Into the Mountains, Part III

This place smells of pot and incense.

There are no doors on the bedrooms, only curtains. 

There are footlockers underneath the beds . . . with no locks on them. 

This is one of the handful of hostels that exist in America.  They are advertised to possess a microbrewery and rooftop garden.  When we arrive we find a large banner stating, “Microbrewery Coming Soon!”  The sign is from 2012. 

 

 

We are the only guests tonight, so we have the run of the . . . house?  Naturally, the first thing we do . . . is jump in the shower.  Because even though we stayed in that fancy resort last night, we were both too tired to bother with hygiene.  Scrubbing down in that narrow wooden stall is the greatest feeling in the world right now.

Before heading out, we wander around the rest of the house.  There’s a great back deck with a hammock, but I want to check out this garden on the roof. 

Well, there’s nothing growing up here, but the view is spectacular.

And it seems that we have stumbled upon . . . another festival!  This one is a chicken wing festival.  We bypass the street vendors and crowds and make for the bars.  This drink is long overdue, and I don’t have to drive anywhere else today.  We saunter past a tattoo shop, where several of the local artists in residence are out front smoking.  They shamelessly ogle Ally and all her ink.

After a few bars and as many pints, I notice that my debit card is missing . . . and now so is my buzz.  We revisit the pubs we’ve already patronized, to no avail.  I return to the hostel and check through my bags and the common areas.  If that goddamn hippie stole my fucking debit card. . . .

I meet Ally next door at the Jabberwock, where the bartender is vigorously chatting her up. 

“Can I borrow your phone to call my bank?”

I ask them to put a temporary hold on my card.  Reason being:  I know that as soon as they do it, I will find the damn thing.  In the mean time, I still have my credit card and some cash. 

“Do you need a boytoy?” the bartender eagerly asks Ally.  I nearly spit my beer out. 

“Uh . . . I have one of those already. . . .”

I hide my smile in my beer; it’s all about Ally tonight! 

We each buy a Jabberwock t-shirt, then finish our beers and decide to turn in early for the night.  As we exit the bar, an older patron sees us going next door into the hostel.

“Oh, you’re stayin’ at the hostel, huh?”

I love when complete strangers feel the need to make pointless comments about the obvious—said no one ever.  “Yep!  Goodbye forever!” I call out as I slam the door behind us. 

This ranks in my top two favorite interactions with strangers at bars on this trip.  When we were at New Albania, Ally mentioned that we needed to head out to our campsite.  Some random at the bar goes, “Oh, you gals got a camper?”

Ally replies, “No . . . tents?”

For whatever reason, that statement dumbfounded him and he presented no response. 

Back in the hostel, I rifle through my bags once more in an attempt to find my debit card.  I check the one pocket of my Flash Bag where I am certain I would never leave it.

And that’s exactly where it is.

I call my bank back and ask them to remove the hold on my card.

“What is the temporary pass code you gave when you placed the hold?”

“JABBERWOCK!” I shout, victorious. 

And on that note, it’s time to get some sleep. 

Next day we begin to make our way out of West Virginia.

As we drive along, we realize that a quick departure is not going to be feasible.  Driving through West Virginia is awe-inspiring:  mountains of black coal rise up on one side of us, while the Appalachians loom above us on the other side.  Small towns with ramshackle houses nuzzle among the peaks and valleys, creating picturesque scenes impossible to capture on film.

We must first pause to marvel at this stunning beauty:

 

(I wish the sun had been out to better illuminate just how breathtaking this scene was.)

           Our next stop is The Mystery Hole! 

 

I can’t tell you what happens in The Mystery Hole; it defies the laws of nature.  You have to see it for yourself.  Obviously, we both bought Mystery Hole tank tops to commemorate the experience.   

Next, we stumble across Gauley Bridge, which is normally a gushing waterfall.  This year, however, the water trickles lightly and peacefully. 

 

            Across the road from Gauley Bridge is a lake I don’t know the name of, but we stop three different times to photograph it, because the views just keep getting better and better.

First stop:

 

Second stop:
 

 

            Third stop:  (Kanawha Falls)

(This place smells of lilac.)

 Our last stop is in Huntington, WV, and it proves difficult to attain.  When we pull into town, we notice police cars and fire trucks blocking streets off, and throngs of people wearing pink and purple.  We have stumbled upon a cancer walk/run . . . at 3 o’clock in the afternoon.  And—of course—our destination is located on the main drag of the festivities. 

I have to turn around a few times, and park a few blocks away, but the walk is worth it.

 

Hillybilly Hot Dogs . . . Part Deux! 

This time I got the Junkyard Dog (homemade chili sauce, mustard, onions, ketchup, mayo, relish, slaw, kraut, nacho cheese, jalapenos, and bbq), which wasn’t as good as the Out Wayne Dog I got at the original location (nacho cheese, chili sauce, bacon, onions, and jalapenos).  There was just too much cold stuff on top of it, and I’m not a big slaw fan—I figured that with that much shit on it, the slaw wouldn’t bother me.  Don’t get me wrong, it was still really tasty, and I ate the shit out of it, but I was much happier with my initial choice. 

And once again we had to get the garlic bacon blue cheese fries.  I tell you what; say what you will about hippies, but they know what the fuck they’re doing in the kitchen.  Note the ridiculous amount of bacon atop this pile of fried potatoes and cheese—it’s at least twice as much as we got at the other spot.  Can you even see the fries?
 

 There wasn’t as much to look at; this location is smack dab in the middle of a brick-and-concrete town, not spread out on a grassy knoll nestled into the side of a mountain.  However, the wieners were delectable and satisfying. 

We hit up an old-fashioned drive-in diner and order root beer floats for dessert, then we make for the horse park in Lexington, Kentucky. 

We both despise this type of luxury camping; we’d rather be at the primitive sites—in the woods—away from people, all these RVs, and all these damn yippee dogs.

But we must concede a few things, for the convenience of using the restroom is quite difficult for someone in a full knee brace, mere weeks out of surgery.

 

(Only in Kentucky.)

Ally used to camp here a lot when she did dog shows with her mother and aunt in her adolescence.  She travels a lot.  In fact, I barely had to plan anything for this trip:  all I did was mention it to her and she looked up the date and time for the Roadkill Cook-off, rented our audio books, and found every place we slept.  I was in charge of food and Points of Interest—like Jerry’s Junk and The Mystery Hole. 

Overall I think we did pretty well; we hit pretty much every stop we wanted to, came across a few we hadn’t planned on—hell even getting lost trying to find our campsite was an adventure—and through it all we managed not to kill each other.  Not that I ever thought we would; Ally and I have very similar temperaments.  Although, after five days in the Jeep with her, I think that the first thing I’m going to do once I get home is hop on the motorcycle and go for a cruise!

 

I cooked some shrimp in my new bourbon-smoked paprika, and it was amazing!  Super smoky.