Into the Mountains, Part II

Welcome back once again to our leading lady’s latest calamity.  Read on to find out if she makes it out of this blunder! 

The GPS returns us to the road in a rather roundabout way. 

“Now where are we going?” I ask.

“I guess to Marlinton; there’s got to be someplace we can pitch a tent there.”

It’s about 9:30pm.  This is when things start to go . . . wonky . . . for me.  You remember how we only got a few hours of sleep last night?  Yeah; now is when that starts affecting us.

The road twists and turns and the turns only get tighter and twistier the farther we go.  At some point my conscious mind takes a backseat and my lizard brain takes over, reacting only to the commands of the GPS and responding to the road before me, but nothing else.  As soon as a turn is completed, it image of it is wiped from my mind and no memory of it remains.  All that registers is the new turn rushing towards me in my little halo of visibility.  Nothing is taken in, nothing is processed, nothing returned. 

We go into Marlinton, and right through it.  The address Ally put into the GPS is for the Motor Inn—the cheapest motel in the area.  Her knee is pretty stiff from being cramped in the Jeep since ten o’clock this morning, so she’d prefer not to have to attempt popping a squat in the woods whilst wearing a full knee brace again tonight. 

All booked up.

We head back to Marlinton, toward an electric red sign advertising food and lodging.  Ally waits in the car.

All booked up.

I start to leave, then turn back around.

“Can you tell me the name of the next town over where we might be able to find a motel?”

Now it’s about 10:00pm; the restaurant employees are trying to shut down for the night, but a group of them—young kids, probably in their mid- to late-teens—stop what they’re doing to help me.  They call several local hotels and campgrounds, with no luck. 

“The Motor Inn was booked?  Holy shit, that place is never booked.”

“You can camp at Stillwell.  There was a group of bikers in here earlier who said they were gonna camp out there tonight.”

“You can’t camp at Stillwell!”

“Yes you can!  There’s sites on the left across from the playground.”

“Where is Stillwell?” I ask, present enough for the moment to register the name.

“You’re gonna go down this road here that you came in on—”

“I didn’t come in on that road, I came from the Motor Inn up 219.”

“Oh right, right; well you’re gonna go left outta here, then straight and make a right . . .”

Right here my mind wanders off.  I couldn’t tell you where it went, but I hope it enjoyed the trip! 

“. . . and you won’t see the sign—it’s covered by bushes—so you’ll pass it, but when you see Cramer you’ve gone to far, so just turn around and come back—then you’ll see the sign for Stilwell.”

She looks at me.  “Did you get all that?”

I blink.  “I . . . I go straight . . . then right?”

“What road did you come in on?”

“219?”  I came in, passed through, and came back. . . .

“Okay so you’re gonna get back on that. . . .”

I just barely manage to suppress a whimper.

One of the guys cuts in, “Did you say that you’re doing the 5k tomorrow?”

I nod.

“What time is that?”

“Nine I think.”

“Well shoot, if you’re gettin’ up that early, there’s a field nearby you can pitch a tent in and be gone before anyone even knows you’re there.”

“I need to talk to Ally.”  I appreciate all their help, but this shit’s been dragging on for like 20 minutes now.  I grab the booklet they’ve been using, with all the hotels and campsites in it.

“I’ll meet you out front; I can show you where the field is.”

I return to the car, hand Ally the booklet.

“Any luck?”

“No luck.”  I’m not really sure what just happened, but I recap it for her as best as I can.  “Some kid’s gonna show us a field where he thinks we can camp.”

Ally hesitates, but only slightly.  “I don’t think I can camp another night with my knee; I’m willing to pay for a hotel.”

“Me too.”  What I really don’t wanna do is pitch a tent in some random field in West Virginia and wake up with a shotgun barrel in my face.  BECAUSE THAT IS HOW HORROR MOVIES START.

Just then the kid pulls up next to us in his beat-up pickup truck.  “The field I’m thinkin’ of is only a few blocks away; you can follow me.”

So we do.

It’s a field all right—in the middle of town, next to a bank.  The kid drives off and I put the car in park again so we can reconnoiter. 

Ally sighs, “The only place I can think of that’s nearby that would have rooms is Snowshoe.”

“Snowshoe, huh?”  I put my glasses on.  “Lead the way.” 

Snowshoe is at the top of the mountain, up 219—again.  We pass by the Motor Inn—again—and Ally flips them the bird, then hangs up her phone.  She now has reception.  I still don’t.

“They said they have something up on the mountain—a condo or something—but it’s gonna be like a hundred and fifty bucks.”

“At this point, I don’t care,” I reply.  “I’ll put it on my credit card and you can deduct it from what I owe you on gas.”

“Cool.  We have to check in at the hotel first; they don’t want us just driving all the way up.”

Got it.

We enter the hotel lobby and Ally limps to the bathroom while I head for the front desk.

“I need a place to sleep tonight.”  In case it’s not obvious by just looking at me.

“We’re all booked up.”

A loud buzzing triggers in the back of my brain, like someone manually starting a sputtering lawnmower or a chainsaw.  I can feel my eye begin to twitch.

“No you’re not.  My gimpy friend over there just talked to someone who said there’s ‘something up on the mountain.’”

“Well, who did you talk to?”

Why the fuck does that even matter?  I didn’t talk to anyone, bitch, I drove the car!  “If you really need to know that, you’re gonna have to wait for my crippled friend to finish using your handicapped bathroom.”  I start to walk away. 

The desk clerk turns to one of her associates.  “She says there’s something up on the mountain; I don’t know how to search for that.”

So really you were just stalling in order to disguise your own ignorance.  Five-star customer service. 

The second woman taps a few keys on the first’s keyboard, and miraculously discovers a room for us.  We are then given detailed instructions about where to unload, and where to park—they even give us a map and parking pass.  Parking is underground, or there is a very large lot right across the street from where we’ll be staying. 

So now it’s back out onto the windy highway road for another 20 minutes until we see a large Disney-like settlement.  I say Disney-like because it doesn’t look real.  It’s a ski resort town, made to look like one thing when really it is another.  Brand-new construction poorly mimics the authentic mountain towns of old, featuring brick buildings that aren’t made from brick, falsely vintage “distressed” wood, cobblestone “streets” that you can’t drive on, and aesthetically scattered decorative rocks. 

And there are hippies . . . everywhere:  on the sidewalks, spilling out into the road, grouped in the parking lots in what I thought was the unloading zone but is apparently the hippie shuttle pick-up zone. 

What.  The fuck.  Is happening.

            We make a couple wrong turns and can’t figure out where to unload so we try to find parking.  I see no signs for underground parking, nor any structure that looks like it might lead us underground.  That giant parking lot the desk clerk told us about?  It’s blocked off and filled with pop-up canopies and tents—apparently there was some kind of hippie festival today.  

Finally, I give up and just drop Ally off in front of our building with the bags, and park the Jeep in an employee lot, making sure to hang the parking pass from the rearview mirror.  And cross my fingers that whoever’s spot I’m parked in will take pity on my poor confused mind and not ticket/tow/boot our only mode of transportation in this land 700 miles from our home. 

We haul everything up to the room, and one of our keycards doesn’t work (of course), but we manage to get inside and dump everything on the floor around 11:30pm.

“Do you want to grab some stuff from the Jeep for breakfast?”

Fuck.  “Yes.  And I’m grabbing a goddamn beer, for right now.  We fucking earned that shit.” 

One more trip down and up.

So while Ally does her physical therapy exercises, we split a 24 ounce bottle of Black & Blue Grass from New Albanian Brewing Company, and I shovel a few spoonfuls of peanut butter in my mouth before going to bed around 12:30am.   

Next morning we are up early and while Ally does her exercises, I start toting our bags back down to the Jeep, which—thankfully—is right where I left it, unmolested.

And then I get to see exactly why people pay so much to stay up here.

 

(The picture does it little justice; there was more pink visible.)

The drive down the mountain in the daylight is vastly incomparable to the harrowing ride of the previous night.  As we travel through the mist, the pavement rises up to greet me.  The road undulates, rolls, and billows—like a mermaid’s hair, or intertwined eels weaving their way through the ocean’s ebb and flow.  Meanwhile, I am gulping down coconut water to unsure proper hydration before my run. 

Protein bars, peanut butter, coconut water?  Yeah, I’m one of those people now.  I changed the way I’ve been eating:  more fruits and veggies, less potatoes and bread.  I still eat plenty of meat, though I opt more for fish and chicken over pork and beef.  And cheese—that’s the one thing I’d never force myself to give up.  I gave up the crackers without blinking, if you ever try to take my cheese away from me, I will fucking cut you.

On top of that I’ve been training harder, using this 5k as an excuse to become stronger so that soccer doesn’t kick my ass every single week.  I lost legit weight—seven pounds of fat trimmed off the middle.  Spirit Guide Sam says I might not logistically be able to go any lower due to the muscle I have to feed, and I’m fine with that.  I’ve gotten lighter than this using the “Break-Up Diet,” but I’m not really into getting all depressed over dudes anymore—despite the fact that I am, yet again, recently dumped by yet another guy who was never technically my boyfriend.

Who’s shocked? 

            No one?

            That’s what I thought.

            I submit to you that one can indeed be dumped, regardless of the level of “togetherness” achieved between the two parties.  Because it sure feels like being dumped on—no matter how nice the breakup is (and trust me, this guy’s as nice as they come).

So here I am, on the top of this goddamn mountain, alone again.  Alone as ever.  Alone as always. 

I find it much the same though—whether or not I’m dating someone; I feel the same amount of loneliness. 

And even though Ally is a great friend to me, it’s not really the type of loneliness that she can cure.  I am used to it by now, though.  To be sure, her companionship is a great comfort to me right now, but due to her injured knee, I must run this race on my own. 

They hand me my number at the registration table:  I am lucky number 13. 

*                      *                      * 

            This is definitely how horror movies start.

I’m running through a West Virginian farm field, an unforgiving sun glaring down on my shoulders.  My breath comes heavy, my steps pound the dirt path, my heartbeat throbs in my ears. 

There is someone else running, just behind me, marking my every footstep.  The ground is uneven; tall grass rises at my left, while a river rushes past at my right. 

And me? 

I am smiling.

Now we come out onto that curvy two-lane mountain highway, sheer cliffs ascending on one side of us, sparse woods unfurling on the other.  We curl around the mountain only for a moment before turning towards the woods again.  The path takes us past a playground, as well as several picnic benches, grills, and fire pits.  Over the crest of a small hill stands a hand-painted yellow sign that reads in black letters:  “Stilwell Park”; clear as day, unobstructed by any foliage. 

I’ll be damned.

Once again we come out onto a road, heading up a long, sloping hill.  It’s not steep, but it seems to go on forever; I concentrate on maintaining speed.  Over the summit and next it’s down, down, down, and a volunteer points in the direction of the next turn I need to make.

“You’re almost there!”

Suddenly I break into a sprint—well, the best sprint my legs will allow at this point.  I’m not breaking any records—I crossed the finish line at sixth in my age group, but I don’t really care about that.  All I was hoping for was to run the whole time, and I did.  Plus, I’m not used to running outside or at this altitude, so the fact that my pace was about the same as it is at home makes me more than happy.  Most importantly, I feel great; I feel like I can take on the world right now.

            We return to the Jeep so I can change into my overalls, somewhat concealed while standing between the open vehicle doors.  Changing clothes in public is another great camping skill Ally and I both possess, in addition to very little shame. 

Now it’s time for some road kill!   

The competitors have only just started cooking, so we wander around the vendors first.  I buy an apron (because it’s only fitting), some wild boar snack sticks cooked in sweet barbecue sauce, and a few things for my mom’s birthday next weekend.  Then we happen upon this hairy old mountain man making things out of copper wire.  We chat for a bit, and Ally buys one of his bracelets, inlaid with pink beads.  I pick out a green one, and he fits it around my wrist for me. 

“And now I’m gonna take your picture,” Ally says, getting her phone out.

“Wait I wanna be in the picture!” I shout, rushing to put my arm around the jeweler. 

He squeezes my side while Ally snaps the shot.

“Hey!” I chide him.  “That tickles!”

He laughs, “It’s supposed to tickle!”

Dirty old man.

Never did get his name, though.

 

(Still not ready to show my face on here, sorry!)

We wander back to the sampling area, and now the place is backed up with several long lines to each of the five serving stations.  Nope, four.  The Saloon just ran out of theirs.  We learn that the rabbit dish they prepared was quite tasty.  We make it through the first line to try Mama Venice Venison.  It’s made Italian style; nothing terribly impressive.  But nothing terrible, either. 

 

 

Next we try the Three Amigos’ offering containing flavorful (though not spicy) turkey, chicken, and chorizo, which seems pretty tame for a Road Kill Cookoff.  However, we quickly learn that several attendees have never heard of chorizo, so at least it’s exotic to them.  My guess is that the turkey was probably wild and the chicken locally farmed.  Next we get in line for the Coal Hollow Brothers, and wait. 

And wait.

And wait.

Just as we are getting close, the edges of my world start to go black.   

Because, you see, I was saving myself for this, not knowing that we would be given portions equivalent to half a Dixie cup.  So after my run I didn’t replenish quite as well as I should have.  And then I walked around in the sun for an hour.  And then stood in the sun for another. 

I manage to stumble into some shade without passing out, sit down, and start drinking warm water from my Camelbak bottle.  Ally kindly stays in line and brings me a sample of their venison dish.  The Coal Hollow Brothers featured heavily in the episode of Bizarre Foods filmed here a few years ago.  Andrew Zimmern really loved these guys, which I suppose is why their line is so long.  They dress in old timey garb and use old-fashioned cast iron implements in their cooking. 

The food tastes decent, but it’s hard to be impressed at this point.  I’m just focusing on getting my head back together so I can get to some real food and cold water.  We acquire some spicy elk sausage cooked with potatoes and peppers, which I find much more satisfying than anything the competitors had to offer. 

 

 

We wander a bit more . . . drink some excellent homemade cider and eat the best fresh kettle corn I’ve ever put in my mouth. 

 

(Want some bananas from the sketch-van, little girl?)

Once we’ve seen all there is to see, Ally asks if I want to get a beer before we head out of town.  That’s not a difficult question to answer, so we make for the nearest restaurant and find . . . that they don’t serve beer.  So we walk a few blocks until we find a restaurant/lounge where we are told that there is no place in town that will serve us beer. 

“Well let’s get the hell outta here!” I shout as I shove my way back out the door. 

On our way back to the car we pass by a vendor that we hadn’t spotted before:  Kirkwood Wineries of West Virginia.  We sample every single one of their wines, which are all cold, fruity—without being overly sweet—and fantastic, except for the ramp wine.  Why someone thought it would be a good idea to make onion wine is beyond me.  They claim it’s for cooking and making salad dressings, but I think it’s just to laugh at cute girls’ faces when they try a taste of it.  Seems to me that the world has existed quite well up to this point without onion wine.  I buy a bottle of the elderberry and the spiced apple wine, and our time at the WV RoadKill Cook-Off and Autumn Harvest Festival draws to an end.   

But we’re not heading home just yet; there’s still more adventures to be had!  Tune in next time for the thrilling conclusion to our tale of peril, debacle, and disaster!