10:05 PM |
I set out from Cumberland to get to New Martinsville for lunch. When I went into the West Virginia Welcome Center (very new, clean and well-organized), the very nice lady at the desk gave my the backroads brochure although I wasn't quite sure what I was asking for. I asked her if New Martinsville was that far away. Could I make lunch? Well, it was 12:30 and I probably couldn't get there for a few hours, but somehow I had very wishful thinking. I really wanted to go to the Road Food recommended buffet. So I headed on out in that direction.
As usual, I needed fuel. Or I thought I did because I am now completely paranoid about it. Each time I fill 'er up, I probably put in 3 gallons. There are long stretches of no services on I-whatever. I saw a gas sign. I exited. It was on Dog Run Road, and there was no entrance back onto 50. I broke out the GPS, a last ditch effort in my paper map world. I was to go up 23. 23 was literally an alley through the town, but state designated nonetheless. It turned into miles and miles and miles of almost two-lane roads. There were no shoulders at all. One could fall into the creek or smack into bedrock stretching at least 20 feet overhead.
Then the GPS died. I was on a road that was a long way from the last place that had any signs of civilization. There were crude metal bridges washed out all along the way. It had just rained. But, wow! The houses along here look just like the ones you see in those photos of Appalachia. Oh my god. I'm in Appalachia. By mistake.
I wish I hadn't lost my video camera. There was no way to take pictures as there was no place to pull over. The videocam just sticks to the window, so all I'd have to do is push the button and let her rip.
The shacks were spectacular. I snagged this picture off of Google images, but this is exactly the kind of stuff I saw, except they were against dense vegetation against rock or 6 inches from the road on the creek side:
Sometimes there would be sagging outbuildings as well. I imagined stills and revenuers. And still I drove. Saw more places, drove. Saw more of the fascinating same, drove. Saw nothing, drove. Saw sign for Billy's Run Road, drove. Saw sign for Elk Run Road (do they have elk here? I thought that was Colorado), drove. Saw Thompson Run Road, drove. Figured out runs are little tributories to the creek. Drove. Dog Run Road where I got gas wasn't named after the fenced in area you leave your dog. Drove.
I'm really lost now. There is nothing, nothing, nothing out here. And I need gas. I think. It's been four hours and I have to pee. I wondered if any of these houses had toilets. Outhouses would be great. A spot in the woods would have been sufficient. Thank goodness my imaginary boyfriend didn't have to pee. He would rub it in by just pissing out the window.
The road changed a little bit. I couldn't quite tell how, like when you don't notice your husband had his hair cut but know he looks different, or like when he shaves off his moustache. The center lines were painted yellow. You could see them. The surface was a little better too. Then I saw this: Upper Ohio Conservation Area. Upper Ohio! I suppose I could've driven there as I'd been driving for hours and hours. About 10 minutes later it dawned on me that this was the Ohio River, and not Ohio. I was still driving. And drove some more. I came to a fork with two road markers and two different directions. Should I go north, presumably toward Ohio? New Martinsville is in the northern panhandle of West Virginia. Should I have dinner up there? Okay, as I have no idea where the other one goes. Then I balked. My map had shown Sistersville near the border, and that road would take me somewhere with red lines on the map instead of no lines. So I took south, but it seemed to go west. And I drove.
In my giddiness at having somewhat of a clue as to where I was, I neglected to count the Run Roads. So I started again. Purgatory Run Road. Shit. One minute later, shack on side of road. Handpainted sign: chainsaws. I kid you not. I am going to hell in tiny pieces.
But wait-- a refuse can. Not a trash can, but one of those wheely jobs that the trash picker-uppers give you. If they're not tossing the trash out the window, this could be a sign of increasing civilization. And I drove. Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes. God, I have to pee.
A not-so-bad shack on the side of the road had "snowtires" painted on it. I stopped. I had to stop. I had to know if I had taken such a wrong road that I'd gone in circles and would totally run out of gas before I got back. If I got back. Thank heaven for small favors. The guy inside collected Die Casts that he won't sell for five bucks to the auctioneer because he paid forty dollars for some of 'em. One was a 1948 Woody. I listened to him describe his old, I think it was, Fairlane of which he had pictures lovingly scotch taped to his walls. I sold it, he said. I bet that made you said. Well, I sold it to my son in North Carolina. That didn't seem to lessen his pain. Finally, is there anyplace to get gas around here? You go about a mile up the road, cross the bridge (I had crossed about a thousand of these one lane bridges, and I was terrified I wouldn't remember the directions), head up to the Napa store and turn left. Napa store! A mile away! Holy cow!
So I drove over the bridge and up to the Napa store. Sure enough, there was a teeny tiny store with two pumps in front of it. I pulled up with relief. The handles were covered with plastic bags. The guy came out. We're out of gas. Noooooooooo....
So I kept on driving. And low and behold a 7-11. In the middle of nowhere. With gas. Woody garnered some attention. I'm am hoping beyond hopes that there was a bathroom, and once these guys get started talking, I can't get away for half an hour. I was pretty rude according to country rules, but I couldn't help it, and blurted out "is there a bathroom ANYWHERE near here?" And there was. Five feet in front of me. Hallelujah.
Back to the fueling up. You don't just stick the hose in the fuel thing in Woody. The cap is about 8 inches inside the flip up cover thing, and it is damn near impossible to wedge the handle in there. And the pressure is different, so you can't just hold the handle until it pops off. You have to lean over with your face in the fumes and watch how high the gas it. Problem is, you can't see it until it runs over. I have been trying to learn by sound when it is full, but I haven't gotten the hang of it yet.
As I sort of turn my face away from surely carcinogenic fumes, I see a man in front of me. This is Larry:
I asked Larry what town it is. West Union. Later I'd look in some guide books and find out I had never been anywhere close to New Martinsville, and Sistersville was actually a kind of interesting place. I took I-77 instead. This time I remembered the 77 because I was so happy to see an I-.
As usual, I needed fuel. Or I thought I did because I am now completely paranoid about it. Each time I fill 'er up, I probably put in 3 gallons. There are long stretches of no services on I-whatever. I saw a gas sign. I exited. It was on Dog Run Road, and there was no entrance back onto 50. I broke out the GPS, a last ditch effort in my paper map world. I was to go up 23. 23 was literally an alley through the town, but state designated nonetheless. It turned into miles and miles and miles of almost two-lane roads. There were no shoulders at all. One could fall into the creek or smack into bedrock stretching at least 20 feet overhead.
Then the GPS died. I was on a road that was a long way from the last place that had any signs of civilization. There were crude metal bridges washed out all along the way. It had just rained. But, wow! The houses along here look just like the ones you see in those photos of Appalachia. Oh my god. I'm in Appalachia. By mistake.
I wish I hadn't lost my video camera. There was no way to take pictures as there was no place to pull over. The videocam just sticks to the window, so all I'd have to do is push the button and let her rip.
The shacks were spectacular. I snagged this picture off of Google images, but this is exactly the kind of stuff I saw, except they were against dense vegetation against rock or 6 inches from the road on the creek side:
Sometimes there would be sagging outbuildings as well. I imagined stills and revenuers. And still I drove. Saw more places, drove. Saw more of the fascinating same, drove. Saw nothing, drove. Saw sign for Billy's Run Road, drove. Saw sign for Elk Run Road (do they have elk here? I thought that was Colorado), drove. Saw Thompson Run Road, drove. Figured out runs are little tributories to the creek. Drove. Dog Run Road where I got gas wasn't named after the fenced in area you leave your dog. Drove.
I'm really lost now. There is nothing, nothing, nothing out here. And I need gas. I think. It's been four hours and I have to pee. I wondered if any of these houses had toilets. Outhouses would be great. A spot in the woods would have been sufficient. Thank goodness my imaginary boyfriend didn't have to pee. He would rub it in by just pissing out the window.
The road changed a little bit. I couldn't quite tell how, like when you don't notice your husband had his hair cut but know he looks different, or like when he shaves off his moustache. The center lines were painted yellow. You could see them. The surface was a little better too. Then I saw this: Upper Ohio Conservation Area. Upper Ohio! I suppose I could've driven there as I'd been driving for hours and hours. About 10 minutes later it dawned on me that this was the Ohio River, and not Ohio. I was still driving. And drove some more. I came to a fork with two road markers and two different directions. Should I go north, presumably toward Ohio? New Martinsville is in the northern panhandle of West Virginia. Should I have dinner up there? Okay, as I have no idea where the other one goes. Then I balked. My map had shown Sistersville near the border, and that road would take me somewhere with red lines on the map instead of no lines. So I took south, but it seemed to go west. And I drove.
In my giddiness at having somewhat of a clue as to where I was, I neglected to count the Run Roads. So I started again. Purgatory Run Road. Shit. One minute later, shack on side of road. Handpainted sign: chainsaws. I kid you not. I am going to hell in tiny pieces.
But wait-- a refuse can. Not a trash can, but one of those wheely jobs that the trash picker-uppers give you. If they're not tossing the trash out the window, this could be a sign of increasing civilization. And I drove. Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes. God, I have to pee.
A not-so-bad shack on the side of the road had "snowtires" painted on it. I stopped. I had to stop. I had to know if I had taken such a wrong road that I'd gone in circles and would totally run out of gas before I got back. If I got back. Thank heaven for small favors. The guy inside collected Die Casts that he won't sell for five bucks to the auctioneer because he paid forty dollars for some of 'em. One was a 1948 Woody. I listened to him describe his old, I think it was, Fairlane of which he had pictures lovingly scotch taped to his walls. I sold it, he said. I bet that made you said. Well, I sold it to my son in North Carolina. That didn't seem to lessen his pain. Finally, is there anyplace to get gas around here? You go about a mile up the road, cross the bridge (I had crossed about a thousand of these one lane bridges, and I was terrified I wouldn't remember the directions), head up to the Napa store and turn left. Napa store! A mile away! Holy cow!
So I drove over the bridge and up to the Napa store. Sure enough, there was a teeny tiny store with two pumps in front of it. I pulled up with relief. The handles were covered with plastic bags. The guy came out. We're out of gas. Noooooooooo....
So I kept on driving. And low and behold a 7-11. In the middle of nowhere. With gas. Woody garnered some attention. I'm am hoping beyond hopes that there was a bathroom, and once these guys get started talking, I can't get away for half an hour. I was pretty rude according to country rules, but I couldn't help it, and blurted out "is there a bathroom ANYWHERE near here?" And there was. Five feet in front of me. Hallelujah.
Back to the fueling up. You don't just stick the hose in the fuel thing in Woody. The cap is about 8 inches inside the flip up cover thing, and it is damn near impossible to wedge the handle in there. And the pressure is different, so you can't just hold the handle until it pops off. You have to lean over with your face in the fumes and watch how high the gas it. Problem is, you can't see it until it runs over. I have been trying to learn by sound when it is full, but I haven't gotten the hang of it yet.
As I sort of turn my face away from surely carcinogenic fumes, I see a man in front of me. This is Larry:
He'd been following me since Shirley's place. You wanna sell that car? Same question I always get, but Larry sure was fun to talk to. I was so relieved to have gas and a potty that I'da chatted for four hours with the devil himself. As he was going on, he motioned to another guy walking up. Kinda handsome buzz-cut strapping twenty something year old. With an older guy in reflective stuff. Larry said, Look, here's the Mayor. He wasn't kidding. The older guy was from the jail (not prison, mind you), working off his DUI picking up litter.
I asked Larry what town it is. West Union. Later I'd look in some guide books and find out I had never been anywhere close to New Martinsville, and Sistersville was actually a kind of interesting place. I took I-77 instead. This time I remembered the 77 because I was so happy to see an I-.