “It’s doing better than we have ever seen it in the past, so that’s been a little bit of a silver lining,” said Silvis.
Along with WNS, declines in insect populations, habitat destruction, wind development, and warming temperatures threaten not only cave dwelling bats, but numerous other bat species in West Virginia and around the world. Bat conservation can often feel like an uphill battle,
but we can make the climb a bit easier, if only by reassessing many of the beliefs we hold about bats. “One of the biggest challenges we have in bat conservation is that bats are pretty misunderstood,” Silvis said.
Just a few nights ago, I spotted two bats feeding at dusk behind a friend’s house in Morgantown. Before writing this story, I likely would have acknowledged them for a second before shifting my attention back to my conversation. But in that moment, I was entranced. I watched the bats speedily swoop after bugs, then instantly change direction. They ebbed and flowed in and out of sight, soon disappearing into the cover of night. Instead of feeling fearful or apathetic, I felt awestruck and privileged to glimpse these remarkable creatures, simply doing their best to exist in the only strange yet magical way they know how. w
Nikki Forrester is co-publisher of Highland Outdoors and an aspiring chiropterologist. She loves spotting bats flitting in the twilight— especially when they’re munching mosquitoes.
Left: West Virginia is home to the world's largest population of the rare Virginia big-eared bat. Photo by Ryan Maurer. Top right: An aggregation of Virginia big-eared bats in a cave in West Virginia. Photo by Jeff Hajenga, WVDNR. Bottom right: After huge population declines due to white nose syndrome, some populations of little brown bats, like these, are starting to rebound in the northeast. Photo by Troy Gipps.
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Scenic Trains
Words and photos by Dylan Jones
It was a dry and beautifully sunny fall day in Davis—the kind you dream of in the dog days of summer or the biting cold of winter. My wife Nikki and I decided the conditions were perfect for a drive up to Dolly Sods to leaf-peep the fiery fields of red berry shrubs and golden aspens before enjoying a classic West Virginia sunset perched atop the cliffs of Bear Rocks Preserve.
We stuffed our photography gear into our backpacks, expecting to capture a wide range of shots: brilliant light on close-up plants, tannic streams snaking through the vast red plains, and the infinite depth of mountainous peaks fading into the horizon. Driving through Canaan Valley, I noticed the top of Weiss Knob—Tucker County’s high point at 4,460 feet—was shrouded in thick fog that melted down the manicured slopes of Canaan Valley Ski Resort. I was hoping it was an atmospheric anomaly and not an ill portent of what we might find on the higher rim of the Sods. I looked at Nikki and winced, telling my worries without saying a word. But I remained hopeful; perhaps the easterly winds rising from the Potomac Valley would blow the dense cloud cover away from the escarpment of the Allegheny Front.
As we cruised down the backroad that leads to the Sods, the broad-shouldered mass of Mount Porte Crayon—Randolph County’s high point at 4,770 feet—came into view, and, like Weiss Knob, was fully ensconced by the drapery of an opaque cloud. It was then that I became certain of what we were in for: low visibility, cloud-forest conditions, soaked clothes, and zero views.
But we soldiered on, committed to some much-needed wilderness immersion. We had our just-in-case rain jackets, so we knew we’d be covered. We quickly realized we’d have to leave more than half the photography gear in the car, equipping our cameras with wide or macro lenses. Instead of focusing them out into void, we’d point them downward and focus on what was right in front of us, quite literally, because we wouldn’t be able to see any farther than 10 yards.
As we climbed up Forest Road 19, we hit the cloud layer at around 4,000 feet and slipped into the fog. Our speed dropped as quickly as the visibility; we were suddenly crawling up the gravel road in first gear. We shuddered at the thought of an hour-long grind out Forest Road 75 to Bear Rocks with no views, so we audibled to venture south into the Roaring Plains, knowing one of our favorite trails would provide the kind of close-up forest immersion that would make our jilted journey worth it.
We shouldered our camera bags and slipped silently into the mist, essentially stuck in a stalled-out rainstorm. Atmospheric moisture formed droplets on the underside of every conceivable surface, which beaded up to the point of falling as if it had come straight from the sky. Even though it was not raining, we could hear the water dripping down onto the earth. The trail, which was typically just a damp affair with some boggy mudholes here and there, was a running rivulet with ankledeep pools and babbling riffles—by far the wettest we had ever experienced.
The silhouettes of flagged red spruce trees wavered in the wind like shrouded ghosts, pointing and whispering to us to keep drifting through the boggy landscape. The color palette was quintessential fall in the West Virginia highlands: a moody mix of grayscale fog tones, a verdant variation of deep green spruce needles to neon yellow laurel leaves, the tropical hues of coral and reindeer mosses, and radiant reds from the blood-col-
ored sphagnum mosses, maroon berry shrubbery, and rusty maples. The gigantic cinnamon ferns put on a show in their final transition from life to death; some appeared to have been through fire and flame with the burnt orange reminiscent of the glow from an ancient forge. Anything distant appeared flat and colorless, as if we were viewing the Sods through a 1950s TV set. And yet, somehow, with no visible sunlight, everything up close appeared to be glowing from the trapped photons that bounced betwixt the soaked surfaces, unable to escape the all-encompassing grip of the fog.
We came upon one oblong pool in the trail that was filled with tea-colored tannic water; one end featured ghost-white chunks of Pottsville sandstone and the other was choked with striated foam from decaying organic matter that looked like the moraine of an Alaskan glacier. I paused to take it all in, feeling as if I was staring into the portal to some far-flung dimension, looking at the flow of a glacier from an airplane while simultaneously staring into the black void of outer space.
I snapped back to reality to snap a photo and continued slinking through the forest. Normally, we cover two to three miles per hour when hiking or backpacking, but today, virtually crawling through the underbrush and fixing our gaze upon the macro world, we maybe moseyed a half mile before an hour passed. But we had no distance goal, no landmark objective, nothing to force us to keep moving. It turns out getting bogged down was precisely what our souls needed that dreary day. The mountains called us to traverse their broad shoulders as they had many times before, but the fog dictated our pace, telling us to slow down, to open our eyes and appreciate the raw, elemental beauty of the world around us. w
Dylan Jones is a wanna-be pro photographer who reminds you to go out and shoot regardless of the conditions— you never know what wonders you might discover.
Various species of Cortinarius and Mycena fungi
Words
and photos by
Jess Daddio
“This is legit folks, this is mushroom weather.”
Fungal ecologist and independent scholar Dr. Shannon Nix pulls the hood of her navy blue rain jacket up over her ball cap and zips it tight. It’s a Saturday morning in mid-August and the second day of the 19th annual West Virginia Mushroom Club Foray. A crowd of 15 fungal enthusiasts huddle around the trunk of Nix’s car, collection baskets in hand, bracing against a steady rain. Fog threads the mature red spruce forests that line Canaan Mountain. Hidden in the loamy understory are dozens of different fungal species, which Nix and her mushroom walk participants are charged with documenting and collecting for DNA sequencing. Although science is incorporated into nearly every walk at the foray, Nix’s walk is committed to rigorous citizen science. Her group’s findings will contribute to a years-long research project on fungal diversity in this particular plot of red spruce dominant forest.
“We’re going to be on our knees in the muck today, digging around taking photos,” Nix says. “This is a quality, not a quantity, situation. And if you are directionally challenged, stick with someone who is not. Don’t make Kyle come looking for you like last year.”
West Virginia Mushroom Club board member, foray organizer, and sometimes-participant-rescuer Kyle Rooke flashes a grin, then shoulders his backpack and sets off into the dark woods. Rooke is part of the second wave of leadership in the present-day West Virginia Mushroom Club. Originally founded in the 1980s as the West Virginia Mycological Association, the club in its current form was restarted as an official nonprofit in the early 2000s by a group of three fungi-loving friends: Shelly Conrad, Nelle Chilton, and Nancy Ward. To the greater mycological community, these three women were known as the Destroying Angels, the common name for the fatally poisonous Amanita bisporigera
“They were like a biker gang,” Rooke says. “They were named for these mushrooms that are really elegant and beautiful but deadly.”
Back then, the Destroying Angels just wanted an annual excuse to bring together like-minded fungal-curious friends, share knowledge, identify Tucker County’s rich fungal diversity, and, of course, eat all sorts of foraged fungi. Nearly 20 years later, the foray still consists of mushroom walks, mycology lectures, and communally harvested mushroom-heavy meals. But in those early days, the foray felt more like a family reunion than the nationally recognized event it is today. If 40 people showed up, it was considered a good year. Most people camped wherever the foray happened to be held. When Rooke stumbled upon the foray in 2013, it was held at the DryFork Assembly of God, a humble church on the banks of the Cheat River. Too broke to buy a foray ticket, Rooke loitered in the parking lot with his collection of fungi, drinking black-trumpet-infused moonshine with foray attendees long enough that eventually Nancy Ward of the Destroying Angels invited him to join. He hasn’t missed a foray since.
Now, under his and the West Virginia Mushroom Club board’s leadership, the three-day foray has grown to as many as 250 attendees. Participants come from all around the world, from Russia to Colombia. Foray speakers regularly
include the “who’s who” of mycology, like the late mycologist Gary Lincoff, who wrote The Audubon Society Field Guide to North American Mushrooms, and field mycologist Walt Sturgeon, who has published many books including the definitive guide to Appalachian mushrooms. For Rooke, who didn’t go to college, the accessibility and relatability of the fungi world’s preeminent experts has only fueled his passion to learn more.
“These fascinating people who are writing the literature have been coming to the West Virginia forays since the beginning,” says Rooke. “I was kind of in awe that these people were here and very approachable. That kind, creative approach to learning is, at least for me, essential. It’s that playful, curious aspect of [mycology] that I thrive in and hope to nurture here.”
In the spring of 2024, Nancy Ward, the last of the Destroying Angels, lost her battle with breast cancer. This year’s iteration of the foray pays tribute to Ward and the legacy of playful curiosity that she and the Destroying Angels leave behind. On a memorial table at the foray’s headquarters in Blackwater Falls State Park, a note from West Virginia Mushroom Club board member Drew Palmer reads, “Thank you Nancy for helping to build something that feels like home for weirdos like me!”
An array of fungal species in the Cortinarius and Mycena genera.
Previous: George Lee and Kyle Rooke inspecting Cortinarius mushrooms.
One part mycology seminar, one part party, West Virginia’s foray is a place that embodies that weirdness. It’s a place where everybody can unabashedly rock their toadstool earrings and fungal shaped hats and, yes, even chanterelle-studded boxer-briefs. It is a place where you will hear words like “fungalscape” and “fungarium” and “fungivore” casually dropped in conversation around a water cooler full of chaga tea. It is a place where you
will learn the Latin names of mushrooms that smell like garlic chicken, taste like maple syrup, kill moths, fluoresce under ultraviolet light, or explode when thrown against a tree. It is a place where you will feel welcome whether you know absolutely nothing about fungi or everything there is to know about waxcap mushrooms in eastern North America.
For club president Dr. Kristen “Kay” Wickert, that open-armed acceptance of all fungi “weirdos,” from first-time foragers to self-taught geneticists, is what gives her hope for the future. “These nature clubs are such a cool way to respect the elders,” says Wickert. “So many people here are learning from each other in a way that you don’t see in a lot of facets of our society now. And then all of these people are leaving here and taking this knowledge back to their communities to teach them to care about nature.”
Unlike Wickert herself, the vast majority of mycology experts do not hail from the world of academia. Many well-respected and widely published mycologists are, in fact, self-taught citizen scientists. Some of that is due, at least in part, to the fact that fungi were not considered their own kingdom—separate from plants and animals— until 1969. The implications of that single fact alone mean budding mycologists have had substantially fewer options to pursue academic degrees in mycology compared to, for example, herpetologists (biologists who study amphibians and reptiles).
Yet just like the mycelial networks that transfer water, carbon, nitrogen, and other nutrients between trees, mycologists embrace knowledge sharing to further their field and our collective understanding of fungi. According to Dr. Nix, roughly 155,000 species of fungi have been described to date, yet there are an estimated 2.5 million species of fungi on the planet, and that’s a conservative estimate. That’s a whopping 2.3 million species that have yet to be described. She says that even if we continue to describe at the current rate of 2,000 new species of fungi per year, it would still take over 1,000 years just to know what fungi are out there, never mind how they contribute to our ecosystems. For
Kyle Rooke holding a Porodaedalea PNW01 mushroom, marking the first record of this fungi’s occurrence in West Virginia.
It’s a place where everybody can unabashedly rock their toadstool earrings and fungal shaped hats.
Nix, events like the West Virginia foray offer a real opportunity to educate amateur mycologists on how to collect data in a meaningful way.
“Citizen scientists are absolutely essential in order to bridge that gap,” says Nix. “They’re passionate, they’re skilled, and they’re out in the forests all the time. Without citizen scientists, that gap is not going to be bridged in 1,000 years, and with issues like climate change and habitat destruction, we’re kinda under the gun. Oftentimes we’re out in the world and it just seems hopeless, like there’s nothing we can do about it, but we absolutely can do something about it. Everybody can make a contribution and it’s really powerful.”
John Plischke III knows the power of individual contribution better than most. Largely considered one of North
America’s foremost mushroom identification experts, Plischke’s wealth of mycelial knowledge comes from spending decades in the woods on the hunt for fungi and, occasionally, getting chased off of public lands for trying to collect fungi in the name of science. Plischke has traveled all over the continent collecting fungal specimens for DNA sequencing and helping forays like West Virginia’s document and submit samples to the Mycota Lab.
The Mycota Lab, which is run by the nonprofit Hoosier Mushroom Society, offers molecular analysis services as part of their Continental MycoBlitz effort to document all the macrofungi in North America. Plischke says DNA sequencing is essential not only for expanding our understanding of the planet’s fungal diversity, but also for proper identification. Oftentimes, genetic sequencing will reveal that even the most commonly found fungi may
Kyle Rooke with a Cortinarius caperatus fungi
actually be a collection of genetically distinct (yet nearly identical aesthetically) species, some of which have never been described before. He personally collects roughly 1,000 different specimens each year, only picking the fungi he doesn’t know, and says that one out of every 10 species he finds are previously undescribed.
“In this foray alone we may find 20 undescribed mushrooms,” Plischke says. “The more people study [mushrooms] and do DNA [analyses], the more they can be protected. There are not very many professionals out there, and usually they specialize in just one type of mushroom, but there are zillions of species. It’s up to the amateurs to do it.”
Back on Canaan Mountain, Rooke is eye-level with a patch of orange-ish brown mushrooms no bigger than the palm of his hand. He steadies his camera along the moss-covered ground, focuses the lens on the mushroom’s slimy cap, then snaps the shutter.
“Cortinarius? Dope.”
A man in a bright yellow-orange parka emerges from the dank fern-filled forest looking every bit like a largerthan-life Amanita flavoconia . An amateur mycologist and macro photographer from Lenoir, North Carolina, George Lee has only been studying mushrooms seriously since 2020 when the pandemic forced him to stop taking on
hardwood flooring jobs. Prior to that, all he knew about mushrooms was that they could kill you, they could feed you, or they could make you hallucinate.
But in the past four years, Lee has found his purpose in documenting and learning all he can about fungi, and specifically the Amanita genus. Growing up, his grandparents passed on their firsthand knowledge of working the land as farmers and gardeners and foragers, but his grandmother was so scared of fungi, she wouldn’t even open an identification book on mushrooms.
“She felt like people of a higher education and a higher intelligence level were the only people who could understand these things,” Lee says. “Once I realized that it wasn’t like that, I just wanted to continue what they taught me. They taught me about plants … about trees and the animals, but they just didn’t understand this key integral part of the ecosystem and now I have the chance to understand it. If I’ve got the capacity to understand it and I want to, then I’m going to ask questions, and once I understand it I’m going to pass it on to everybody else that wants to understand, too.” w
Jess Daddio is a freelance filmmaker and writer with a soft spot for West Virginia. When she is not on assignment, she can be found in a classroom of fellow nature nerds pursuing her master naturalist certification.
By Randy Jones
“Hey Dad, we should go on a bikepacking trip!”
Dylan Jones, my son and the publisher of the magazine you are currently reading, and I were shooting the breeze one summer day in 2023. His pronouncement dropped into our conversation with no prompting, seemingly out of the blue. I let the idea roll around in my thoughts for a few seconds, replied that it might be fun, and then just as quickly let the idea evaporate.
I did not dismiss the thought of a father-son bikepacking trip because I found the idea undesirable, but knowing how busy Dylan and his wife Nikki are, and how hectic they often find their lives and schedules to be, I conceived the prospect as something tenuous and distant; a cool proposition that might be difficult to realize. And, reluctantly, I must admit that in the back of my mind was the
knowledge that I was just weeks from my 70th birthday, as well as the fact that my conditioning could not be described as optimal. Combined with the decades that had passed since I spent a night sleeping on the ground, I was left with a slight amount of trepidation. On the plus side, I knew that Dylan would plan a ride that would be, as he often says, epic, replete with the sort of spectacular scenery that can only be found here in West Virginia. Over the intervening weeks, he made passing references to the ride on a few occasions, and I would reply with a positive-but-noncommittal response. This back-and-forth finally culminated in a message stating that we were going to do the ride, which would be timed up with peak fall foliage in early October—no further discussion permitted. OK, I agreed. In for a penny, in for a pound. Let’s do it!
Dylan Jones
The next step was planning the ride and gathering the necessary equipment and provisions. Although I’m pretty confident that most readers of this magazine could probably hop on their bikes with about 15 minutes of prep for a ride of our planned duration, I had no clue how to even get started. I was relieved when Dylan informed me that he had everything under control; I just had to show up with my bike and clothing. The plan was hatched: our ride would cover about 15 miles on the West Fork Rail Trail, which runs for 22 miles through the heart of the Monongahela National Forest from the tiny hamlet of Glady to the small town of Durbin. The rail trail follows an old rail grade along the West Fork of the Greenbrier River, crosses the Lynn Divide, which separates the Greenbrier and Cheat River watersheds, then follows the flow of the Glady Fork of the Cheat River. We would enter the trail at the northern terminus in Glady and ride the 15 miles south to a site on the Greenbrier where Dylan had camped on a previous ride, then head back to Glady the next morning. We’d cross the Lynn Divide at the halfway point, meaning the ride would be half uphill (and half downhill) both ways.
I drove to Dylan and Nikki’s home in Davis the afternoon before the ride and we got to work. Dylan removed all unnecessary equipment and proceeded to outfit the bike with various bags and gear holders.
We did a quick once-over of the mechanicals and then checked our gear and divvied up the food. Dinner, pre-ride cocktails, and relaxing followed before I turned in for some much-needed rest.
The weather was perfect for our adventure. A gorgeous, sunny October sky smiled upon the trees in full eruption of fall foliage. With temps pushing 80 degrees, it was on the edge of being too warm, but I decided the conditions were vastly preferable to the possible temperature and precipitation one could experience in the West Virginia mountains in October. We loaded our bikes and gear, said au revoir to Nikki, and left Davis for the windy backroad drive to the trailhead. As we strapped and cinched all sorts of gear to our bikes, we encountered a young couple of backpackers from Chicago enjoying their exploration of the Mon National Forest. They were two of only five people we encountered over the next 24 hours.
We swung our legs over our fully loaded bikes and headed off into the wild. The trail surface—mostly grassy lane with a compacted gravel doubletrack— initially offered easy riding. The grade was mostly level, and even though my bike was loaded with quite a few pounds of gear, I found myself cruising along at a moderate pace. We were a bit behind our intended schedule; Dylan mentioned that we’d have to maintain a decent pace to reach our
intended campsite before dark.
The real challenge, though, came in resisting the constant urge to stop and look around at the magnificence in which I found myself. The West Fork Rail Trail is certainly the most beautiful trail I’ve pedaled. The mixed hardwood-conifer forest that covers these mountains was blazing with color. Up here at its headwaters, the meandering West Fork of the Greenbrier lazily wanders around the valley, with lovely little pools prompting a stop to spot aquatic life. I soon noticed that the river seemed to be littered with beaver dams. I mentioned the dams to Dylan, and he replied that we would soon come upon a very large pond that was the result of beaver activity. Several acres in size and reflecting the fall color in the waning afternoon light, the pond was stunningly beautiful.
The West Fork Rail Trail follows the path of a stub-end branch of the Western Maryland Railway that was chartered in 1910 to serve the logging industry that hummed in this mountain valley over a century ago. The line was abandoned in the late 1970s, and interpretive signs along the trail tell the history of the logging industry and the little towns that once thrived here: May, Olive, Beulah, and others now lost to time. Most signs of the bustling activity here have disappeared; a few rusty pieces of metal and foundation stones are all that remain among the thick underbrush. The experience of riding past the locations of entire towns where hundreds of residents once toiled in mills, worshipped in churches, played on ball fields, and shared family dinners was powerful. Now, the only sign of humanity I could see was the occasional glimpse of the gravel Forest Service road across the river that was traveled by a rare vehicle or two.
As the ride unfolded, the trail surface became softer, and I found myself struggling a bit more to keep up the pace. The trail, unlike those I am used to riding, does not receive regular maintenance. The U.S. Forest Service performs what little maintenance is done. I was glad to have fat tires on my ancient mountain bike. A road bike with skinny tires would have been a real problem here, loaded with pounds of gear and an overweight man. But the thought of reaching our campsite and having a celebratory beer and some good campfire grub kept me going.
I was relieved when we finally reached our camp spot. We rode off the trail onto a nice flat filled with orange ferns under towering hemlock trees along the burbling Greenbrier, leaned our bikes against a tree, and high-fived and hugged. I proceeded to gather some firewood while Dylan filled his water purifier and set up our sleeping quarters for the night: Nikkis’s one-person tent for me and a basic tarp held up with sticks for him. We soon had a nice little fire going and made a simple dinner of bratwurst stuffed into pepperoni rolls and boy, did it ever taste great.
Darkness descended on our camp as we sat beside the fire, telling stories and listening to the sounds of the forest and the river. As the fire burned down to glowing ash, our conversation also trailed off, and we engaged in the ages-old ritual of quietly watching the flickering flames dance. This was a time to savor, simply existing with my son in the moment—a moment that, it occurred to me, was all too infrequent. It was finally time to turn in. I rolled into the tiny backpacking tent, wormed my way into the sleeping bag, and gave into a well-deserved slumber… that did not come. I was comfortable, but sleep eluded me for the most part. Although I was somewhat disappointed that I didn’t immediately drift off, I found myself experiencing a wonderful sensation of peace and calmness, being in such a beautiful place with my son.
As dawn broke, I wormed my way back
out of the bag and tent with some degree of difficulty, which seemed quite funny at the time. Soon Dylan roused and we fired up the camp stove to prepare breakfast as he lowered our food from 20 feet up in a tree. Somehow, amidst the cover of dark and a flask of bourbon, he managed to secure a line over a tree limb to keep our food out of reach from bears in the wee hours of night. With black coffee and a breakfast of grits and bacon consumed, we broke camp and hit the trail for the return ride.
I soon found myself struggling mightily, feeling as if I was riding through molasses. Maybe it was the exertion from the previous day, maybe it was not having a good night of sleep, but it was most definitely from riding upgrade along the Greenbrier toward the Lynn Divide. Soon, Dylan was a speck up ahead on the trail, and I found myself stopping every hundred yards or so to catch my breath and looking ahead to the next spot where I could stop. We found ourselves engaged in a cat-and-mouse game of wait-and-catch-up. I didn’t say this to Dylan at the time, but I was beginning to doubt if I could finish the ride. The thought of collapsing on the trail in front of my son, with no cell service or facilities for miles, was not pleasant. He assured me that we could make it, that we’d take our time, and that I could take all the breaks I needed. We soldiered on and I kept my gaze ahead, longing for the rise in the trail that would take us to the Glady watershed—and the remaining seven miles of downgrade cruising.
We came upon an elderly gentleman walking toward us, cane in hand, sauntering at an easy pace. As we approached, we slowed to wish him a good morning and ask how he was doing. “Still here,” he replied. That seemed as good a response as I could imagine, and I found a reserve of determination to keep going. Yep, we’re all still here!
The Lynn Divide finally came into view—hooray! We rode over the raised bump in the trail that demarcates the shift in watershed and stopped for a moment to have a shady snack in a towering grove of spruce trees. Onward, and finally trending downhill. Suddenly, I realized that I was no longer struggling—in fact I was zipping along. My speedometer ticked up: 8, 10, 15 miles per hour. I felt like I was flying! I would not die on the trail after all. The miles were melting away. The exhilaration of blasting through space was enhanced by the sun bathing the glory of the Monongahela National Forest in its best fall attire. All too soon, the Glady trailhead appeared. We came to a stop, groaned as we swung our tired legs over our bikes, and had another father-son hug. Love ya, Dylan, and I’m ready to do it again. Maybe three days this time? w
Randy Jones is a proud dad who, when he is not writing articles for West Virginia’s Outdoor Magazine, can be found savoring the fruits of his amateur mixologist pursuits and plunking on his guitars.
Dylan Jones
By Shane McManus
On a perfect Monday afternoon, the contest officially begins. People swap stories and catch up over cocktails, letting the anticipation build as the crowd swells and two contest organizers bring out the competition table. Everyone is fully present, laughing and not taking anything too seriously. It’s clear that this competition is all about having a good time and leaning into the hilarity this event brings out of our ethos.
The crowd begins to chant my name. I get up from a cozy camp chair as their calls in unison guide me to the competition table. On it sits a yellow boxing ring with two fighters facing each other, poised and unwav-
ering in their stances. One fighter is red, aka. the “Red Rocker,” while the other is blue, aka. the “Blue Bomber.” I’ve already solidified my name in the history books as a two-year fighting champion, with potential to become the first ever three-year running champion. I see my friends, all eagerly awaiting their chance to challenge me. I look around at the crowd, filled with people who watched me grow up and people whom I’ve watched grow in return. Every year, we come to the same festival. And for the past 10 years, we’ve held the Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robot Championship. The crowd is awash with accomplished musicians and community members, each bringing their own bit of magic to the event.
John Nelson
The Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robot Championship, which was started by John Nelson and a few friends in 2014, is pure, simple fun, which helps set the playful vibe of the festival. I hold the champion belt for this year’s contest high, then pass it off to the tournament judge before facing my first challenger. We sit down and begin playing the classic Mattel game, in which players use their thumbs to control two plastic robots that box each other. Using skill, technique, knowledge, and a dash of luck, players aim to knock their opponent’s “block off,” literally launching the losing robot’s head up with the force of a small plastic punch. At this festival, the winner of the match must win two out of three rounds to go on to the next bracket. Confidently, I begin the first match and mentally prepare for the long tournament ahead.
But first, let’s take a step back. I’m a Morgantown local and a carpenter by trade. I’m an extreme whitewater kayaking and rafting enthusiast, mountain biker, hiker, and passionate backcountry skier. On top of all that, I’m a musician and entertainer, which is what brings me to historic Camp Washington Carver near Babcock State Park for the annual Appalachian String Band Music Festival we all know as Clifftop. It’s the Monday before the actual festival starts and the day of the famous Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robot Championship. We gather early to play old-time fiddle tunes together and set up our Ewok-esque village in the forest. Folks at camp are slowly creating a magical environment for the whole festival. The reunion brings ecstatic joy to our community members, as if we were capturing lightning in Mason jars to disperse freely throughout the year.
There’s no way to describe Clifftop other than using a broad scope. At its core, it’s a musician’s festival, an onlooker’s festival, and a performer’s festival. The five-day event features old-time Appalachian music: melodic string band music commonly played by the hammered dulcimer, lap dulcimer, auto-harp, guitar, mandolin, stand-up bass, cello, fiddle, and banjo. It’s also a place for storytelling, clogging, cultural expression, and a popular nightly square dance in the historic lodge—the largest log-pole lodge built from American chestnut wood in the world. Most people come to Clifftop with the hopes of winning a blue-ribbon award for the many “on stage” competitions, which include contests for traditional band, neo-traditional band, fiddle, banjo, and flat footing. The grounds themselves are immaculately kept, which highlight the care and appreciation people have for the event, culture, community, and fellow attendees.
But there are also smaller events that make coming a week before the festival starts completely worth the time and energy. The big draw are the constant acoustic jams that ebb and flow but never stop, the call-and-response style of Appalachian fiddle tunes forever echoing among the trees. The latenight jams of the lowlands travel up to a lone fiddler playing lovely melodies in the first hours of morning. There are various CD release parties, a “neo” talent contest (once called the “no” talent contest), and a funky brass band that offers a changeup to the string music and gets everyone dancing. There are also Cajun music nights, Honky Tonk nights, and, of course, the Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robot Championship.
My parents always valued nature, recreation, community, and music. As a result, I developed similar interests and played with several local gigging and touring string bands over the years. Clifftop started over 30 years ago, and I’ve fortunately never missed a year. Many of my peers and I continue coming back to enjoy the atmosphere, community, music, and culture that these hills echo. As an added bonus, the amazing mountain bike trails and consistent whitewater of the New River Gorge make the annual pilgrimage south to Clifftop even sweeter. My van is always packed to the gills with kayaking and biking gear, musical instruments, and camping gear for the legendary Clifftop camp scene. Oh, and extra strings—lots of strings.
As the contest nears its end, I am still in the bracket. I’ve defeated all competitors along the way and now only three of us have the potential to bring the coveted championship belt home. As we begin our single-round elimination matches, the surreal impact of this event rises in my mind: thousands of total strangers come together every year to form a musical family. The thought begins to draw out emotion from the depths of my
heart. The short, yet lasting event provides a taste of the beautiful impermanence we all feel as we grow to realize life is finite. The bittersweet feeling of family hugs, of stories told over and over again, and of tunes played for hours make each moment magical and every memory cherished.
I snap back to the present moment and the final match. After dispatching all the challengers, young and old alike, I emerge the victor once again. The crowd roars in disbelief as I raise the championship belt for another year. While victory is sweet, the true pleasure of this event is knowing that most of us will return next year. But until then, I’ve got the year ahead to take care of the coveted championship belt, to play tunes into the wee hours, and to run rivers into the evening mist until we return to this special space and hold out our proverbial Mason jars to catch as much joy, energy, lightning, and love as possible. w
Shane McManus is a carpenter, artist, and musician based in Morgantown, West Virginia. When he’s not out running whitewater, he’s training hard in his home Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em gym.
Top: A crowd gathers for the annual Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Championship. Photo by John Nelson. Bottom left: The author battles his way to the top. Photo by Sandra Parks. Bottom right: The author, and first three-year running champ, celebrates his victory. Photo by Sandra Parks.
JEFF BYARD
By Dylan Jones
Not a lot of people know that the Mountain State has its own long-distance trail that attracts thru-hikers from near and far to walk its distance in a single go. The Allegheny Trail (ALT), West Virginia’s only long-distance trail, runs for 311 miles from the Mason-Dixon Line on the West Virginia-Pennsylvania border to the Appalachian Trail on Peters Mountain at the West Virginia-Virginia border. A trail of this magnitude doesn’t just appear out of the blue; it has to be created, mapped, and regularly maintained. The West Virginia Scenic Trails Association (WVSTA) is the creator and primary caretaker of the ALT. The organization is staffed by a group of dedicated volunteers who make the trail, and the life-changing experiences that people have on it, possible.
Both WVSTA and the ALT turn 50 this year, so I figured the best way to celebrate these major milestones was by chatting with WVSTA President Jeff Byard about the organization’s history and what makes West Virginia’s longest hiking trail so special.
Although I have yet to meet Byard in person, we quickly settled into our conversation. It didn’t take long before I felt
like we had known each other for quite a while. This is a phenomenon I’ve experienced with fellow West Virginians who share a deep love for the mountains and forests of Appalachia. As he discussed his history with WVSTA and the sheer amount of sweat equity he’s tirelessly donated to the ALT, I could sense the bottomless well of his passion for making—and keeping—West Virginia’s pristine public lands accessible for us all.
This interview was edited for length and clarity.
What’s your background?
I grew up in Pine Grove in Wetzel County, fishing and hunting and camping with my grandparents. When I was in high school, I started going to the mountains a lot more. After high school, I was planning on going into forestry, but there wasn’t much state or federal hiring going on at that time, so I didn’t up end going to college and went into the coal mines for a few years around Buckhannon. My dad retired from Dominion Energy and told me they were opening a new plant along the Ohio River, so I got my foot in the door there a decade ago and have been in the gas industry ever since.
How did you get involved with WVSTA?
I liked to fish for brook trout and started using the Allegheny Trail to reach good fishing spots. The official Forest Service designation for the trail is 701, and once I started looking at maps, I saw 701 all over public lands up and down the state. I thought it was really neat that there was this one long-distance trail that ran all the way through West Virginia. About six years ago, I got in contact with Doug Wood, who’s been with WVSTA for about 45 years, and asked if I could help out. I was always in the Elkins area, which is Section 2 of the ALT, and he put me in contact with Greg Edwards, who was the Section 1 and 2 coordinator. I worked with him that summer; he showed me all of Section 2 and gave me the lowdown on how the organization worked. He soon retired and asked me if I could take over Section 2 to take some work off his plate. Three or so years later, they asked if I’d be the vice president of WVSTA, and it just spun off from there.
WVSTA turns 50 this year. Tell me a little about the organization and its history.
Back in the 1970s, there was a lot of interest in long-distance trails, and the idea of having one here really blew up. When the ALT was in the process of being created in the early 70s, the trail needed to have an association to be able to negotiate with the Forest Service. WVSTA became that association and it continues to maintain the ALT; the two go hand in hand. WVSTA is the trail’s nonprofit, so we can negotiate with the Forest Service for a volunteer agreement that allows folks to help us work on the trail in the Monongahela National Forest. At first it was small, just a president, vice president, secretary, and treasurer, but it’s really grown. Now we have board members, section coordinators, and coordinator assistants. We’ve got quite a few people involved as core volunteer staff. We’ve actually picked up a lot of new members this year as well because of our 50th anniversary.
What makes WVSTA unique?
The wide range of people who are involved. When we bring people out to volunteer or organize hikes and camp, it’s just got that West Virginia hospitality. We invite them in like they’re family. You go out and work hard all day, then come back, have a great meal, chill out around the
Courtesy WVSTA
campfire, drink a couple beers, and people just love it. We’re all laid back and love to have fun and talk.
What are some challenges WVSTA faces?
We always have trouble spots we’re working on. There are certain places that are so far in from trailheads that they don’t get maintained. Now, we’re working on getting back into those deep areas. We’re also trying to do reroutes with some of our real trouble spots from washouts or other damage. Getting volunteers deep into spots, like on Section 3, is pretty tough, especially down near Green Bank where there’s just not a big population. Most of the people that come help are from out of state, but we do get some great local volunteers in Elkins, Thomas, and Davis. The ALT is always going to be a work in progress. As soon as you finish something new, something you did a long time ago needs to be revisited. The world’s always changing out there.
What are some current projects you’re working on?
We’ve got six new shelters and five new bridges in the process of getting approved. We’ve also got a lot of really cool opportunities coming up. Property along the Big Sandy Creek in Preston County was recently purchased by American Whitewater; we’re in talks to build about five miles of hiking trail along the river that would get us off the roads. We’re also talking with Friends of the Cheat about helping with the new rail trail along the Cheat River Narrows.
What’s your favorite kind of project to work on?
I love doing builds like shelters and bridges because you get a lot of volunteers. It’s tough to get people out to do tread work because it’s really hard work. But when you have a project like a shelter or a bridge, everybody wants to come out. When you finish it, everybody stands back and is like wow, look what we did . We have some awesome volunteers that are carpenters, so people get to come out and learn new skills. We’re building up our volunteer force every time we do a project like that.
Any wild trail work stories?
We’ve done some pretty tough projects. When we first started, one of our biggest pushes was to get every shelter and bridge on the trail up to snuff. Beaver Creek Bridge, which is close to Watoga State Park, was a long haul down an abandoned county road to get materials in. It’s real rugged down in there; we had to carry everything for over a quarter mile, that was rough. When we went to check out the Wildell Shelter on Shavers Mountain, the bears had just riddled it to pieces. There were four-foot-tall trees growing on the cedar shake roof, and there was a big hole in the roof where a limb had fallen through. That was the first shelter we rebuilt. That was crazy getting everything up in there, but we got it completed.
You certainly put the hours in. How do you find the time to do it all?
I use up a lot of my vacation. A lot of people work with us and put in their time, too, like going to after-hours meetings and doing trail work on weekends. The only way we’re able to maintain it is by having good volunteers, they’re the backbone of
the ALT. We have a lot of repeat volunteers who show up year after year, all different types of people from all over. One of our volunteers just turned 82 this year; he’s our trail-work king.
How can people get involved? What do you have the greatest need for?
First off, learn about the trail and find what area you’d want to work in, then go to our website and contact the section coordinator or send us a message on Facebook. You can stay in the areas close to you, but it’s cool to go to the different areas to learn your way around and the different pickup and resupply points. In terms of need, anything helps. We run off donations and membership dues, and we have an online store, so there are different ways to financially support the trail. We need people out on the trail doing maintenance, but we also need help doing administrative stuff like writing grants, getting tools, things like that. Or if you just want to come hang out at an event, bring some ice for the cooler and a pack of hot dogs. We’re not gonna turn anybody way. We’ve got a place for you here.
What’s your favorite of the ALT’s four sections?
It’s the section I take care of, but I love Section 2. I really like the Shavers Mountain portion from High Falls trail all the way to Gaudineer Knob. It’s just awesome up there, I love the high-elevation stuff.
Why is it important for West Virginia to have a long-distance trail like the ALT?
It’s like the Long Trail in Vermont—they call it the teacher’s trail because it’s the perfect length. The ALT is 311 miles, so it’s right in that perfect range where you can use your vacation to complete a long-distance trail. Not too many people can do the Pacific Crest Trail or the Appalachian Trail, but the ALT is something anybody can do if they set their mind to it. I think this trail is something West Virginians can get behind, something we can be proud of, because it’s really unique. Not that many states have a long-distance trail going all the way through like the ALT.
What do you do for fun when you’re not out volunteering for WVSTA?
I love rafting and being out on the water; we recently ran the New River in my buddy’s boat. I used to do a lot of kayaking, but I messed my shoulder up, so now I’m into running rafts. If you ain’t got a solid roll, you don’t have any business being out on class IV and V whitewater in a kayak. I also just love being out in the mountains and fishing the streams.
What do you want to see for the future in West Virginia?
I think recreation is definitely going to be big here if we play our cards right. If we plan well and work together, we can continue to make this a really nice area. Something like the Mon National Forest is unheard of in most of the East. There are some awesome areas that still aren’t crowded, like on Little Mountain above Green Bank heading from Durbin to Cass; you see the telescopes below, you can hear the train whistle, it’s just a beautiful area. w
Left: WVSTA volunteers constructing a new shelter along the Allegheny Trail. Top right: Jeff Byard poses with pup Lenny and an ALT thru-hiker from North Carolina. Bottom right: Byard and WVSTA board members assess a washout along the Glady Fork.
Courtesy WVSTA
Most of my autumn mornings are spent waking up way too early to run around our majestic mountains to chase the sunrise. Like most photography adventures, I had no idea what would happen when I left my house at 3 a.m. Light rain lingered from a passing storm and thick clouds covered every inch of sky. But I stuck with it, and after a few hours of driving on some classic West Virginia backroads, I noticed the cloud cover starting to break to the east. I navigated my way through the dimly lit forest and onto a very small, narrow cliff band overlooking the rugged landscape of the Smoke Hole Canyon. It wasn’t long before the sun peeked through the clouds and ignited the stunning blaze of fall color. As the sun rose above the cloud shelf, vibrant rays of golden light further illuminated the golden forest canopy. What started out as a morning of uncertainty turned into one of my most memorable sunrises ever. Photo and caption by Nathaniel Peck.
