We traveled west and south, to hilly West Virginia. A state of contrasts -- majestic mountains and soaring skies anchored by desolate trailers and time-worn farms long abandoned. A funny state. Yard sales contest with the service sector for first place industry. Not a decent cup of coffee (and not a single Starbucks; the three coffee shops we passed by all out of business) ot a book store in a hundred miles. The Harley hogs keep the 7-11s and Liberty gas stations in business.
We hiked Seneca Rock, then ate Drumsticks and sucked down colas after the sweaty climb up. Fried up angus steaks in the evening, tender-sweet melt-in-the-mouth deliciousness, downed by 8 hours of sleep, sleep, sleep to the sound of crickets, not the whir of a far-off highway, rest and then, this, the next morning greeting us from the cabin.
A patriotic state; every small hamlet posted flags along the street, rippling in the wake of our passage. When we lived in Sturbridge, Massachusetts, the town decorated the town streets with flags, to remember those who served, those who didn't make it back from whatever war waged far from our shores.
Next time we'll bring our fishing rods, sturdier boots, more days, and our flag.
(Photo by Henry Simoni-Wastila)