Almost heaven
The opening line in John Denver’s famous song about West Virginia is spot on. By Douglas Rogers
CODY Himelrich, the brakeman on the mountain train, was telling me about his morning. “I was out huntin’ squirrels in them hills and this bear comes outta woods right in fronta me.” “A bear?” I asked. “Yep, brown bear. Good size. I was sat on a log. He stared at me. I stared back.” “Then what?““Nothin’. He was just lookin’.” Cody slammed the brakes of the vintage train car as we prepared for another switchback.
Then he grinned: “I woulda shot him if he come any closer …”
It was my first day in West Virginia, and so far it was turning out to be as wild as advertised. I was among 100 or so sightseers on the Cass Scenic Railroad, a century-old logging train turned tourist trail deep in the Allegheny Mountains, part of the great Appalachian range that runs from Newfoundland to Alabama and divides West Virginia from Virginia. Below the train track lay a forested river valley, trees turned yellow and red. Beyond that, as far as the eye could see, were mountains. There was something timeless about this landscape. Don’t take my word for it. “Life is old there, older than the trees, younger than the mountains, blowing like a breeze,” John Denver sang in his 1971 ode to West Virginia, Take Me Home, Country
Roads.
And yet, West Virginia had until recently been the most unsung of places. A 2012 survey found that a quarter of Americans were unaware it was a state at all and, though its eastern border is only an hour from Washington DC’s Dulles Airport, it has barely registered with tourists from overseas.
That is changing. The state’s rugged geography — towering mountains, white-water rivers, forested state parks (36 of them) — has made it the adventure-sports capital for the mid-Atlantic region. In June last year, the British tour operator America As You Like It began offering a seven-day West Virginia fly-drive, and now Complete North America has a 14day Just West Virginia package.
Those who take either trip will enjoy a rare glimpse into a proud, independent mountain culture.
I was on a four-day road trip of the state, taking in its most spectacular landscapes, parks and historic towns, with Denver’s song as my soundtrack.
Cass, on the Greenbrier River in
Pocahontas County, four hours’ drive west of Dulles, was my first stop. From 1902 to 1963 this was a booming lumber town. When roads and trucks replaced rail, the trains became obsolete. Then the state bought them, with eight locomotives, and turned the place into a park.
It’s a rail enthusiast’s dream. I took the one-hour, 6km trip to Whittaker, a logging station at 993m, taking my seat on the wooden bench in an open-sided converted log car. Our locomotive, a shiny, black, coal-fired Shay, circa 1927, powered us into the mountains, steam billowing from its stack. At various points its whistle blew, the echo resounding down the valley, scaring off the deer and, no doubt, Cody’s bear.
At Whittaker, on a grassy plateau, we gazed out on the misty blue Appalachians. Above us, Bald Knob, at 1 476m the highest point in the state, was a further three-hour train ride.
West Virginia’s formidable terrain is central to its founding. The state was carved out of Virginia proper in 1863, at the height of the Civil War, in a Machiavellian move by President Lincoln. Virginia had already seceded from the Union, of course, but Lincoln knew his forces needed access to the federal armoury and arsenal at Harpers Ferry and the Baltimore & Ohio railroad that ran across the northwest. Why not create a new state?
He found a receptive audience among the rural mountain folk on the western side of the Allegheny. Mostly poor Scots-Irish and German settlers — banjo-picking Appalachians of lore — they were only too happy to be free of the tidewater aristocrats who lorded it over them from the east. That fierce, independent spirit still exists 150 years on.
You can spend the night at Cass in the Company Houses, 12 former logging workers’ homes turned guest cottages, but I opted for a nearby ski resort.
Snowshoe is perched on Cheat Mountain, the second-highest peak in the state, a half-hour drive west. I expected a handful of rustic log cabins. It turned out to be a sophisticated resort: dozens of alpine-style lodges around a cobblestone “village”, with restaurants, boutiques and piped music, the ski lift a short walk away.
The only problem was timing: I was between seasons. The resort’s summer-sport options (mountain biking, golf) had shut down, and the snow had not yet fallen for skiing. Some half a million tourists visit Snowshoe each year, and during winter it’s the most popular ski resort in the state. I made a promise to return.
The next morning I headed north for Canaan Valley, a lush, sheersided bowl barely 20km long and 8km wide, hollowed out of the spine of the Appalachians. I gazed down on it from a roadside viewing point. It looked like a wild, lost world.
Minutes later I was at its base, in the shadows of towering cliffs, hugging the Appalachian Highway — a narrow, two-lane river road
winding past farmsteads and log cabins. Wood smoke drifted out of stone chimneys; sheep grazed in damp fields. I turned up the volume: “Dark and dusty, painted on the sky/ Misty taste of moonshine,
teardrop in my eye.” I suspect there are moonshiners aplenty in this valley. It’s easy to see how a culture could marinate here in isolation, get lost in time.
That said, the valley has now become a fashionable bolt-hole for the affluent DC set, who buy up its log cabins for weekend retreats and, come winter, hit the slopes at Timberline and Canaan Valley, two upmarket ski resorts.
A few miles further north is Thomas, a gentrified former mining town. After a hike to the Blackwater Falls — a spectacular 18m cascade of amber-brown water in another pine-forested state park — I checked into the Fiddler’s Roost Guest House. It was a simple fiveroom inn, converted from a coalcompany duplex, on the main drag. Next door was the Purple Fiddle, where they served local microbrews in moonshiners’ mason jars. I ordered an Almost Heaven — the opening words of Denver’s song — as a bluegrass band sang about mountains and miners’ ladies.
References to Country Roads are everywhere, so it came as a surprise to me when, a day later, in the historic mineral spa town of Berkeley Springs, well to the north, I learnt that John Denver was not actually from West Virginia; nor did he write the song.
“It was by Bill Nivert and Taffy Danoff, friends of his,” said Jeanne Mozier, author of the bestselling guide, Way Out in West
Virginia , whom I met in the town. “Bill and Taffy — they weren’t from here either,” she grinned. “They originally wrote the song about Maryland.”
The giveaway is in the opening bars: “Almost heaven, West Virginia, Blue Ridge Mountains, Shenandoah River…”
The Blue Ridge Mountains are barely in West Virginia, and the Shenandoah River is in the state for all of about 16km. There are far greater mountains and rivers in WV. Country Roads, it turns out, was written by city folk looking at West Virginia from the east, without setting foot in its wild heart.
“Still,” Jeanne smiled, “it’s such a beautiful song we adopted it anyway.” — © The Daily Telegraph
WE zoomed along the northbound N2 highway on our dualsport bikes, eagerly anticipating our ride through some of the battlefields in northern KwaZulu-Natal.
The aim was to collect data and photographs for my book, Field Guide to the Battlefields of South Africa, and we had chosen to make the expedition on motorbikes so as to enjoy to the full the spectacular country and open, lonely roads.
The highway took us as far as the Dartnell exit, where we glided thankfully onto the quieter R102. Continuing northwards, we turned off the tar onto a gravel road shortly before the Tugela River. This track leads past the Harold Johnson Nature Reserve through rolling hills of sugar cane and across the busy N2 highway towards the sea.
We disgorged onto the flats below, which border the sluggish, brown Tugela River as it nears the ocean. Not far from here, there used to be a hotel, where the legendary John Dunn is said to have sat watching dancing Zulu maidens and taking pot-shots at crocodile and hippo in the river mouth below.
A jeep track leads back towards the highway to a secluded spot almost under the N2 bridge, where a turning circle, commemorative plaque and the stump of an old fig tree mark the place where an ultimatum was presented to a Zulu deputation in December in 1878. It was to lead to the outbreak of the Anglo-Zulu War.
Leaving the bikes under the trees, we followed the steep, concrete pathway up towards the highway. A pedestrian bridge across the N2, used mostly by vervet monkeys, brought us to the base of what was once a British fort (Fort Pearson) on the knoll overlooking the river.
The earthworks are still clearly visible and the views across the river into Zululand were a worthy reward for our climb. I almost trod on a large, dark-grey snake on my way past the fort, bringing to mind all those mythical tales of aggressive, man-high black mambas zipping through coastal bush at speeds of a galloping horse. The cemetery beyond the fort contains graves of British soldiers who died (mostly of disease) far from home, a poignant reminder of the less glamorous side of Victorian warfare. The bike ride from the Ultimatum Tree towards Eshowe took us over numerous rivers, all of which would have presented a considerable challenge to the column of British foot soldiers who, in 1879, struggled with their cumbersome wagon trains through deep mud towards the Zulu king’s palace at Ulundi. They never reached their destination, but were besieged by Zulu warriors in the grounds of a deserted mission station close to Eshowe.
We pulled into the town to visit Fort Nonquai and enjoy lunch at Adam’s Outpost, accompanied by a welcome jug of iced water and delicious homemade bread.
Not pausing long enough to visit the butterfly dome, the craft centre or the museum, we departed Eshowe to purr along the road, winding up steeply between rolling, verdant hills to Melmoth.
Once through this small farming town, we turned left onto the road that leads to Babanango. Our route followed a high ridge between two deep valleys and was a pleasure to ride. Once mined with deep potholes, the road is now smooth and safe, though it’s a pity about the timber plantations that conceal views over what was once rolling grassland.
As we neared Babanango, we were thrilled by glimpses on our right into the magnificent Valley of the Kings below us. This was the hunting ground for the Zulu royal
families and is now home to many of their venerable graves.
A good tarred road led us eventually through Nqutu, where we got petrol and enjoyed the vibrant local market, then it was on to Dundee.
We chose to overnight in the Royal Country Inn on the main street, which offered safe parking for the bikes and a friendly pub.
Dundee is the hub of the battlefields wheel. From there, like spokes of a wheel, lie many battlefields relating to Voortrekker, Anglo-Zulu and Anglo-Boer conflicts.
On the outskirts of the town, the excellent Talana Museum offers a walk-through exhibit tracing the history of the area from the times of cannibals until the end of the second Anglo-Boer War. It is worth visiting before progressing to the battlefields themselves.
After breakfast the next morning, we rode to Blood River. There were no other cars on the good gravel road that leads off the R33 and this made it fun on the bikes.
It wasn’t long before we spotted the giant ring of life-size bronze ox wagons in front of us.
After visiting the Voortrekker Museum, I stood in the centre of the wagon laager and could almost hear the bellow of terrified oxen, the crash of guns and the bloodcurdling war cries of Zulu impi, who hurled themselves with reckless bravery against the defensive laager.
We then rode our bikes across the Blood River (there is a bridge) to the Zulu museum on the other side. Here we were treated to a history of the Zulu kings and a different interpretation of the battle. I found the contrast between the Afrikaans and Zulu cultures strikingly highlighted at Blood River and my thoughts were filled with history and destiny as we rode slowly back towards Dundee.
Once in the town, we took the turn-off to Greytown (R33). After about 38km, there is a turn-off to the left, signed Rorke’s Drift (this is the second turn-off to Rorke’s, not the first).
This road winds dramatically down into the Buffalo River Valley through the scenic Knostrop Pass. This was the route that the central column of Lord Chelmsford’s redcoated, steel-shod foot soldiers marched on their way to invade Zululand in 1879.
The pass was badly rutted and my heart thumped as I negotiated my bike’s front wheel gingerly between rocks, trying to stay upright. Reaching the bottom without mishap, I was glad to stop at the new Rorke’s Drift Hotel, spectacularly sited on the Buffalo River, to enjoy an ice-cold beer.
After lunch, we visited the Battlefield of Isandlwana. Leaving the bikes in the car park, we climbed onto the shoulder of the mountain. The steep scramble is worthwhile as, from there, one can imagine in technicolour the thin line of red-coated defenders facing up to the ferocious mass of brave warriors sweeping down upon them from the lip of the Nqutu Plateau.
I never get away from that battlefield without feeling the hairs on the back of my neck rise and tears prick my eyes.
We rode back to the Buffalo River and slept that night at Rorke’s Drift Hotel, but could have chosen from a number of alternatives, all of which offer different and excellent experiences.
Our final day spirited us out of the Anglo-Zulu War battlefields into those of the second Anglo-Boer War. We swooped along the good gravel road from Rorke’s Drift to Elandskraal, a lovely bike ride that included a rather wet river crossing over a drift. From Elandskraal, it is a pretty drive past the little Lutheran church to the intersection with the R33.
We chose to ride via Van Tonders Pass to Wasbank and then to Ladysmith, because this was the route the British soldiers took, in pouring rain, when they were forced to leave their camp in Dundee to fall back on Ladysmith after the Battle of Talana Hill in October 1899. The narrow pass is closely flanked by steep, bushcovered slopes, which must have held threats of ambush for the soldiers of that day. It was another great bike ride and we reached the tarred road near Wasbank with some regret.
At Elandslaagte we detoured left, across the railway line, to visit monuments to both Boers and Brits who fell in this set-piece battle.
The memorials lie on opposite sides of the nek between two ridges. It is worth reading a good account of this battle before visiting the site (or arrange to meet a guide on site) as it’s exciting to envisage the troop movements and relive the battle from vantage points on the hills.
Our next stop was Ladysmith. Bypassing the town (the Siege Museum is worth visiting but we had no time), we took the turn-off before the road bridge, following the sign for Wagon Hill. This track leads past the airfield up a flattopped hill known locally as Platrand. At the crossroads on the nek at the top of the hill, we turned left to visit the immense and wonderfully emotive monument commemorating Boers who lost their lives fighting in Natal during the second Anglo-Boer War.
Leaving Platrand and Ladysmith, we turned off the R103 towards Bergville (R616). Our goal was Spioenkop, which is perhaps the most spectacular battlefield site in the world. Once on gravel, I stopped concentrating on the road to birdwatch — and almost paid for it with a tumble. There were ant-eating chats hopping busily on the roadside and a plump korhaan near a small dam.
Vultures soared overhead and a family of guinea fowl ran across the road ahead of me. The battlefield borders on the Spioenkop Nature Reserve, where wildlife abounds. We came across eland and kudu, no doubt escapees from the reserve as no fence contains these huge, agile beasts.
Spioenkop is another battlefield about which it is worth reading before your visit, or enlisting the services of a specialist guide. Boers and British fought each other to a standstill that day, with acts of extreme valour abounding on both sides. It is an astonishing fact that no fewer than three world-famous figures were present on that battlefield; Winston Churchill, Mahatma Gandhi and Louis Botha.
Standing on the battlefield and watching the orange sun set over the distant Drakensberg mountains while the Tugela River wound its tortuous way beneath us, I reflected on the grandeur and tragedy of our beautiful, blood-soaked land.
How could a country where there has been such bloody conflict between so many and such varied groups have produced a peaceful democracy? Perhaps God has answered the plea in our national anthem, “Lord bless Africa.” — © Nicki von der Heyde