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FROM THE EDITOR STAFF
Publisher, Editor-in-Chief Dylan Jones Senior Editor, Designer Nikki Forrester Copy Editor and Someone New! Amanda Larch Pretty Much Everything Else Dylan Jones, Nikki Forrester
CONTRIBUTORS
Bill Beatty, Gregg Betonte, Mollee Brown, John Dean, Dave Forrester, Nikki Forrester, Nathan Harlan, Jonny Hudson, Dylan Jones, Josh Lohnes, Tom Manuccia, Ryan Maurer, Cam Moore, Jill Mullins, Jared Musgrave, Ian Raezer, Ken Shaffer, Liz Stout, Barbara Walker, Tom Weigand, Jay Young
Along the way, I thought about all the adventures I had been on in each of these spectacular places throughout the years. Mountain and gravel biking in the Mon, biking and hiking North Fork Mountain, paddling the Smoke Hole and Dry Fork,
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climbing Seneca, backcountry skiing on the divide, backpacking in the Sods, and, of course, daily outings out the backdoor from my home in Canaan. Whenever I return home from these adventures, I am always, without a doubt, high on West Virginia. My mind ventured further, drifting down to many years well spent climbing the cliffs of the New River Gorge and Summersville Lake, paddling the New and Gauley rivers, and living in a tent without a care in the world. As the adrenaline from the downhill biking (and from not wrecking myself) settled into a state of blissful post-ride euphoria, I was suddenly struck with an epiphany: if I never crossed West Virginia’s borders again, I’d be just fine with that. I still have several lifetime’s worth of adventures—new and old— ahead of me. We are blessed with such a rich wealth of outdoor opportunities that we need not leave West Virginia to experience yearround, world-class adventure. And while I most certainly will cross her borders again, it’s nice knowing that, at the end of the day, I don’t have to. w Dylan Jones
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COVER
Dwarfed by golden giants. Photo by Jared Musgrave. Copyright © 2021 by Highland Outdoors. All rights reserved.
Nikki Forrester
A few weeks ago, I was driving back to Tucker County after an exhilarating solo day of distributing magazines and downhill mountain biking at Snowshoe. I always opt for the scenic route home: passing through Cass and Greenbank, traversing the high ridges of Pocahontas County and the Monongahela National Forest, and dropping down into the Potomac Valley in Pendleton County. I’ll often make a pit stop at Yokum’s to see if I can spot climbers on Seneca Rocks before hopping back in the car and climbing up the Seneca Creek watershed, cresting the Eastern Continental Divide, dropping down into Randolph County, and passing through Harman before the grand finale: crossing Red Creek into Tucker County and climbing up into Canaan Valley with Mount Porte Crayon and Dolly Sods rising high to the east. To me, this is one of the most beautiful drives you can do in the Mountain State.
CONTENTS 12
16
20
26
OVER THE HILL AND PICKING UP SPEED
FLYIN’ LION
NEW LOVE
THE UNKNOWN
Climbing Seneca’s Hardest Route
By Dylan Jones
Surveying the Subterranean Frontier
By Nathan Harlan
Ryan Maurer
Cindy Barton surveying in a cave to create a map, pg. 26.
By Ken Shaffer
By Ryan Maurer
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36
40
A WHISPER IN THE FOREST
DIGGING DEEP
THE GREAT MIGRATION
By Dylan Jones
By Nikki Forrester
By Mollee Brown
EVERY ISSUE 8
BRIEFS
44
PROFILE
47
GALLERY
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BRIEFS
TRAIL DEVELOPMENT SLATED FOR MORGANTOWN By HO Staff A slew of new biking and hiking trails are planned for the greater Morgantown area over the next few years, funded in part by the Brad and Alys Smith Outdoor Economic Development Collaborative (OEDC), a new program at West Virginia University (WVU) that seeks to grow West Virginia’s economy by leveraging its outdoor recreation assets. Besides user-maintained trail systems in Falling Run Greenspace, White Park, and Bakers Ridge, it’s safe to say that Morgantown is in need of new greenspace, as well as updates to existing trail systems and increased connectivity between trail networks. “We’ve got a huge opportunity in West Virginia with amazing landscapes and open spaces,” said Rich Edwards, outdoor recreation infrastructure coordinator for the OEDC. “Whenever I look at a city and people say the trails are too crowded, what those places really don’t have is enough greenspace and trails.” The OEDC and organized groups are looking to change that by bringing new greenspace properties in the mix and criss-crossing them with modern trails. According to Danny Twilley, assistant dean for the OEDC, there are 2.75 miles of new trail currently under construction on the WVU Farm Woodlot property, near Bakers Ridge, which is already home to a well-worn network of user-built and maintained mountain biking and hiking trails. The trail design for the Woodlot project was completed through the OEDC and International Mountain Bicycling Association (IMBA) Trail Solutions. Trail construction is being completed
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by Appalachian Dirt, a company owned by renowned trail builder Zach Adams, which makes this the first professionally designed and built recreational trail network on WVU property. The project is being funded via an IMBA Trail Accelerator Grant. The trails will be multidirectional, shared-use, and feature a quarter mile of directional, green-level flow trail geared for mountain bikers. The OEDC is planning for up to seven total miles of new trail on the Woodlot property and new parking infrastructure on West Run Road, adding a much-needed recreation asset to the existing trails of the Bakers Ridge zone. Trail development and volunteer trail work are being completed in conjunction with the Morgantown Area Mountain Bike Alliance (MAMBA), a local IMBA chapter that received the IMBA grant. “One of the driving forces for starting MAMBA was so that we could get this grant through IMBA, which went a long way toward the OEDC and the City of Morgantown’s new trail plan,” said John Herod, a founding member and president of MAMBA. “We didn’t have a mountain bike-specific club in the area, so we needed representation to give locals a voice.” MAMBA has been working with Edwards, previously the trail solutions director for IMBA, to organize trail workdays to help familiarize board members with trail building techniques. Although specific details have yet to be released, Twilley said the long-term plan calls for a total of 70 to 100 miles of trails
between new and existing trails on WVU and city properties, which will be accessible within an hour of downtown Morgantown. According to Edwards, the trail development will happen in strategic stages to spur support for future miles. “The reason we’re doing trails in open space is to get more people on trails and drive demand,” he said. “There’s only a tiny fraction of the population in Morgantown right now that’s a trail user because there’s not a lot of access. If we build accessible trail systems that have an easy entry level, a much higher percentage of the population is going to be on trails, and we’re going to be able to justify acquiring more open space.” While some trails will be built with mountain biking in mind, the OEDC will also be assisting in the development of hiking-specific trails. The trails are expected to open to the public around the end of October, so get ready for a spooky good time. “As an avid mountain biker in the area, I’m really looking forward to the trail development projects that are coming along,” Herod said. “It’s going to be an exciting time here in Morgantown.” Check out mambawv.org to learn more about MAMBA and become a member. The OEDC plans to run regularly scheduled volunteer events throughout fall 2021. Folks who are interested in showing up for volunteer trail workdays can send an email with “trail work” to OEDC@mail. wvu.edu to learn more. w
WATOGA STATE PARK PREPARES TO GO DARK By John Dean Stargazers, rejoice! Watoga State Park is on its way to becoming an officially recognized Dark Sky Park. Watoga has long been known as one of the darkest and most light-pollution-free areas in Central Appalachia, providing spectacular views of clear night skies. At 10,000 acres, Watoga will be West Virginia’s first Dark Sky Park. Expected to be included in the designation are Calvin Price State Forest, which adjoins Watoga to the south, and nearby Droop Mountain Battlefield State Park. Together, the three areas encompass 19,869 acres.
Jill Mullins
According to the International Dark-Sky Association (IDA), a Dark Sky Park (DSP) is “a land possessing an exceptional or distinguished quality of starry nights and a nocturnal environment that is specifically protected for its scientific, natural, educa-
tional, cultural heritage, and/or public enjoyment.” As the largest state park in West Virginia, earning the DSP designation would add yet another spectacular feather to Watoga’s cap. The application process began two years ago, culminating in a 99-page application that included detailed measurements of night sky depth by local astronomers and light pollution maps, and resulted in the replacement of 181 outdoor light fixtures and bulbs to be dark sky-compliant. Watoga Lake, the Anne Bailey trailhead, and other areas in the park should provide scenic nocturnal viewing opportunities for astronomers, tourists, photographers, and visitors. Future plans include educational programs and star parties for dark-sky enthusiasts at Watoga, Droop Mountain, and Calvin Price.
“The [pending] designation will put Watoga on the radar of groups or individuals who seek out dark sky facilities,” said Watoga superintendent Jody Spencer. “Dark skies have always been noticeable at Watoga, where night hikes, nighttime boating, and owl walks are popular activities. I think the real benefit to park guests is the fact that light pollution on the park has been greatly diminished.” Stay tuned to our website (highland-outdoors.com) for more information on this exciting announcement. w John Dean is a writer and editor who grew up in Watoga in the 1960s. He is an active board member for the Watoga State Park Foundation.
Droop Mountain Battlefield State Park.
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BRIEFS
IN MEMORY OF PAUL NELSON
Jay Young
By Dylan Jones On July 12, the Fayet teville community, West Virginia, and the world lost one of its great humans in Doctor Paul T. Nelson. Paul was a professor of history, a nailshard rock climber, a fun-loving raft guide, a bluegrass and jazz musician, a husband to his sweet wife Miranda, and a staunch advocate for positive change in West Virginia. He earned his PhD in American history from Southern Methodist University in Texas, and authored Wrecks of Human Ambition: A History of Utah’s Canyon Country To 1936. Paul was prolific during his time in Fayetteville: he managed the American Alpine Club Campground, taught a variety of subjects at various Fayette County schools, co-founded the tutoring agency New River Academics, and trained as a whitewater raft guide on the New River. But Paul was perhaps best known in the outdoor adventure community for his harrowing and dangerous ascents of challenging rock climbing routes on the stunning cliffs of the New River Gorge, a place he came to deeply love upon moving to West Virginia. Considered by many as one of the best conversationalists around, he was witty as hell and always had something wise to say about anything and everything. Along with being someone I considered a friend, Paul was a frequent contributor to and big supporter of Highland Outdoors. I’ll forever cherish the last article he wrote for us about climbing in the New River Gorge. I wasn’t nearly as close to Paul as those in the Fayetteville community, and I mourn for those with whom he was truly close. Even though we didn’t connect often, I was always stoked to see him when we were in Fayetteville, and he always reciprocated that stoke with sincerity and a big hug. In our final conversation, Paul and I talked about running the New River together, his ideas for future articles, jamming out on mandolins, and laughed about how getting old will suck. It breaks my heart to know none of these things will come to fruition, and to know that Paul will no longer get to laugh about his aging body. In my limited conversations with Paul, it sounded like he squeezed more adventure, joy, and love out of life in his 40-some years than most do when given double that amount of time. I take comfort knowing he lived it right. Paul’s journey came to a close while on a climbing trip out West. According to friends with whom he was traveling, Paul had enjoyed a wonderful day of climbing before passing peacefully in his sleep at the base of a mountain near Lake Tahoe, California. He is survived by his lovely wife Miranda Nelson, his lovable crag dog Meadow, his close friends, and everyone whose life he touched along the way. Rest easy, professor. w
East of the Mississippi By Cam Moore
A wise person knows that trees are much wiser than people, especially when it comes to predicting the weather. Sometime around the end of August, the initial flames of red on our local maple trees tell us that the glory of fall, and ultimately winter, is on the way. There are few better places to experience nature’s slow and showy descent into the deep torpor of winter than the Dolly Sods plateau, the highest plateau east of the Mississippi. With vast areas above 4,000 feet elevation, the Sods showcase a slice of Canada gone astray, a relic from the last ice age that survives and thrives on this rugged plateau thrust into the Appalachian sky. The red spruce thickets and sphagnum bogs of Dolly Sods are home to some 240 rare species of flora and fauna. Likewise, the muddy, tough-as-hell trails are home to some 240 not-sorare hikers on a busy fall weekend. This otherworldly plateau hosts a one-two punch of epic eastern wilderness with the Dolly Sods Wilderness to the north and the Roaring Plains Wilderness to the south. Somehow even gnarlier than the Sods, the laurel and rhododendron-choked trails of Roaring Plains parallel the edge of the Eastern Continental Divide, which drops precipitously to the east. Intrepid hikers that know which obscure bushwhack trails to take can stand on the edge of the world and watch the land drop away 3,000 feet, or six times the height of the Washington Monument, into the Potomac Valley. Praise be to the plateau, the lost land in the sky! 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.
OVER THE HILL AND PICKING UP SPEED By Nathan Harlan ren’t you going to jump off the bridge?” inquired a sweet, old lady sitting in a lawn chair on the bank of the Shavers Fork of the Cheat River. I looked at my three friends in surprise. “Is it deep enough?” I ventured. “I jumped off when I was 65,” she replied. Grinning, I knew that settled it. My friends and I were, after all, on a four-day bikepacking trip around the Monongahela National Forest to celebrate the summer in which we would all turn 40 years old. We couldn’t be upstaged by a 65-year-old. The idea for this trip was cooked up 12 HIGHLAND OUTDOORS
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a year earlier on a COVID cabin-fever inspired overnight bikepacking trip, a first for my friend Josh and me. We were hooked after our first night out and immediately began plotting a longer trip. We set our sights on the mountains, valleys, and roads of the Mon Forest, keen on including the highlights: Canaan Valley, Dolly Sods, Smoke Hole, and Spruce Knob. We also wanted to link these destinations by pedaling a variety of surfaces: gravel roads, quiet paved roads, gated roads, rail-trail, and mild singletrack. In short, we wanted to go on an epic adventure to celebrate the end of our collective fourth
decade around the sun. As a newcomer to bikepacking, I enjoyed the nuances of learning a new activity and planning for a longer trip. Bikepacking is an interesting amalgamation of activities that are more familiar to me. I’ve been an avid rider since college, so the cycling component was old hat. Carrying weight over long distances for multiple days was also somewhat comparable to my experiences prepping for backpacking trips. I was used to slimming down my packing list with weight, size, and caloric intake in mind.
Josh Lohnes
“A
“We spent days pedaling down curvy mountain roads with occasional vistas of blue mountains and along nostalgic blacktop ribbons running through lush farm valleys seemingly forgotten by time.” Bikepacking also bears similarity to backcountry canoeing in that the weight isn’t carried on your back but on your craft for most of the trip. The knowledge that you won’t have the weight tugging at your shoulders gives you the false impression that you won’t feel the weight. Therein lies the trap that I experienced on my first trip, when I learned the hard way that weight added up quickly and the stability and security of my gear wasn’t to be underestimated. I don’t recommend rigging an ill-fitting rack to your bike with zip ties the night before the ride.
Both photos: Josh Lohnes
The first Category 2 hill (a climb of 1,500 to 3,000 feet) I climbed with excess camping gear hanging from my frame quickly disavowed me of this fallacy. At the same time, bikepacking has elements of a road trip in a car. You can alter course at myriad intersections, stop at a restaurant or shop (Shreve’s Country Store in Smoke Hole is
like a mirage in the desert – cold Coke and ice cream!), or spend the night in a hostel. These travel elements came together beautifully in the process of planning our bikepacking trip to celebrate the big 4-0. We delighted in working through the nuances of the sport in anticipation of our expedition. After all, the joy of a trip need not start with the first pedal stroke. We enjoyed talking about equipment, meal choices, and packing strategies during multiple training rides. The route planning was also a treat, tinged with regret that we couldn’t keep tacking on days to see a little more and go a little bit further into the Mon. Finally, we settled on a route that included both familiar and unfamiliar territory for each of us. We started our trip in Davis, pedaling out Camp 70 Road along the Blackwater River. It’s hard to describe the feeling of
freedom and anticipation at the start of a multi-day trip with close friends and no responsibilities beyond a safe return. Josh and I were joined by our mutual friend Steven, who possessed ample knowledge and experience in the West Virginia wilds. Our party was rounded out by Jared, Josh’s childhood friend from Arizona who was new to the mountainous part of the state and brought a fresh perspective that amplified our vicarious enjoyment of discovering the landscape (if not the hill climbs). Our gentle gravel climb along the Blackwater River gave way to grassy, muddy singletrack as we crossed the river to climb up to Bearden Knob, which afforded views of Canaan Valley and the mountain town of Davis. Swooping down into Canaan, we pushed across a dilapidated bridge on the Blackwater River in the middle of the Canaan Valley Wildlife Refuge before skirting the bases of the ski resorts. Then we carried on to Dolly Sods, briefly stopping at Laneville for lunch and a dip in the icy Red Creek before our first true hill climb up the Allegheny Front. After summiting the Front, we roared down the high plateau of the Sods, cruised out of the Cheat River watershed, and biked over the Eastern Conti-
Previous: Sunset dinner on Spruce Knob. Left: Coke and ice cream break at Shreve’s Store in Smoke Hole. Right: The lawn chair antagonist on Shavers Fork.
highland-outdoors.com 13
nental Divide into the Potomac watershed. We soothed our tired legs with a swim in the North Fork of the South Branch of the mighty river that eventually flows past our nation’s capital. Camped at the head of the North Fork Mountain Trail, we sat on the hillside like tired kings, eating rehydrated food around a campfire. And so continued our trip. We spent days pedaling down curvy mountain roads with occasional vistas of blue mountains and along nostalgic blacktop ribbons running through lush farm valleys seemingly forgotten by time. We biked into ripe fields of early summer hay concealing yearling whitetail deer that broke for cover upon our approach. And the climbs, oh the climbs. In all, we ascended over 17,000 feet of elevation over the course of our trip. Each rider settled into their own pace, lost among their own thoughts, sweat, and struggle.
We were rewarded at the summit with a sunset dinner to the backdrop of a fiery sky, followed by a chilly night of camping along Seneca Creek. The cool mountain air and clear night sky dissipated as we pedaled past Spruce Knob Lake the following morning. Then we travelled down the mountain and past the Sinks of Gandy on quiet, shady forest roads that felt as though they hadn’t changed in 50 years. We cruised onto the street of Glady (yes: street, singular) and over another steep ridge that sent us spinning back in the Cheat watershed and down into the hamlet of Bemis, where we crossed a bridge over the Shavers Fork. Our sweat-stung eyes were greeted by a beautiful swimming hole and sandy riverbank. Here, we met our lawn chair antagonist. My surprise at her suggestion to jump off the bridge was not at the prospect of the act, but rather that I hadn’t already thought of it. In my childhood, I extoled the virtues of leaping off high objects into
All photos: Josh Lohnes
Our second and longest day ended in a 2,860-foot climb up Spruce Knob, the highest point in the Mountain State. I endured the grueling climb by letting my mind wander to avoid focusing on the effort I was exerting. Passed only by
an occasional car, I was surprised to hear a truck slowing down as it caught up to me. Jared sat smiling in the passenger seat, his bike in the bed of his hitch-hiked ride.
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the water in the same way that Robert Frost promoted the bending of birches. The irony of a senior citizen throwing down the challenge wasn’t lost on us. In many ways, it serves as a metaphor for our trip. The adventure of our 40th birthday bikepacking trip was as fulfilling to me as any I’ve undertaken. The trip may have lacked some adrenaline and risk, but it was perhaps more satisfying given the amount of endurance and planning required to complete it, along with the aesthetic beauty of our surroundings. If the next 40 years bring more of this type of adventure, I’m all in (though I hope I’m still up for the occasional bridge jump 25 years from now).
SO MUCH GRATITUDE FOR ALL THE PEOPLE WHO MADE SUMMER 2021 AMAZING. . . AND FOR ALL THE MAGICAL PLACES WE GET TO EXPLORE!!
OUTDOOR EDUCATION
Davis, West Virginia
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We reluctantly left the swimming hole and our new friends to tackle the surprisingly enjoyable 1,000-foot climb out of Bemis. Then we began a rolling descent down into Elkins, another superb gateway town into the Mon Forest. After two nights under the stars, our third night was spent in a hostel downtown. Sitting on the rooftop patio, we watched the sun set while sipping Big Timber beers that were brewed just up the street. We reminisced on past adventures and plotted future trips, like our 50th birthday bikepacking trip in France that will coincide with the Tour de France. The next day, we wrapped up our trip with 46 miles of rail-trail and forest road, bringing our journey to just under 200 miles.
Top: The crew ready to go. Middle: Canaan Loop Road. Bottom: Geared up bikes.
We jokingly referred to this trip as the start of our efforts to work through our mid-life crises, but in truth, this experience was the perfect opportunity to celebrate the start of our fifth decade around the sun. We yielded to the youthful impulse to swim in every river we passed. We found ourselves humbled by the physicality of the terrain, while still relishing every climb and descent. We reveled in the natural beauty of the mountains, sunsets, and rivers, and we embraced the comforts of the mountain town communities we visited. We saw familiar and beloved landscapes through the fresh eyes of a visitor, and we celebrated good friendships that make all travels sweeter. If this is the harbinger of adventures to come, I’m looking forward to what’s next. As Charles Shultz famously said, “Just remember, once you’re over the hill you begin to pick up speed.” w Nathan Harlan is a committed couch potato and armchair adventurist who suffers the occasional relapse into biking, boating, climbing, and camping – often dragging his wife and three daughters with him.
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An aerial view of Seneca’s South End. The Cave, home to Flyin’ Lion, is visible in the lower left portion.
FLYIN’ LION CLIMBING SENECA’S HARDEST ROUTE By Ken Shaffer
I
t was early summer 2019 in Seneca Rocks and well into the West Virginia climbing season. I was fresh off a stint of overseas travel, eager to get back into the swing of things and get a taste of the West Virginia climbing I’d heard so much about. A newbie to the Seneca Rocks scene, I was looking for any excuse to get out and shoot some photos. Little did I know I had just stumbled upon one of the biggest gems of East Coast climbing. I was hanging out on the porch at Seneca Rocks Mountain Guides and decided to pose a question: “Hey, does anyone want to have their picture taken while climbing on Seneca?”
Shortly after our hike up the steep, rocky path— affectionately known as the Stairmaster—to the base of the iconic quartzite monolith, I realized the caliber of route on which Fanning was about to climb. There’s nothing casual about that, I thought to myself. Standing at the mouth of a yawning cave at the southern end of the South Peak, he pointed up to the route. His finger traced an impossibly steep
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Ian Raezer
From there, it was serendipitous. Still new to the scene at Seneca, I didn’t realize the company I found myself in. Matt Fanning, a legendary climber from the New River Gorge, was sitting just across the table. It was a hot day and I didn’t expect anyone to bite, but Fanning humbly took me up on the offer. “I guess we could try Flyin’ Lion,” he casually said. With no idea where the route was or what it entailed, I excitedly packed my camera gear.
Matt Fanning clips his rope and pulls through the crux of Flyin’ Lion (5.13d), the hardest climb at Seneca Rocks.
line etched into the side of the cave that ascends overhanging blocks of jagged and gnarled stone—a terrifying feat for most folks. Flyin’ Lion was originally bolted in 1989 by Seneca icons Tom Cecil and Brian McCray. Unable to complete the climb, the bolting party left it to sleep quietly in its imposing cave for over 30 years. In fall 2018, Fanning showed up to rouse the route from its long slumber. Fanning worked the route for 22 days before completing the first ascent, meaning climbing the route without any falls or resting on the rope, on November 3, 2018. “I went up that day and was a climbing robot,” he said. “It was a perfect fall day. I just shut off my brain and it all clicked.”
All photos: Ken Shaffer
Fanning gave Flyin’ Lion a nailshard difficulty rating of 5.13d. He remains the only person to have successfully ascended this beast of a route. “It’s a bit spicy; you don’t want to fall,” he said. “It’s like falling into a shark’s mouth.” As he tied in to the rope and psyched himself up for the climb, I anxiously checked all of my camera gear—I didn’t want to miss a second of the action. I rappelled down from the top of the cave to set myself up with the best vantage point to shoot Fanning as he left the ground and
made his way through the first set of difficult moves. Dangling above the void, I started snapping photos. Matt moved swiftly and elegantly. His hands found each hold perfectly and his feet followed suit. As I hung there shooting photos, it was clear the muscle memory never left him. I’ve been climbing for almost a decade and had never witnessed such raw power, graceful elegance, and technical ability all at the same time. Imagine you’re hanging upsidedown on sharp rock with some holds as small as the edge of a credit card and nothing but the friction from the tips of your fingers and the rubber of your climbing shoes to keep your body attached to the cave ceiling. Now, picture yourself meticulously moving upwards on these miniscule holds, pausing every six feet or so to clip your rope into bolts drilled into the rock. Fanning climbed artfully, pulling and pushing through the crux, the hardest set of moves on the route. His body flowed through the sequence, horizontal and fully extended, to reach a tiny lip in the rock hiding just out of sight. Every muscle was fired up and tuned in to maintain purchase. It almost felt unfair watching him trying so hard as I sat hanging with
CLIMBING GRADES, EXPLAINED...AGAIN Although the alphanumerical soup of 5.15a sounds like the model number of some obscure relic from Radio Shack, it represents the upper echelon of modern rock climbing. Climbers in the U.S. use the Yosemite Decimal System to indicate the difficulty of a climbing route. The number preceding the decimal indicates the class of terrain. Class 1 terrain refers to a relatively flat hiking trail , class 3 terrain is a steep staircase or a scramble up large rock ledges, and class 5 is reserved for vertical terrain where technical climbing skills are required and ropes are recommended. The number following the decimal confers the difficulty of that terrain. Most rock climbs start in the 5.4 to 5.6 range, going up in singledigit jumps to 5.10. Before the days of modern climbing equipment, 5.10 was the ceiling of difficulty. After the advent of dynamic ropes and sticky rubber shoes, falls became safer and the realm of possibility expanded. Able to easily dispatch 5.10 routes, climbers added a new layer of difficulty to the system. Once 5.10 is reached, the lowercase letter grades a through d are added. After 5.10d, the jump to 5.11 is made, and the letters a through d are added until 5.12 is reached, and so on. This allows for seemingly endless growth as subsequent generations of athletes continue to push the boundaries of what’s possible in rock climbing. Currently, the hardest climb in the world holds the grade of 5.15d, and the climbing community is waiting with bated breath for the first 5.16a to be confirmed.
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“Imagine you’re hanging upside-down on sharp rock with some holds as small as the edge of a credit card and nothing but the friction from the tips of your fingers and the rubber of your climbing shoes to keep your body attached to the cave ceiling.”
Fanning at the anchors of Flyin’ Lion in The Cave. The Southern Pillar is visible in the background.
Powering through the last few moves, Fanning clipped his rope into the anchor at the end of the route and swung out smiling as his belayer lowered him back to solid ground. My heart still racing from the excitement, I rappelled down shortly after to give him a well-deserved high-five. I asked Fanning to take me back to the crisp fall day of his first ascent. “I was in disbelief; I had worked on it longer than anything I’d ever tried before,” he said. “It’s probably the best route I’ve ever climbed on. It’s such an honor to have a 18 HIGHLAND OUTDOORS
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first ascent at Seneca.” Since his ascent of Flyin’ Lion, Fanning has gone onto “bigger things.” In summer 2020, while the rest of us were baking our first loaves of sourdough bread in quarantine, Fanning was putting up another first ascent on an unclimbed wall in Wyoming’s Wind River Range. Along with his partners Ben Stannuth and Jamey Sellew, Fanning established a new eight-pitch 5.12 route called California Dreamin’ on Little El Cap, an 1,800-foot granite monolith that offers a striking resemblance to Yosemite’s famous El Capitan. “Just being on a wall that no one has ever climbed before is a pretty magical experience,” Fanning said. “We got struck by lightning on the summit, it was wild!”
With numerous difficult first ascents under his belt, I asked Fanning what comes next. “I want to take young climbers from West Virginia and the Southeast out to have the experience of a first ascent in the mountains,” he said. “When it comes to climbing, I prefer to be competitive with myself rather than others. Picking and finding new routes is an artistic process, and making art out of climbing is still possible.” w Ken Shaffer is an adventure filmmaker, photographer, and mountain guide at Seneca Rocks Climbing School. Check out more of his work: www.kashaffer.com. You can hear more of Fanning’s WV climbing adventures on his Chalk is Che@p podcast.
Jonny Hudson
ease on my rope. I felt the energy of that moment and the humility of capturing such an epic battle of mental and physical fortitude.
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New Love
words By Dylan Jones photos By jay young
I
n 1934, the Hawks Nest Dam and Hawks Nest Tunnel—a three-mile tube that diverts water to power a manufacturing plant in the town of Alloy—were constructed on the New River downstream of Fayetteville. As the New’s thrashing waters were calmed by the dam, the raptors for which the area was named fled the coop and Hawks Nest Lake inundated the rocky banks of the gorge. As often happens with a major damming project, what was submerged by the lake was lost to history. But in September 2020, Brookfield Energy, the company that manages the dam, drained Hawks Nest Lake by 25 feet for eight weeks so maintenance could be performed on Hawks Nest Tunnel. As the murky waters receded, the massive boulders that create the bed of the ancient New River were exposed for the first time in 86 years, forming rapids that few living people—if any—had ever seen. While the raptors didn’t flock back to Hawks Nest, whitewater aficionadas did, arriving in adventurous pursuit of a fleeting opportunity to paddle what is now but a memory, submerged once again under the mysterious waters of Hawks Nest Lake. This is the story of the Lost New. Hawks Nest Lake starts upstream at Teays Landing, a commercial rafting takeout just downstream of Old Nasty, the final rapid on the famed Lower New whitewater stretch. From Teays, the lake meanders around a few flooded bends of the New River before reaching Hawks Nest Dam. When the drawdown was initiated on September 8, 2020, it took only 24 hours for the lake to drop 25 feet, according to veteran whitewater paddler and raft guide Dave Bassage. He put out a call on Facebook to see who might want to float down a flash of history. The eternally stoked Fayetteville whitewater community, not one to let an opportunity go to waste, jumped right in. An initial scouting mission discovered two significant rapids; a later paddling of the tailwaters by Bassage revealed a third rapid closer to the dam. Prior to putting on, Bassage dove into the annals of history, looking for any record of these rapids and potential descents. It’s likely that Native Americans 22 HIGHLAND OUTDOORS
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had navigated some stretches of the New River long before white settlers arrived, but the first recorded descent of the New River was accomplished in the late 1800s by a pioneering party of paddlers, including Supreme Court Chief Justice John Marshall, in flat-bottomed, wooden boats called batteaux. A National Park Service article titled “Batteaux on the New” states that “Marshall’s expedition travelled, with great difficulty, downstream past present day Hawks Nest State Park, naming the spot for the abundance of ospreys they sighted. Washington’s dream of the southern Chesapeake and Ohio Canal was dashed by the whitewater rapids of the lower New River Gorge, which Marshall reported as being too wild for commercial batteau navigation.” Because there is no record of what rapids these intrepid individuals did or didn’t run, it’s highly plausible that these rapids, given their challenging nature and the boat technology of the early 19th century, had yet to see a human
descent. When the lake is at regular levels, the car-sized boulders that form Old Nasty sit a few feet out of the water, creating a few riffles and a light current that can be navigated on an open-top kayak. When the New is up, Old Nasty becomes a significant wave train that offers one last bit of excitement before paddlers takeout at Teays. Old Nasty—nasty only in name— is normally tamed by the lake. But as the bottom dropped out, “New Old Nasty” came roaring back, a veritable beast suddenly worthy of its moniker. According to Bassage, after the drawdown took place, the rocks that normally create the light riffles became the entrance gates to a 200-yard-long rapid, offering a riparian revenge just waiting to devour unsuspecting paddlers. “Old Nasty got much, much bigger than it ever was before with three significant drops,” Bassage said. “The middle drop had a hole that looked a lot like Greyhound Bus Stopper [on the Lower New], and the bottom drop had this kind of curling rooster tail of water.”
Left: Massive cliffs of silt emerged along the sides of Hawks Nest Lake after the drawdown took place. Right: Travis Hames earned his first descent of New Love in an inflatable kayak. Previous: Nicole Borth and Dave Bassage (right) paddle down their personal first descent of the New Love rapid.
“As the murky waters receded, the massive boulders that create the bed of the ancient New River were exposed for the first time in 86 years, forming rapids that few living people—if any—had ever seen.”
Next up was a brand-new, river-wide rapid that featured a large central hole, multiple slot moves on the river-right side, and an easier tongue of fast-moving water on river-left. Given the clean line on the left side, which would allow a paddler to easily avoid the dangerous hole, Bassage leaned on his decades of whitewater experience to estimate a class III difficulty rating. On the afternoon of September 11, Bassage rallied with a group of paddlers: his paddling partner Nicole Borth, with whom he had run the class V Upper Gauley River earlier that morning; Dru Goines, a friend of Borth’s; and Fayetteville locals Melanie Seiler Hames and her husband, Travis Hames. They geared up at Fayette Station, just upstream of the hulking New River Gorge Bridge, for what they thought would be the first descent of the new rapid. Borth, a yoga instructor and nutrition-
ist based in Clayton, Georgia, initially met Bassage over a decade ago while paddling the Upper Gauley. She hadn’t paddled with Bassage in nearly a decade and reached out to him in spring 2020 while searching for a new paddling partner to get out with on bigger water. When Bassage obliged, they planned a trip to run the Upper Gauley come September. In a serendipitous twist, their planned run just happened to take place during the drawdown, on the morning of the day Bassage decided to take the maiden voyage down the Lost New. “After the Gauley, Dave said, “Hey I’ve got this thing I want to do,” and I was just lucky enough to be along for the ride,” Borth said. Unbeknownst to them, Fayetteville kayaker and whitewater guide Matt Zickafoose had scored the true first descent in a kayak the evening of September 10, just before Bassage and Borth nabbed what they thought was the first descent of the Lost New. Blissfully unaware of Zickafoose’s descent, Bassage and Borth, paddling a two-person Shredder raft, lined up on river right to take a narrow slot move. Because they scouted the rapid from river left, they misjudged the size of the slot and were forced to make a last-second move to a larger slot that offered safer passage. “That change of plan added to the excitement,” Bassage said. “We had already done the Upper Gauley earlier that day, so [Nicole and I] were really in tune with each other. We threw the right paddle strokes and made it through clean; that made it extra fun that we had to improvise.” Borth said the rapid went seamlessly even with the last-second line change. “We barely talked, paddling with Dave is so fluid,” she said. “It was one of the best whitewater experiences I’ve ever had. It’s just magical to be on the water with him.” Travis Hames, a renowned river surfer, opted to run the rapid in an inflatable kayak while Seiler Hames, one of the region’s top standup paddleboarders, undoubtedly earned the first paddleboard descent. “I could see the current on the left side and weave between the breaking waves and the pour-overs to find a smooth line for the paddleboard, so that I’m not punching through a lot
of breaking whitewater, which separates you from the board,” she said. “It went smoothly, and I was able to maintain my line at the bottom after passing the hole in the center. I stayed on my feet and got two nice big waves at the bottom; it feels amazing to accomplish any bits of whitewater on a paddleboard.” Now that the descent was completed, it was time to name the rapid. The honor was given to Bassage, who, after discussing some of the options with Borth, decided on New Love—an homage to the New River and Tom Love, the late inventor of the beloved Shredder raft, the very craft in which they accomplished their descent. “I had a couple of names I was thinking of, and I settled on New Love because it was a newly exposed rapid on the New,” Bassage said. “I also wanted to honor Tom Love, who had just passed away a month or two before the descent.” Although New Love was the star of the Lost New, Bassage said that New Old Nasty offered the biggest challenge. “There was actually more carnage that happened in New Old Nasty than in New Love; part of that was because in New Love, you’d scout it and pick your line and everybody pretty much knew what they in for,” Bassage said. “In New Old Nasty, you’re pretty much running it on the fly, so some misjudged and got worked in a hole. It was a test of your ability to read and run whitewater.” Bassage, always one to do his homework, also scouted a takeout spot before his crew’s maiden voyage. “I met a landowner that had a cabin and gave us permission to take out there anytime we wanted to,” he said. “Ironically, as we came paddling up to his cabin the first time, he and his buddies were there, and there was a guy on the porch playing “Dueling Banjos” on his banjo.” That simple ascending and descending melody was made immensely popular in the film “Deliverance,” which took place on the Chattooga River, a famed whitewater stretch that cuts through the Georgia and into South Carolina, which is Borth’s home river. “We had an epic takeout experience, and to hear “Dueling Banjos” was just so cool,” she said. According to Seiler Hames, the area where Hawks Nest Lake would normally be flush with the cabin was now a steep, 40-foot scramble up smooth, round boul-
Left: Nicole Borth and Dave Bassage celebrate after their successful run through New Love. Top: Melanie Seiler Hames undoubtedly earned the first paddleboard descent of New Love.
ders to get to the cabin’s porch. “We had to pull our boats up, and here’s this great multi-generational family hanging out, cooking food, offering us beers, and just having a good old time,” she said. “Then we had to hike the train tracks and trail all the way back to the cars, the take-out was a whole journey in itself.” Days later, Bassage returned to continue down beyond the cabin and explore the final stretch of the Lost New. He dubbed the final rapid Flirtation. Nestled just above the silty tailwaters swirling among the sloughing cliffs of mud, Flirtation was a mild rapid, offering a glimpse of what would could be if Hawks Nest Dam were to be removed completely. “I’m sure it would get a lot bigger,” he said. “I named it Flirtation because it’s a just a hint of what might be there.” After running Flirtation, Bassage had to paddle back upstream to reach a safe takeout point above the quicksand-like banks of silt. Along the way, he noticed other freshly
exposed items—loads of detritus that had sunk to the bottom of the lake over the decades. Bassage, who also works for the New River Conservancy, took advantage of the low water and organized a trash cleanup with the National Park Service and local organizations. Over 40 crafts of various sizes showed up, resulting in the removal of “hundreds of tires” and nearly as many bags of trash, Bassage said.
this being Shawnee and Cherokee land, standing on the riverbank looking at that rapid for the very first time as they might have seen it,” she said. “It connects us to the river, and to those people who came into this area for the very first time to live and hunt and play here. It gives me that feeling of a relationship with those first inhabitants.”
But, as the Debbie Downers of the world say, all good things must come to an end. And so it was that just eight brief weeks after the Lost New formed, the flood gates closed and Hawks Nest Lake sent the blossoming riverbed back to its watery grave. “Now that the lake is back up, I miss it,” Bassage said. “I feel really privileged that I got to experience something where there’s a very good chance it won’t exist again in my lifetime.”
For throngs of people around the world, 2020 was a lost year of sorts. Inundated under the societal floodwaters of a global pandemic, the story of the Lost New briefly emerged above the proverbial surface as a fleeting moment of joy, its name apropos for the era. “Every time I go out and run through Old Nasty now when I’m guiding, I look and think Oh, I remember a year ago this was so much fun. Now I see that little hint of what I know is down underneath there, and it just makes me smile.” w
Seiler Hames reflected on the Lost New as an opportunity to connect with those who came before us. “I thought back to the Native Americans, with
Dylan Jones is publisher of Highland Outdoors and is still dealing with the FOMO of missing out on the Lost New. highland-outdoors.com 25
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The
Unknown
Surveying the Subterranean Frontier Words and Photos By Ryan Maurer
highland-outdoors.com 27
I
held my hand against a small, white dot I just painted on the wall of the cave passage. “Hand on station,” I called back to my partner Cindy, who began measuring the survey shot between us. A stream silently rolled through the cave, filling the passage from wall to wall with knee-deep water. Just above freezing, the water slowly seeped into my boots and my toes started to lose feeling. I had the sense to don my thick wetsuit for this outing but erroneously omitted my neoprene socks. As the bright, red dot of a laser bounced around on my hand, I wondered where my life went wrong, and how that wrong turn enabled this experience to be what some people refer to as fun. Despite the ups and downs, this experience was part of a grander, and more fun, project to map caves. The privately owned cave we were in had been closed for some time. After a few months of groundwork, we negotiated access for a resurvey project—a process where we explore the known and unknown passages of a cave to further map its features. Landowners, frequently suspicious of people who wish to crawl into holes in their backyards, are often put at ease upon being shown the results of a cave mapping project. A large surface stream entered this particular cave, rendering it prone to flooding. Hence, there I was, toes going numb in 33-degree water while I installed a water depth probe. The probe recorded the depth of the water in the cave every fifteen minutes from when we installed it in February to July, allowing us to examine when and how the cave floods.
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This cave also blows out warm air in the winter, indicating that it had another entrance and unexplored terrain, but we barely noticed the relative warmth compared to the underground stream in which we stood. We just finished surveying the known reaches of the 300-foot passage when we decided to stage a photograph at the bottom of the entrance. I fumbled with my camera, more focused on my relative discomfort than the photograph, completely unaware of what I was about to experience. As I backed up to shoot the photo, I kicked a rock behind me and heard it fall a few feet, bounce, then fall for a substantially longer period before landing in the black void below. I quickly ignored the photo and began shifting rocks aside to reveal a drop down a narrow slot canyon whose walls were covered in razor-sharp, scalloped edges. I tossed the rope down the slot and rappelled in to find myself on the pristine, muddy banks of an old lakebed. There were no footprints in sight. I hesitated a moment so I could relish what was about to come. My next steps would be the first ever taken in this place by a human being. We were trailblazers in this underground room and had the responsibility of setting the path for those who would follow us. Every footstep had to be intentional. The truly adventurous experience of exploring an unknown cave can only be described in cliches. It is one of the last frontiers of modern exploration. It is dangerous, uncomfortable, and exhausting. It is exhilarating, frustrating, and addicting. The places cavers visit for the first time are less known than the surface of the moon. For cave mappers, the thrill of discovery yields to the satisfaction of understanding how this new piece fits into a larger underground puzzle. Foot by foot, cavers take hundreds or thousands of pages of notes, systematically measuring, drawing, and recording every feature within a cave. On the surface, this data is entered into a computer and a map is produced that features information about navigation, geology, hydrology, and history. In July, I found myself back at the cave in which we installed the water depth probe. I traded 25°F air temperature and snow for an 88°F day with oppressive humidity. I had my wetsuit again, but it stayed in my pack as I fought my way through briars to the entrance. The stream at the cave entrance was a balmy 78°F.
Left: The author sketching by carbide lamplight. Right: Hope Brooks fires a survey shot from a tight squeeze. Previous: The author fires a laser rangefinder to map the ceiling features in a cave. highland-outdoors.com
29
My friend Riannon and I were on a trip to remap passages down the main trunk of the cave. This adventure was a resurvey, which is the necessary process of remapping areas that have previously been mapped in order to continue mapping unexplored passages further into a cave. The notes and data from the last mapping in the 1980s had been long lost to history, so we were beginning from scratch, except for the mere 200 feet of passage that I had mapped while installing the probe in February. “Hand on station,” I said again as a red dot bounced around the walls. Riannon pointed a DistoX2 unit, which is a beefed-up laser rangefinder that we use to measure the distance and direction between survey stations underground. After a couple of shots, she read the information to me and I wrote it down. Standing comfortably in the stream, warm and cozy this time, I began mapping while remembering less pleasant surveys from years past. Shot by shot, we continued forward into the cave. Even though we weren’t experiencing an undiscovered cave, we relished in documenting the geology— specifically the rock strata or layering in which the cave was formed. The rock units, or geologic formations, here determine where and how the cave was created. Water enters the cave entrance along a thick layer of limestone and sits on top of a layer of sandy, limey rock, which the water cannot easily cut down through. From there, the water breaks into a massive slab of limestone and drills straight down through it, forming large, vertical shafts in the rock. The cycle repeats, cutting vertically through each layer of limestone and moving horizontally along each layer of sandstone and shale. These rock layers, when recorded in the survey, provide crucial insights into how the cave behaves along with clues about where more cave passage might be found. I recorded this information in my notebook and began drawing. Sketching in a cave is a rather unique activity that many cavers transform into a hobby of its own. I started the map by using a ruler and protractor to draw the survey line that we just measured. Then, I drew the cave around the line, using dimensions from the DistoX2 unit and dead reckoning—estimating the position and size of objects from adjacent points. Great cave maps are created by meshing objective scientific documentation and subjective interpretation. This data was then entered into a computer and the sketches scanned to allow the final map to be 30 HIGHLAND OUTDOORS
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Clockwise from top: Measuring distances between survey points. A digitized version of a hand-drawn map created by Ryan Maurer. Maurer’s hand-drawn map on grid paper. A snap of Maurer’s dirty notebook, including survey points and a sketch of the mapped cave passage.
drawn digitally. Trip by trip, the cave map gets drawn this way. The cartographer, however, can only provide as much detail in the final map as I provided in my sketches. There’s a fine balance between drawing the cave as detailed as technically possible, deciding which features to exclude, and managing the time and effort spent on each survey shot. In this case, I was both the sketcher and cartographer, simplifying the working relationship. Back at home, I sat at my drawing table in the living room. My method for cartography begins with printing the line plot—a digitally compiled series of lines produced from a survey. I overlayed my cave sketches on top of the printed line plot on a backlit table and manually redrew the cave, first in pencil and then in ink with technical pens. The inked panels were then scanned into a computer and placed into the final map, where I digitally added finishing touches like text, color, and graphics. I only use this approach for my personal projects. Maps created with collaborators are always done digitally from start to finish, where the survey notes get scanned into a computer, a program morphs the sketches to the line plot, and a cartographer digitally traces over all of it. Regardless of how a cave map is produced, the process continues in a grand cycle. At the end of a cartography session, the cartographer is left with a map of a cave that often has at least one passage ending with a big ‘?’ graphic. And with that ‘?’, we plan our next phase of exploration. Using the knowledge and experience gained on previous trips, we can plan easier and more efficient ways to reach the end of the cave. We often venture into the depths solely on a mission to set new ropes or stage gear. Just a few hours of prep work can save hundreds of hours on future trips, translating to hundreds of hours of cold, wet fun pushing that ‘?’ further into the unknown. w Author’s note: To protect the stunning geologic, biologic, and cultural resources in caves, I cannot release the names or locations of sensitive areas in this story. However, I can assure you that these underground wildernesses really do exist beneath our feet. Ryan Maurer is a photographer, caver, and writer from Southwest Pennsylvania who now lives near Annapolis, Maryland. When not underground, he spends time planning his next trip underground.
highland-outdoors.com 31
A Whisper in the Forest Words and photos by Dylan Jones
W
hen West Virginia’s mountainous forests put on their flamboyant show of fireworks before turning inward for the long dark of winter, a full palette of color is on display. Some of the most brilliant yellows belong to our beloved aspens, their spade-shaped leaves holding on just a bit longer than the maples’, often the last blotches of gold left shivering in the crisp November winds. Most people associate aspen trees with climes west of the Mississippi—seemingly endless forests that paint the barren shoulders of the Rocky Mountain in shades of mint during the short alpine summer before transitioning to gold-streaked gulches in fall. But aspens populate the ridges and valleys of higher altitudes right here in the Mountain State, helping to cure those inevitable pangs of wanderlust when the grandiose landscapes of the West come calling. With its signature white bark and fluttering leaves, the quaking aspen (Populus tremuloides) can seem a tad out of place here in East. The quaking aspen, however, is the most widely distributed tree on the North American continent, ranging from boreal latitudes in Canada to small pockets scattered throughout Mexico. On the Dolly Sods Plateau, itself a slice of Canada gone astray, wind-stunted quaking aspens dot the rugged landscape, their yellow leaves contrasting like flittering bars of bullion against the crimson blueberry shrubs and dark-green spruce groves in autumn. The leaves of the quaking aspen feature a flat stem that runs perpendicular to the leaf blade, causing the leaves to tremble in even the lightest breeze. One need only stand for a moment among a thicket of these cacophonous trees on a windy day to understand their name. It sounds as though the forest is whispering to itself, informing all other creatures of your presence. The smooth, white bark features old branch scars that look like eyes watching your every move, adding a voyeuristic feel to the sounds of the woodland whispers. Given that aspens communicate with one another via chemical signals in their tangled roots, perhaps that anthropomorphism isn’t too farfetched. We are fortunate here in West Virginia to enjoy another species of aspen. Growing up to 75 feet tall, the bigtooth aspen (Populus grandidentata) can dominate sections of forest canopy, covering more ground throughout the Mountain State than the quaking aspen. The bigtooth aspen is easily distinguishable from its quivering cousin by its curvy, toothed leaves. As it matures, its bark becomes dark gray with deep ridges and fissures, making it easily mistaken for chestnut oak (Quercus montana). Aspen trees reproduce by wind-dispersed seeds from flowers called catkins, appearing in early spring as fuzzy, grayish tails hanging from the tips of twigs. However, these hardy trees can also multiply via clonal offshoots called root sprouts. Often, what looks like a grove of aspens is actually one massive organism, a cluster of cloned trees that shares a singular web of roots—and the same DNA. Most aspen clone groves in West Virginia are just a few acres in size, but in the Western states, some clonal stands span nearly 100 acres. The Pando clone in Utah, the largest known aspen clonal colony, covers over 100 acres, weighs more than 14 million pounds, and is estimated to be around 80,000 years old. When the crisp winds return to cool the autumnal air, venture out into the highlands with a hammock or a camp chair, find a spot among the golden canopy of the aspens, and tune in to the whispers of the forest. w 32 HIGHLAND OUTDOORS
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highland-outdoors.com 33
DIGGING DEEP
WORDS AND PHOTOS BY NIKKI FORRESTER
LIKE MOST KIDS, I GREW UP IN THE DIRT. I whiled away my youthful days searching for worms and wriggly creatures under the soil. My brother and I stomped around in mud pits until we were covered from head to toe in cakes of gooey, brown muck. Then as an undergraduate, my attention started drifting upwards to the trees and plants of the forest. I spent six years doing fieldwork at a research station in southwest Virginia, absorbed by hemlock and birch while neglecting the soft mats of soil on which they grew. It’s been almost a decade since I’ve ventured into the woods for a research project, so I was thrilled when James “Jim” Leonard invited me to join him on his quest to uncover the mysteries of West Virginia’s soils. Leonard, a master’s student at West Virginia University (WVU) and soil science pathways student for the USDA Natural Resources Conservation Service, was eager to show me the spruce-laden slopes he studies.
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After a 45-minute drive along a curvy back road through Glady, we arrived at the trailhead to the field site. The green hues of the hills popped among the misty clouds that nestled into the hollows. Goldenrod and purple Joe-Pye weed bloomed in open meadows, hinting that late summer had officially arrived in the highlands. As the rain drizzled down, we looked to the skies, hoping the weather would clear or, at the very least, not get any worse. Leonard loaded a backpack full of gear and grabbed his spaded shovel, while I donned my rain jacket and hiking boots. After mounting a GPS unit to his hip, we set off down a lumpy road, every inch reclaimed by a sea of sprawling plants. Leonard is particularly interested in soils that occur in red spruce forests, which once covered approximately 1.5 million acres across West Virginia until they were extensively logged and burned in the late 1800s and
early 1900s. Now, scientists and citizens are working to restore red spruce throughout Central Appalachia, in part because of the exceptional services they provide to native ecosystems. Red spruce forests create homes for endangered and rare species, store massive amounts of carbon, and prevent sediment from running off into the surrounding watersheds. “I just love the forests they create. They’re beautiful, absolutely gorgeous,” said Leonard. For his current project, Leonard is measuring how much carbon is stored in soils under red spruce forests throughout the Monongahela National Forest. He’s sampled soil from about 65 sites since 2018 and has 25 more to go. Using a digital mapping program, he randomly selected each site based on the forest composition, mapped soil types, and proximity to roads. Then, every field day, he wanders into the woods with a single GPS point as his guide. We trekked along the old logging road, checking the GPS every so often to make sure we were on the right track. About 20 minutes later, we took a sharp right into a thicket of red spruce, birch, hemlock, and beech trees, treading carefully up the north-facing slope until we arrived at the sampling site. A red spruce towered over us, which Leonard enthusiastically estimated to be at least 100 years old. “You often don’t know what you’ll find until you get there,” he said. Relieved that he could use this site for his study, he dropped his backpack and scattered notebooks, measuring tapes, a broom, and other instruments across the forest floor. While Leonard took notes about the landscape and vegetation, I wandered around, gazing up into
Above: The author (right) and her brother Greg (left) as muddy kiddos. Photo by Dave Forrester. Right: Jim Leonard records data on soil properties.
the misty tree canopy and down onto the mossy hummocks that shaped the slope. Relishing in my privilege to spend a peaceful morning in the woods, I turned around to see Leonard vigorously hacking into the dirt, sweat dripping from his brow and soaking through his maroon WVU Soils Team t-shirt. After marking out a one-meter square, he crouched down to carefully remove the top layer of organic matter, comprised of a loose nest of decaying conifer needles and hardwood leaves sprinkled with twigs. Then he continued shoveling, digging deep into the earth, revealing layer after layer of buried history, piling it up into a golden mound by his side. “All soils tell a story,” said Leonard. While processes, like logging or fires, can drastically alter the plant community in a forest, remnants of the past are still present in soils, which have accumulated for thousands or even millions of years. If you dig deep enough and know what to look for, you can use properties of the soil to recreate bygone eras. For instance, conifer species, like red spruce and hemlock, produce organic acids that leach out of the upper soil layers and are deposited deeper into the subsoil or nearby streams, bestowing them with characteristic tea-stained hues. To uncover the soil’s story, Leonard dug a pit 100 centimeters (or about 3.3 feet) deep, then tidied up the layers by clipping stray roots, chiseling into the soil, and brushing away loose clumps and rocks. The pit, which first appeared to be a dark layer of topsoil dripping into an array of blended browns and iron-dyed oranges, transformed into an exquisitely executed layer cake with a distinct golden layer on bottom, a
light-brown layer on top, and a dark-chocolate frosting. A charcoal compote separated the bottom layer, indicating that something likely burned there in the past—perhaps a large root, a fallen tree, or the entire forest. After separating each soil layer, or horizon, with stakes, Leonard started sampling from the bottom, recording color, texture, firmness, and other soil properties. He handed me a clod of soil, moistened with a spritz of water. “Feel this one,” he said, “notice how it kind of sticks and breaks apart?” I crushed it between my fingers, coating my hand in a layer of rust-orange clay. “Now feel this one,” he continued, handing me another clump of wet soil. It felt slick and oily as I worked it between my fingertips. “That’s the spodic properties,” Leonard said, referring to organic materials that occur in soils where conifers are or were present in the high-elevation mountains of Central Appalachia. “We have a term called pedomemory—the soil’s memory of the past, stored in the soil properties that we see.” Searching for spodic properties in the soil allows Leonard and other scientists to map where red spruce and 38 HIGHLAND OUTDOORS
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other conifer trees occurred historically, even if forests are now dominated by maple, oak, black cherry, and other hardwood trees. “Finding those spodic properties where they shouldn’t be helps us to guide red spruce restoration in the Monongahela National Forest,” Leonard said. His work to understand how much carbon is stored in various red spruce soils can also assist in management efforts, for instance, by discouraging timbering in areas with high soil-carbon that provide a variety of benefits to the ecosystem and planet. Although forests and soils can be resilient to change, disturbances like logging, mining, and fires have transformed the landscapes in West Virginia, including those once dominated by red spruce. “Our forests have drastically changed due to these disturbances, and they’re not going back to the way they were,” said Leonard. “It would take a lot of time and a lot of money to put it back to the way it was, but we can try to guide it so that it develops back toward that trajectory.” Jeff Skousen, a professor of soil science and land reclamation specialist at WVU, is also working on a project to
Clockwise from top left: Leonard digs a pit at a sample site. A moss-covered hummock. Leonard matches a soil sample to a Munsell color chart. Leonard getting down and dirty.
restore forests through revitalizing the soil. Since the 1960s, forest soils in the Mon have become more acidic due to acid rain. Skousen worries that when trees are harvested, species that prefer acidic soils, like black cherry and red maple, will outcompete the tree species that were once there. To reduce the acidity of the soil, Skousen and his colleagues set up an 800-acre experimental plot in the Mon Forest and used a helicopter to lime the soil. Over the five-year study, they’ll compare limed sites to non-limed sites to evaluate how the soil properties have changed. “The purpose is to see if we can help the soils return to what they were previously like before acid rain really impacted them,” said Skousen.
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This research highlights the foundational role soils play in environments throughout the Mountain State. “Our forests vary across the landscape based on the soil properties: how much water soils hold, how deep they are, and where they’re located. I really love these soils because they’re so unique, and they form the basis of all of these ecosystems that make our state so beautiful,” said Skousen. West Virginia’s mountainous topography and location along the Eastern Continental Divide affect erosion, temperature, and precipitation patterns, driving an immense diversity in soil types and the plant communities they host. “You can have a temperate rainforest on the western facing slope, and on the eastern facing slope, you can have cacti,” said Stephanie Connolly, a program analyst on detail with the USDA Forest Service Northern Research Station. Along with providing habitat and nutrients to support a diverse array of flora and fauna, soils make landscapes resilient. The minerals, organic matter, and microbes in soil help filter water, retain pollutants, and store more carbon than any other terrestrial ecosystem on the planet. Soils also act like giant sponges, absorbing and storing massive amounts of water, which prevents flooding, erosion, and sediment runoff. After red spruce forests were clear-cut in the late 1800s and early 1900s, catastrophic floods tore through Pittsburgh, Huntington, and numerous other regions throughout the East Coast that were fed by the Mountain State’s rivers. “That’s a direct result of logging because we lost all the water-holding capabilities that soils offer,” said Leonard. And yet, it’s easy to overlook dirt. We often take for granted the impact soil has on our lives, from saving the planet to growing forests to providing a playground for endless childhood entertainment. “We see all the mountains and the trees and the plains and the grass, but we don’t think about what lies beneath our feet. It’s an interconnected web,” said Leonard, “but isn’t it all?” w Nikki Forrester is senior editor of Highland Outdoors and used her journalistic instincts to dig up dirt for this story.
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THE GREAT MIGRATION By Mollee Brown
W
hen temperatures start dropping and days become shorter, fall migration for birds isn’t starting — it’s well underway. Fall migration is loosely named because it begins as early as June and lasts through the beginning of the following year, but September and October are when the bulk of these movement happens. Fall migrants in West Virginia could be grouped into three categories: breeding birds that are leaving the area, wintering birds that are arriving here, and pass-through species who only visit the state within migration windows. Bird migration in the fall is quite a contrast to the spectacular blitz of spring migration. In April and May, the sudden rush of singing birds boast their most colorful plumage as they blaze northward from their wintering grounds to their breeding territories. If spring migration is a raging concert, then fall migration is a campfire tune strummed on the guitar.
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It’s subtle, quiet, and can slip by without notice. With less color and noise, fall migration is easily overlooked, but it is doubtlessly a gem of its own. The timing of each species’ migration depends on its breeding habits, food supply, and many other factors. For example, adult males of our resident Rubythroated Hummingbird who, like other hummingbirds, play no part in hatching or raising their offspring, head back to their wintering grounds in Central America come August. Females and hatch-year hummingbirds begin their fall migration a month or more later. Regardless of when they depart, these tiny creatures fly around or even across the Gulf of Mexico and repeat the journey to return to the Mountain State every spring. In contrast, the White-throated Sparrow, a common and charismatic winter bird species in West Virginia, migrates a shorter distance. These sparrows breed in
boreal Canada nearly everywhere south of the Arctic tree line. Their migration is triggered by a complex range of hormonal and daylight-related factors, and they take their time along the way, stopping for as long as needed to replenish their fat reserves. Eventually, these sparrows end up scattered throughout the eastern half of the United States for the winter, and by November, they arrive in West Virginia. Most songbirds migrate during the night, using darkness as protection from predators. Raptors, on the other hand, are daytime migrants that rely on air thermals to preserve their energy while they travel long distances. One might see hundreds—or even thousands—of hawks, vultures, falcons, and eagles effortlessly riding thermals above the Appalachian ridgelines in autumn. Although fall bird migration can be observed in almost every tree, field, and skyline in the state, there are also ways
Above: An immature male Cooper’s Hawk is released after being banded. Photo by Liz Stout. Left: A migrating warbler after being banded. Photo by Tom Manuccia. Right: Volunteers band birds at the Allegheny Front Migratory Observatory in 2008, the last year that AFMO founder Ralph Bell worked at the station. Photo by Bill Beatty.
to see a concentration of migrants up close. One of the most unique ways to view migrating birds is by visiting a bird banding station. Bird banding began hundreds of years ago when early ornithologists tied tiny ribbons on birds to track individuals. Today, researchers use cutting-edge technologies, like satellite, radio, and cellular tracking systems. Bird banders are trained to safely capture birds and attach tiny bands to the birds’ legs. Each band has a unique ID, like a license plate, that can be used to track the bird in the future. Banders also record data such as the age and weight of individual birds. Researchers use this detailed information to learn more about bird migration, population fluxes, and species behaviors. West Virginia is also home to the oldest continuously run bird banding station in North America: the Allegheny Front Migratory Observatory perched high in the Dolly Sods Wilderness in Tucker County. This observatory is free and open to the public from mid-August to mid-October. Hanging Rock Raptor Observatory in Monroe County is also an excellent place to witness raptor migration. Originally a fire tower, this rustic outpost
that sits at 3,800 feet provides not only incredible views, but also a fantastic vantage point along a popular migratory route for raptors. In September, visitors can observe the greatest number of fall migrants, primarily Broad-winged Hawks, that travel in flocks of hundreds or thousands of individuals. People who visit the observatory in October and early November will likely see fewer birds, but a greater variety of species, such as Red-tailed and Sharp-shinned Hawks and Bald Eagles. Hanging Rock is open year-round to visitors and hosts volunteers who track bird migration throughout the fall. This year, the Hanging Rock observatory installed an antenna that uses radio telemetry to track the movement and behavior of tagged birds and other migratory animals that pass near the station. Each tag emits a pulse that is unique to the animal to which it is attached. These extremely lightweight tags are attached to birds of all sizes, and even to Monarch Butterflies, an important migratory insect that researchers at Hanging Rock are particularly interested in studying. When looking for fall migrants, early- to mid-mornhighland-outdoors.com
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ing is typically the best time to observe bird activity. When the sun comes up, migrating birds frequently drop down from the high skies to rest for the day and forage on insects to replenish themselves before continuing their journeys. Unlike spring migration, when birds are focused on attracting mates and finding territories, fall migration is defined by the birds’ need to consume food. Loosely formed flocks of various bird species often forage together, working their way through circuits of tree branches to gorge on insects. Because birds aren’t singing or confronting other individuals as often, they can be harder to spot. From a birder’s perspective, the upside to these foraging behaviors is that, with some patience and luck, birds can be observed quite closely. It’s not uncommon to see migratory birds work in tree branches just a few feet away from a discreet birder, seemingly unconcerned about the human presence. There are many habitats to catch fall migrants: aquatic areas, ridgelines and high points, and isolated patches of vegetation like city parks offer great opportunities. Unsurprisingly, rain and wind direction have huge impacts on lightweight fliers like warblers. Many birds use the dry, cool, northerly winds that follow cold fronts to ease their southbound flights. Bottlenecks can happen as migrants converge while waiting for cold fronts to pass, creating a great opportunity for birders to see high concentrations of birds resuming their journeys when the cold front subsides. Overcast or foggy days also offer good viewing opportunities as birds wait out foul weather.
larger mix of species like woodpeckers. A birdbath or other water source is helpful for any bird that passes through, and you can make it more appealing by adding movement, such as a drip or solar water wiggler. Using fresh foods and keeping feeders and baths clean prevents the spread of disease and ensures the health of visiting birds. But the most important way to support and see migrants in your yard is to provide native habitat that they can use for food and shelter, including trees, bushes, leaf litter, and brush piles. Despite the enormous amount of data that scientists and individuals of all levels of expertise have collected on birds, many aspects of fall bird migration remain a mystery. For instance, we still don’t know exactly what triggers a bird to begin its tremendous flight, or how birds embarking on their first migration know where they are supposed to go. That’s one of the many beautiful things about birds— many aspects of their behavior have yet to be explained. But by watching and learning more about birds, we can find immense enjoyment and become further immersed in that great mystery. w Mollee Brown is a lifelong West Virginian and bona fide bird nerd. When she’s not actually birding, she’s working with birding organizations through her marketing company, Nighthawk Agency.
Closer to home, there are a few things you can do to help migrants and increase your chances of seeing them in your yard. First, maintaining a variety of bird feeders and fresh bird seed can aid seed-eating birds such as sparrows and chickadees. Offering suet can bring in a
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Tree Swallows are daytime migrants and can be seen forming large flocks near water to roost at night. Photo by Mollee Brown.
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PROFILE Where did you grow up? I’m a military brat; I’m not from anywhere. I was born in South Dakota and then lived in Oklahoma, Georgia, Ethiopia, Kansas, Maryland, Germany [in that order], and then my dad retired, and I went to high school in rural Virginia. Being a military brat was dreamy for me with all the travel and all the experiences.
What’s your coming to West Virginia story? I was in Boulder, Colorado, pursuing an engineering degree when Ronald Reagan cut $5 million from the budget, and I had to hand back my Pell Grant. I was finishing up a job helping to build this state-of-the-art, off-the-grid solar house when I got a call from Chip Chase, and he said, “Hey, I’ve got a concession at Blackwater Falls State Park to run a cross-country ski center, you wanna run it?” I knew Chip from my days in Virginia, back when he started [the original] White Grass in the Virginia mountains. I couldn’t afford to go back to school, so when I was 23, I packed everything up, drove out to West Virginia, and just fell in love with the place. I mean, how can you not? It had everything and more than Colorado. That first winter, I ran the cross-country ski center at Blackwater Falls. I created the Blackwater Nordic Learning Center and taught skiing for three years. I immensely enjoyed that job.
How did you get into cycling?
By Dylan Jones If you’ve been anywhere near a mountain bike in West Virginia, you’ve likely heard of Laird Knight. Through decades of promoting races, including the country’s longest-running race in the Canaan Mountain Series and his globally recognized 24-hour races, Laird has cemented his legacy through mud, sweat, and gears. As the child of a military family, Laird grew up in many places, including Ethiopia. In 2009, life came full circle when Laird and his wife Barbara Walker adopted three young siblings from Ethiopia. Spurred by the passion of his kids, Laird learned to play and coach soccer in his early 50s. At 62, Laird, now a prominent real estate agent, still gets after it chasing down soccer balls and mountain biking whenever he can. I met up with Laird to go for a classic Tucker County mountain bike ride on Canaan Mountain. We chatted about his path to West Virginia, his first mountain bike ride, his legendary races, and his family. This interview has been edited for length and clarity.
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When did you start riding in West Virginia? When I moved to Davis, I rented a room in the upstairs of the Cooper Building, which is now Stumptown Ales. Flynn Griffith, one of my roommates, had just bought out a bicycle shop in Buckhannon, and had everything stored in the furnace room upstairs. I walked in there and said, “Wow, we could start a bike shop.” Griff said, “Let’s do it,” and we started Blackwater Bikes in 1982. Here I am opening this high-end bike shop in Davis, city of 500. How am I going to make that work? I started running mountain bike races that were really about promoting Blackwater Bikes and getting people to come and ride the trail systems. By spring in 1983, every mountain bike was sold out, you couldn’t get mountain bikes. The bike companies hadn’t even begun to estimate how popular mountain biking was going to be.
Dylan Jones
LAIRD KNIGHT
I learned how to ride a bicycle in Ethiopia when I was five years old. I learned to ride a bike in the woods in Germany when I was in sixth grade. We built a whole trail network with jumps in the woods behind our house. I had a little three-speed, banana seat, high-rise handlebar bike, the closest thing to a mountain bike there was back then. We used to have races around the military base. I was that chubby, little, slow kid who always got picked last. A bicycle was like a magic carpet, a way that I could go fast and far. When I lived in Colorado, I didn’t have a mountain bike because they just were just showing up, but I rode my ten-speed and bombed down trails. I saw my first mountain bike in 1981 in the display window of a bike shop in Boulder. It was a $650 Specialized Stumpjumper. For a struggling college student, it might as well have been $6,000. Back then, that was ridiculous for any bicycle. Because I rode motorcycles as a kid and rode my bike off-road, I wanted one for sure.
Describe the experience of riding those early mountain bikes.
Top: Laird Knight back at home on Canaan Mountain. Photo by Dylan Jones. Bottom: The Granny Gear flag proudly being flown at one of Laird’s races. Photo by Tom Weigand.
I will never forget the first day I rode a mountain bike. It was a Ross Force-1. Griff and I got them from Steve Whirley, who owned the Bike Barn in Buckhannon and helped us get our first mountain bikes so we could have inventory to sell. They were total garbage, but they worked! It was just so awesome to ride in the dirt; it was everything I imagined it could be. Griff and I had been riding around, just having a hoot, and we gassed it full-tilt through this huge puddle; that was our initiation. We got back from that ride and were just lit up. It’s easy to take for granted how revolutionary a mountain bike was in the first place. The capability, how stable the bike was, what you could do with those fat tires and slack geometry. I was a total adrenaline junkie and just loved pushing it and going fast with confidence. I used to fly down hills and won a few downhill races in the early days before shocks. People don’t appreciate how much suspension you can provide by working the bike and your body.
How did you get into race promoting? The first mountain bike race in West Virginia was in spring of 1983; it was called Mountain Bikes in the Mountain State and was hosted by Steve Whirley at
the French Creek Game Farm [now the West Virginia State Wildlife Center]. It was just magical. We spent all night dialing our bikes and organizing our tools. Everybody was so pumped; there was this shared enthusiasm that was just so palpable. The thing that really made me want to be a mountain bike race promoter was the character of the people that I met, just these hardcore, non-whining, fun-loving guys and gals.
What was the first race you produced? In the fall of 1983, I started the Canaan Mountain 40K, but it was really more like 60K. Twelve people started, nobody finished. I flatted about halfway through the course and ended up walking out because I blew the sidewall on my tire and there was no repairing it. Even Griff, who is the only person who could have finished and won, was so beat that he just went back down the road to Davis. It remains infamous that no one finished.
Tell me about the Canaan Mountain Series, which is one of the oldest race series in the world. That started in 1984; there wasn’t anything else going on like that back then. It was a points series that took place over three weekends throughout the year. We were drawing people from all the way up highland-outdoors.com 45
the Eastern Seaboard and as far south as Florida. It was the only game in town, and it helped to brand West Virginia as one of the most famous locations for mountain biking. In 1988, I started Granny Gear Productions and held the [National Off Road Bicycle Association] Nationals as part of the Canaan Mountain Series; it was the biggest race in the country that year. We had pro-level teams come out from Colorado, and this guy came up to me and was like, “How do you guys ride this stuff?”
What was the genesis of your legendary 24hour race series?
Are there any particularly memorable race moments? I think one of the highest points in my career was at the 24 Hours of Moab [circa 2003]. We had a rule that there had to be at least one woman on every team. The coolest thing about that race was that all the men had gone hard and were out early, and it was up to the women. It was neck-and-neck and our announcers were highly tuned in. Over the PA system, we were able to build
this experience.
Are your kids into mountain biking and skiing? Where I totally failed as a mountain bike and ski dad, I succeeded as a soccer dad. One of the things I’m so grateful for is their passion for soccer. I had never touched a soccer ball in my life until I met them in Ethiopia. When we got back to the States, I became an avid player. I started coaching rec league teams and that was a total blast. It was really fun doing something new that I completely sucked at. It’s eminently apparent to me why they call soccer ‘the beautiful game.’
Running the cross-country ski center at Blackwater in the short days of winter, we’d want to go skiing after work, so What are you most we’d ski at night. We had excited about for these cheap headlights the future in West that were just junk, but Virginia? we’d ski out into the woods all night, often You’ve got to talk seeing by nothing but about [the National a dim, orange circle. Interscholastic That got me hooked on C ycl i ng A s so c iathe notion of athletics tion] because it ’s at night. And as a kid, I the most exciting used to read about the thing in mountain 24 Hours of Le Mans car biking right now. race. I took elements of The growth in this Le Mans, night skiing, state has just been and team camaraderie, exponential. There and created the 24-hour was a period where mountain bike format, Clockwise from top right: Photo courtesy Laird Knight, Gregg Betonte, Barbara Walker, Tom Weigand. the races were just starting with the 24 a bunch of old guys. Hours of Canaan in 1992. I just knew it would the suspense around the finish, which was There were no teenagers, no twenty-somebe a big hit. I quit my other businesses and down to all the women racing against each things; there were barely any thirty-somelaunched into Granny Gear Productions as a other on the last lap. They were so freakin’ things. Now that we’re three or four years full-time business. I started hunting around fast, just superhuman. To be able to create into NICA, you’re starting to see all these for sponsors with lighting companies and that level of drama at that pro-caliber level, kids who aged out and are showing up to landed NiteRider. The lighting was the and especially to have it come down to the compete in these races. To me, the most enabling technology that put it all together women, that was the peak of my career exciting thing is the benefit that mountain and it took off like a rocket. in what I was trying to create as a race biking brings to kids. I helped with the first team in Morgantown, and most of the kids In 1997, we launched the 24 Hours of promoter. weren’t athletes, weren’t confident; they Moab. We were operating on a shoestring Tell me about your family. were shy and reserved. By the end of the budget, and I’m so grateful that the teams showed up that first year, otherwise it I was keen on being a dad. My wife and I season, they had confidence and they had would have taken my company down. The were older and settled on international friends. NICA is gonna do more to rejuvenext step was to build a national series of adoption. I thought As soon as we see them, nate the sport of mountain biking than 24-hour events with six races across the we’re gonna know. I remember the day where anything that’s ever happened. w country. We had a killer staff and every- we saw a picture of these three kids, a twin thing ran like clockwork. Our last race was boy and girl and their younger brother, For more things Laird, check out his 2002 in Moab in 2017. I was tapped out and just and I was like, “That’s them.” It’s been an induction into the Marin Museum of Bicycling amazing journey, I’m so grateful to have Hall of Fame: https://mmbhof.org/laird-knight/ had to throw in the towel. 46 HIGHLAND OUTDOORS
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GALLERY
Autumn in the New River Gorge is an amazing time for photography. The surrounding mountains, multiple river gorges, the iconic 88-millionpound arch bridge, and numerous waterfalls pose as perfect subjects among the backdrop of vivid reds, oranges, and yellows. This abandoned train track lies hidden on an old trestle crossing Keeney’s Creek, one of the major tributaries to the New River and the namesake of one of its largest rapids. This line once connected mines and communities up in the Keeney’s Creek hollow to Nuttallburg on the rim of the gorge and the mainline of the Chesapeake & Ohio Railway. While rusted mining ruins can still be easily explored in areas like Kaymoor and Nuttallburg, these mossy tracks are a bit more tucked away to rust in peace. Photo and caption by Jill Mullins. Check out more of her work: https://www.jillmullinsphotography.com/
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