Tye River Experience

Reaching the landmark age of fifty sometimes inspires people to attempt adventures that we all know should have been done in our youth. My friend and I are no different. We decided the time was now to do a section hike on the Appalachian Trail. The upcoming summer presented the earliest opportunity.

We spent the winter planning our hike and purchasing equipment, studying backpacks, sleeping bags, tents, boots, and food. Of course, we couldn’t help but publicize our adventure, and word of the upcoming hike spread amongst our friends, coworkers, and families, building expectations of long daily treks and scaling scenic mountain tops.

My friend, John, whom I have known since college, is in superior shape, being a veteran of over 10 marathons and multiple adventure events. I’m not nearly as fit as him, but run and bike regularly. We both believed that we could handle the challenges of the five day, four night trek we were planning. In a mild set back, John developed an Achilles tendon injury while on a 150-mile bike ride a month before our hike. To compensate, a podiatrist fitted him with custom-made prosthetics for his boots, so we didn’t anticipate any problems.

We selected a scenic stretch of the Appalachian Trail in Virginia, just south of the Shenandoah National Park in the George Washington National Forest. We included the 3,000 foot ascent of Priest Mountain, just to make it challenging.

Finally, after enduring endless discussions about the upcoming adventure, our wives happily deposited us on the dirt path that pointed to endless miles of woods and forest, and we were on our way.

We were quickly rewarded with the quietness and serenity of the mountains and forest, accented with panoramic vistas of the Shenandoah Valley and Blue Ridge Mountains. Trillium and Mountain Laurel lined the trail as we journeyed, struggling with the weight of our packs, but nonetheless savoring every moment of our adventure. We enjoyed the solitude of hiking and camping miles away from civilization, and wakening each morning to a cacophony of unseen songbirds high in the trees. But our progress was slower than we had anticipated. My shoulders and back strained under the weight of my back pack, and John’s feet became inexplicably sore. On the evening of day two, we were forced to shorten our hike, camping near a small waterfall. It was to be the last evening of simple pleasures.

The next morning we started having serious problems. The culprit was John’s prosthetics, which had been pushing all of his weight hard onto the balls of his feet, which were now bruised and overly sensitive to each step. After progressing only two painful miles we both knew we had to abandon our plans. Dejectedly, we agreed to descend from the mountains and terminate our hike the next day on the banks of the Tye River, barely halfway to our intended destination, but near a road and civilization.

John had long since removed the prosthetics, but the damage was done, and hiking down the mountain was excruciating to his bruised feet. I arrived first to the river, which was clear and scenic, but the beauty was small solace for the disappointment of knowing we would never reach our goals, and would never see the view from The Priest. After waiting about an hour, I could see John traversing the short switch backs descending to the river. He was taking baby steps and leaning heavily on his walking sticks; one purchased before the hike, another grabbed from the side of the trail.

We spent an uneventful evening, and awoke knowing that we had little to do but make our way to civilization, find a telephone, and call our wives for help.

The map indicated two small stores equidistant from the trail heading either east or west. Noting that the river flowed to the east, which indicated a down hill walk and more pain for John, we decided to head west, hoping for a gentle climb and an easier traverse for the mile-and-a-half journey.

The winding road was dotted with small but neat streamside frame homes. There was little traffic. After a mile or so, a Harley Davidson rider approached us from behind and cut his engine, coasting to a stop next to us. “I don’t know where you guys think you are going up this road,” he stated, rather than asked. I replied that we were heading to the grocery store around the next bend. “It’s been closed for ten years,” he laughed. “You gotta go back east, down the hill, to Mrs. Fitz’ place. She’s been there forever. I used to buy stuff from her when I was a kid. She don’t sell much these days, but you can probably get a can of beanie weenies or something, and maybe make a phone call.

We shared in light conversation for about 20 minutes, and he apologized for not being able to give us rides, with the backpacks and all. “By the way,” he said, as he cranked his motorcycle, “these people around here think you hikers are nuts.”

We now faced a two-and-a-half mile down hill walk to Mrs. Fitz’ place, which wasn’t going to be easy, considering John’s bruised feet.

We slowly walked, back past our original starting point and down the mountain another mile and a half, until a small cinderblock building came into view. It was surrounded by a large cow pasture populated by rusting cars and a few cows. A sign out front announced the “Mt. View Tea Room.” “This must be the place,” I said, as we lowered our backpacks onto the porch. We walked past a fly-covered dog dish and a dozing hound, opened the screen door, and invited ourselves in.

When my eyes adjusted to the light, I made out an old wood stove against the back wall. A pool table, covered with a worn plastic tarp and old newspapers, sat in the middle of the room. Wooden shelves lined the walls, offering Campbell’s soups, pinto beans, sardines, and BC powders. Several glass fronted refrigerators displayed soft drinks, milk, and fruit juices. Every surface was covered with a thick layer of dust, stacks of old newspapers and magazines. A stale mustiness permeated the air. Behind the counter sat the oldest cash register I have ever seen. After staring at our surroundings, I noticed an old woman reposed in an old, soft easy chair, her eyes transfixed on a stack of motor oil in front of her. There was no television, or even a radio. She appeared startled that we had actually walked through the door. “Good afternoon,” John said. “We were wondering if we could get something to eat and use your telephone, we’ll pay you for it.”

She awoke from her daydreams, and silently rose from her chair, which kept her imprint, and walked around behind the counter.

“Sure,” she said, and handed me the grimy receiver of a portable telephone. We told her about the man on the motorcycle, but she had no idea who he was. We grabbed two cans of Beans n’ Franks, made our phone call, and stepped outside onto the porch. She didn’t say much.

The porch faced west, toward the Priest, reminding us that we would not be telling any stories about its summit.

The hound eyed our beans and franks as we slowly savored each spoonful. The afternoon sun and the taunting view proved too much, so we moved under a shade tree. From the new vantage point, we could see more old cars, an old tractor and related farm implements, and a building that had obviously served as a church in its former life, but now appeared to be a home, since a handful of mountain folk entered and exited as they pleased. The air was permeated with aromas of old petroleum products and cow manure.

The men were all large, had long, uncombed black beards, a limited supply of teeth, and huge guts. The women were equally as large and unkempt, and didn’t seem to be paired with anyone in particular. Everyone was contented. All had beer, and all seemed to have a purpose, but not much of one. They wore old worn-out shirts and jean shorts, and no one seemed to care that two strangers were in their presence.

One of the men emerged from the church house and headed towards a tractor. As he turned to climb into the seat, I noticed that he had only one arm. He hooked the tractor up to a bailer and drove around the back of the store, turned left onto the black top, and departed towards his destination.

I looked over at John. “I always wanted to know how these mountain people live,” I said, “but now I think I’ve already seen too much.”

Meanwhile, in front of the church house, a game of horseshoes materialized.

I thought to myself, I can’t remember the last time I played horseshoes. Life has always been focused on career and family. Horseshoes doesn’t fit in, much less during mid afternoon on a Thursday. I pondered the scene and realized that in a few days I would be fighting traffic again, and hard at work, with no time to let thoughts of the Tye River, the Priest Mountain, or this strange scene encroach into my consciousness. This group of scruffy men and homely women, however, would probably be playing horseshoes.

In addition to the church house, there were two extremely modest cinderblock homes. Both had chipped paint, and were not affected by landscaping. Who were these people? How did they make a living? Were they all related? How did that man lose his arm? I finished my beans and franks and dozed for awhile, with the sound of the horseshoe game in the background. We had at least a four hour wait for our wives to arrive and whisk us back to our reality - a reality that we had donned backpacks and trudged up mountainsides to escape.

I woke up to find myself staring into the eyes of one of the men, who had approached me from the side. His beard looked as if it had never been trimmed or combed. “That’s my mother running the store, and I live back there,” he volunteered, pointing to the church house, as if I had asked. “My uncle lives over there,” pointing to one of the cinder block houses, “and my brother lives right here in front,” gesturing towards the other.

“Have you guys lived here long?” I thought to ask. “Forever,” he said. “The Priest used to be owned by my granddaddy. He had a sawmill up there. The government gave him $40,000 for everything, sawmill and all, and told him to get off the mountain. We used to roam all over that mountain because it was ours. Now you strangers come from all over the country to walk through it, and we can’t hunt on it anymore. I spent a lot of hours in my granddaddy’s sawmill. We only took the trees that were damaged and needed to be cut down. Now they all grow, even if they’re sick, and it ain’t right.”

I didn’t quite know how to respond. So, without thinking, I blurted, “Do you folks ever see any bears?” I had to ask. I had been preoccupied with bears for the entire trip. I had read so many stories of bear attacks I fell asleep each night with my Gerber knife in one hand, and my pen light in the other, awaiting the mauling. He smiled devilishly, and said, “Follow me, I want to show you something.”

He started to walk toward the church house. “We can’t go inside,” I said, “We haven’t had a bath in four days.”

“Don’t worry,” he laughed, “you don’t smell any worse than me.”

We entered through the back into a small wood paneled den. The walls were covered with family pictures. I recognized a younger Mrs. Fitz staring out from a frame on top of the TV. Another picture was in the typical family arrangement, and one of the horseshoe players was easily identified as his son.

Dominating the room was an enormous deer head with the most massive antler rack I could ever imagine. “Bet you never seen anything like that,” he boasted, “Twenty eight points.”

I attempted to ask some semi-intelligent questions about how he got him, but it was difficult since I had never been deer hunting. I pretended to understand when he explained his choice of weaponry, and details such as the sight, ammo, and range. I nodded knowingly at each explanation, and thought to ask where he got the deer. “Well, I can’t really say,” he winked, “but I knew the terrain really well,” and nodded in the direction of The Priest.

I wondered what it must be like to lower a firearm and take down a beast like that. But it was hard, not being a hunter. For our new friend, hunting is a routine event. He couldn’t imagine a life without it.

“You want to know about bears?” He led us upstairs into his master bedroom that, in an earlier life, must have been the choir’s rehearsal room. Adorning one wall was a bear skin. “That’s a mountain black bear,” he said. “It ain’t one of those little brown swamp bears. Don’t worry about bears in them mountains. They won’t mess with you unless you get between a mamma and her cubs, then you better watch out. They don’t want your food.”

There it was. Everything I wanted to know about bears but couldn’t find in a book.

We exited the church house and continued small talk.

“How did you come about living in a church?” I asked.

“Well, there was a big flood when Hurricane Camille came up the valley in ’69. The church got washed out and the congregation didn’t want it anymore. My dad bought it, and we made a house out of it. It’s been great ever since.”

“My dad and mom rode out the flood in the attic of the store,” he said, “Over fifty people got killed in this county, but our family did fine. The whole valley was covered with water.”

He was talking a lot now. He loved his land, his car-littered pasture, and his family. He was very proud.

I wanted to know about the arm…what happened to the guy with one arm, but I was afraid to ask. He was really big, and we were going to be here all afternoon awaiting our rides. I didn’t want to touch on any sensitive subjects.

He was clearly a contented man. He obtained his contentment through an entirely different path than me. He didn’t live in the suburbs, and didn’t have an important job, if he had one at all. He also didn’t have the stress, the commute, and the pressure. Of course, he didn’t “have” a lot of other things either, but it was obvious that he really didn’t care.

The horseshoe game continued behind us. Occasionally, we would hear a ringer, which would be greeted by a chorus of cheers. I wondered if they realize how lucky they were to be playing horseshoes in the middle of the afternoon on a Thursday. I have never experienced such carefree frivolity-at least on a week day.

I have earned a certain measure of success in my life, but this success has come at a price. The price, most simply, is that I never play horseshoes on a Thursday afternoon.

“Have you seen my brother?” He asked. I didn’t know how I was supposed to know who his brother was.

“My brother only has one arm,” he said.

The brother was still away on the tractor.

“Back when we were a lot younger, we all had motorcycles,” he allowed. “We had all been out carousing one night, and got in an argument about one of our girlfriends. My brother came riding down the road in a huff, mad at my best buddy. Anyway, they collided on the motorcycles. It took off my brother’s arm right at the shoulder, and my best friend lost his leg right below the knee.”

He gestured, and we walked behind the church house. Sitting in a corner of the yard sat an old Kawasaki motorcycle. It had vines growing through the engine and wheels. “Been sitting there ever since,” he said. “We weren’t going to ride it anymore, didn’t think it was right. We still owed money on it, so we couldn’t sell it, and we didn’t want no money for it anyway.”

We continued to talk. He, his brother and uncle raise cattle and farm acreage all up and down the valley. They seemed to do ok, it looked like to me.

He didn’t ask a single question about who we were and what brought us to his part of the world.

He didn’t care.

After a while, he rejoined the horseshoe game.

Our wives finally arrived and whisked us away. As we departed down the winding black top, we told of our adventures on the trail, the beautiful vistas, the flowers and the waterfalls, but at dinner that night most of the talk revolved around the twenty-eight point buck, a bear skin, and the one-armed man.

When I reflect back on our hike, I find myself thinking about our detour, the messy little store, the church house, and the three generations who call it home. And I wonder, maybe my next “adventure” should simply be a detour to my backyard on a Thursday afternoon, so I can enjoy a game of horseshoes with my family.