Ominous Sounding Iron Gate

Woke up in Roanoke Virginia, which seemed interesting as we were considering various locations to stay for the night.  The Blue Ridge Mountains.  What’s not to like?  We dined the night before in Charlotte, North Carolina at the farm to table joint, Haymaker, which was one of the most memorable meals of the trip, the older one didn’t fancy her ravioli.  We gazed out at the Romare Bearden Park which my wife had strolled about it before we sat down. Alas, we couldn’t see much more of the city.  No, we didn’t bother with the NASCAR museum, nor the Billy Graham library, but regardless we all left with a reasonably warm afterglow of our pass-through the city, which I remembered, as I was leaving was the headquarters for the bank that holds my modest funds. 

 

Today, we’re “close” to home, with only eight hours or so of driving ahead of us.  Determined to afford the older one and the Mrs. one more ‘new ‘state, I convinced myself that the smart thing to do today was to drive up into the Monongahela National Forest in West Virginia and consider one last remarkably distinct state, before heading home.  I have some crystalline memories driving through West Virginia thirty years ago and I supposed I wanted to recreate this.  Before leaving the Fairfield by Marriott I looked up some Virginian and West Virginian folk and Piedmont blues.  Doc Boggs, Blind Boy Fuller, Blind Blake, Josh White, Buddy Moss and a collection of old-time music from West Virginia with songs like “Cumberland Gap”, “Old Black Dog” and unexpectedly, “Cocaine.”

We drove on up towards the ominous sounding Iron Gate.  And way became ever more mountainous.  It took an hour and half to get to Marlinton and we hadn’t even left Virginia yet.  The gas station was a throw-back with a pump that couldn’t take credit cards.  You had to pay inside and then come out and pay.  But there was nothing to stop you from filling up your tank and driving off, save the worn decals that warned in terse language: “No pay, No License!”  The lady was pleasant inside, but she didn’t have any coffee cold or otherwise.  An hour later we’d made it over a ridge and into Marlinton West Virginia where we saw our first evidence of establishments where we might be able to get some lunch in.  The Locust Hill Inn looked nice, but they weren’t open till dinner. For the second time on the trip, I was referred to as a “Yankee,” by the affable owner who must have seen my plates and asked, “where you from in New York?” He confirmed that he was originally from Buffalo.  “Another damned Yankee.”  We ended up dining at the Greenbrier Grill and Lodge overlooking the ducks and swans on the Greenbrier River which we like the family two tables down tossed bread pieces too.  I’d never had fried pickles.  I liked them.  The young lady at the neighboring table told my wife she liked her yellow sneakers which made her day, on the way out. 

I got tired not long after and asked my wife to take over the driving.  When she did the car GPS announced that we still had eight hours and forty minutes left to drive.  “Yes.” I’d confessed.  “I knew exactly what I was doing.”  But by now it was the afternoon. 3200 miles into this trip we were all ready to be home.  Rested, sort of, I was soon driving again.  George Jones helped.  The rain did not.  There was a lot of round-about driving to get through before we could get back on highway 81.  It might have cost an extra twenty-minutes, but I was determined not to go through northern New Jersey, closed to the City, and rather cut north to Scranton and over to 84.  The rain was miserable, as the evening closed in but 84 felt familiar, even though we hadn’t yet reached New York and by the time we were on the New York State throughway, I didn’t need to listen to Spotify anymore.  I could search for our local radio stations and turn the GPS off. 

Thursday, 07/01/21