Miss Josie Bassett by sam taylor

Text By:  Carmen Bowes

Photos By:  Samuel Taylor and courtesy of the J. Willard Marriott Digital Library at the University of Utah (https://collections.lib.utah.edu/)

Josie Bassett Morris was a badass little lady. She knew what she wanted and she went after it. The catch, all she really wanted was a private, cozy, breezy patch of ground on Cub Creek near the Utah-Colorado border. After visiting her homestead, that’s all I really want. It was perfect. Big tall cottonwood trees, a sweet little cabin, a natural spring, and a thriving orchard; all against the backdrop of a show-stopping Utah desert canyon. The coolest part of our visit: we had no idea we would find our way to Josie’s homestead when our day began.

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As Sam and I drive into Dinosaur National Monument, it is sweltering. The vast parking lot of the visitors’ center bleads heat onto my legs. We are here to see big, mind-blowing dinosaur fossils. We ride a bus and walk up a ramp and step into a huge, two-story observation room positioned around a slab of desert stone. Standing at the edge of the observation deck, there are vertebrae and femurs whose sizes are impossible to comprehend. We take cheesy pictures with them, our bodies for scale.

Leaving, we find a pamphlet for a driving tour of the monument. It has nothing to do with dinosaurs but it looks fun. We take off out of the parking lot, the hot wind doing nothing for us.

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The first several stops on the tour are petroglyphs. Crazy men with giant heads stare at us from the stone. Big lizard pictures scamper up the rock walls, vertical above the canyon floor. Corn stocks and patterns, lines and dots, are painted in white against the orange faces. A cacophony of images. Our heads drip with sweat, the heat pounding on us makes us tired, ragged.

 

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There is a stop on the tour that takes us to the river bank. I feel the impulse to run and jump in, clothes, boots, and all. I don’t, instead I suffer.

At the last stop there is shade, we soak it in desperately. I grab some icy water out of the cooler and read from our pamphlet, “Josie Bassett Morris is a local legend. Independent in both action and thought, she lived on her own terms. It is here that she chose to settle in 1914… [She] provided for herself. She raised and butchered cattle, pigs, chickens, and geese… For [her], the benefits of the isolation she experienced living here were solitude and beauty.” Josie was born January 17, 1874. She died May 1, 1964.

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We put on our packs and I hear water trickling as we walk into the glen of cottonwoods near Josie’s cabin. I read on in our booklet, “While a blessing, the springs from Box and Hog Canyons also gave Josie some headaches because of water use laws. The law stated that any spring that fed a larger stream, like Cub Creek, which another person had rights to, allowed that user to take all the water.” There are two springs on Josie’s property that used to run into Cub Creek. If Josie had followed the letter of the law, she would not have been able to use the water on her own land. Instead, she irrigated the water all over her property so extensively that it dries up before it reaches the creek. Based on the laws at that time, Josie got to keep her water and in turn, her serious irrigation turned her sweet little ranch into a green and lovely spot surrounded by sand and stone.

 

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Intrigued, we save Josie’s cabin for last and wander toward where her orchard and gardens used to grow. The wind coming up the valley blows comfortably against our radiating bodies. I feel Josie here still. Each bit of her ground was thoughtful, purposeful. Her irrigation helps grass flourish where her gardens did the same. The fruit trees still stand in her orchard, crouched under the sun. We stop near a sweeping cottonwood. It is old and heavy, its branches sagging. From the size of its base, I know that Josie rested under this tree. I know that she was working hard in the garden and needed the shade and sat against this big, sturdy fellow.

 

 

Old fence posts rise out of the meadow along the rolling trail back to Josie’s cabin. The light is dappled. We walk through a division in the fence and up to her porch, or where her porch used to be. All the floors are dirt. They always were. You can see them below Josie in an old picture of her sitting down for a sandwich. In the picture, the walls around her are full of dishes and canned goods. Now, here in her place, they are bare. Just the wooden structure remains. A fireplace stills lives on a dividing wall and a well is built right into one of the rooms. Most of the windows are small except for two on the side with the view. They are massive and look out over the valley and Cub Creek. There are remnants of newspaper insulation hanging from small nails on the timbers.

I want to fill this place with all my things and learn every crevasse of this valley. I want to wear white flowy shirts and jeans and boots. I want to learn to ride a horse and skin a deer and grow all my vegetables just like Josie.

Sam and I leave this place wishing we could stay. Over the rest of our trip, we look at each ranch we pass like something we could buy and make our own. None of them are quite as good as Josie’s.

 
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When we come home, I start researching our girl. I had an idea Miss Josie was a bit of a rounder but I didn’t know to what extent. Turns out she was into all sorts of trouble in her younger days. At some point she was brought to trial for cattle rustling(thieving), had a small tryst with Butch Cassidy, and may or may not have poisoned one of her FIVE husbands with strychnine. She divorced the rest. When questioned later regarding her husband’s poisoning she said, “I drove my first husband, Jim McKnight, out of the house at the point of a gun and told him never to come back. Let’s just say that some men are harder to get rid of than others.” What a spitfire.

In my hunt for information about Josie, I found nothing but stories of her outlaw heroism, her warmth when welcoming visitors, her strength, her ingenuity, her wit, her rodeo skills, her survival chops, and her incredible spirit. Every interview I read, every photo I saw, every account I heard; Josie’s spirit shined bright as that hot, Utah sun did on the day we stumbled into her corner of Cub Creek.

Josie’s homeplace stole my heart and the more I learned about the woman, the more she won it as well. This lady was resourceful, tough, and independent at a time when societal expectations led the other direction. While I don’t condone poisoning, I do think that Josie is the best part of Dinosaur National Monument. And that is saying something, because I LOVE dinosaurs! Who doesn’t?

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To Be Oscars and Emmas by sam taylor

Text By:  Carmen Bowes

Photos By: Sam Taylor

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Oscar and Emma Swett were real-deal, salt-of-the-earth, bread-and-buttered pioneers. Oscar bought a ranch they would make their home with some help from his Momma. Together, he and Emma made the ranch into a self-sustaining hub in the middle of the glorious Flaming Gorge. They supported the ranch with only the help of horses from its inception until 1962 when the family sold the property.

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Sam and I happened upon this homestead when we were on the second day of our plan to not have a plan. We pulled into an overlook parking lot and out the back side of it was a rugged, dirt road. Next to the road was a small sign. All it said was, “Swett Ranch.” From the overlook we could see old buildings in a clearing about a mile out.

We are suckers for old, abandoned spots so we took our 4x4 down that narrow road. It was poorly signed but we dead-reckoned it and found our way. As we approached the ranch, we encountered sagging structures, plants growing tall from their insides. The road turns and we are staring straight at a modern port-o-potty. We pull into the neat, gravel parking lot off the dirt.

As we step out of the jeep an older man meets us the gate of a weathered fence. He says in a jolly voice with a big smile on his face, “Welcome to Swett Ranch!” He is wearing a park uniform. Sam and I are trying to keep up when the man tells us about Oscar and Emma and asks us if we would like a tour of the ranch. Of course we do!

 

He talks quickly and tells us that he and his wife volunteer at the ranch. They give tours when people come by and the rest of the time they work to clean up parts of the property that haven’t been restored or kept up.

The man walks us to where his wife if cleaning out an old wooden sleigh originally used for hauling logs in the snow. He introduces us and when one of us sticks our hand out for a shake she refrains and says all proud, “I can’t, I’ve been cleaning marmot crap out of this sleigh for 2 weeks!” We laugh. She is sweating through her uniform. She is perfect.

Another guest arrives and the man leaves us with the woman. She says, “Let me get my glasses on and I’ll show you around.”

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She leads us though the buildings we are closest to. The woman tells us fun stories about the family. One of them went like this. Oscar broke down and bought an automobile at some point and promptly decided the parts were greater than the sum. He used pieces of the thing all over the ranch. The windshield is the window in the black smith shop, the engine is a critical component in a wood splitter.

We walk through aspen trees on the way to another shop on the property. The trees are bright and are lit ethereally by the sun. Tucked on the far edge of the glen, the body of the automobile sits firmly stuck between several growing timbers.

The woman tells us another story about Oscar’s girls playing pranks on each other. A bucket of mud and a plan.

She finally takes us to the little house. It is painted all the colors that used to be poisonous. Uranium orange, radium green, chromium yellow. Quilts are draped over old couches and droopy-springed mattresses hang onto their wooden frames. A few of Emma’s recipes cards lay out on a table. There is an old radio and ancient cans of various products line the shelves.

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The bathroom is strange and separate. It was added a long time after the home was initially built and is situated at one end of the wrap-around porch. Its only entrance leads you in from the outside. The woman tells us that Oscar found it unsanitary to have the restroom inside of the home.

The last structure we visit on the ranch is the horse barn. Saddles still hang from the rafters. It is the least-restored space on the property. The roof still has its original cedar shingle roof and hay rests on a packed dirt floor. The woman tells us that Emma always helped put up hay. She says, “There was no man’s job or woman’s job, there was just something that needed done and someone who had the time to do it.”

 

 

We walk back through the gate to our jeep and to our pace, our push to see and do more. But the idea of living like Oscar and Emma is stuck in our minds. What a simple and beautiful thing to be so busy with all the parts of self-sustenance.

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Traffic and Tension in Yellowstone by sam taylor

Our Story Below is a Tale of Two Tales - Carmen's story on the left, and Sam's On the Right - Hope folks enjoy!

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Text By: Carmen Bowes

Photos By:  Carmen Bowes

I’ve seen it before, the burnt landscape. Only small clues of it on the tallest points in West Virginia. A singed tree, victim of a chance lightning strike. I wonder if the tree thinks, “Why me?” The lightning struck tree does not go down alone, it takes all its closest neighbors with it.

Driving into Yellowstone, burnt trees cover the earth. Sweet fuchsia fireweed blankets the forest floor beneath the thin spindles.

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We drove a long way to be in this place. Our jeep putters up the hills and back down, the weight of our gear heavy upon it.

Today is not a normal day in Yellowstone. It is the day after THE GREAT AMERICAN ECLIPSE of 2017. This means people are everywhere. We hoped some of the crowds would have fled but no such luck, it’s worse than we expected.  It is morning, we check for a campsite and there is not a single one open in the entire park.

We are forced into only one day here and aim for Mammoth Hot Springs, it is the farthest north point (we are in the middle of the park) but it is the one thing I desperately want to do.

The traffic is thick but it is a beautiful day. The sky is blue and the sun is beating down hot, but good. I scan for unfamiliar animals and plants from our stopped car. We inch forward and we see there is road construction ahead. We wait there a long time, maybe 30 minutes. I can feel Sam’s patience seeping into the mountain air.

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We finally get through and follow the traffic in front of us off the pavement and down to a dirt, one-lane road lined with orange cones. It is so bizarre to see these symbols of human occupancy in this wild place.

We break loose from the construction and pull into a wide spot to stretch our legs. I grab snacks out of the cooler and Sam starts climbing on boulders. We see the old road below us. It mimics the one where we stand. There is not much more of note here. A car pulls in behind us. They are looking for what we see, for why we are stopped. There is nothing, no grizzly, no moose, no crazy critters.  It is just Sam climbing a boulder. They get in their car and pull away annoyed, underwhelmed.

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Back in the jeep, we head the rest of the way to Mammoth. It isn’t far. Getting close, I see the stark white tower rising out of the pine trees, the travertine reflecting the bright, August sun.

We grab our packs, spray on a heavy layer of sun screen, and trudge towards the glistening terraces. Our floppy hats cast shade on our hot shoulders. We take the boardwalk past pools of mineral-rich water and algae that casts insane shades of orange and teal onto the white calcium. The algae overtake pine branches. They look like orange pine-shaped clouds floating in the clear water.

We wander past big cascades, little yellow flowers peeking out of the white, harsh landscape. Trees, naked and weathered, stand tall out of the pools. Evidence of territory shifts. Once there was soil enough to grow this tree, now a pool swallows it.

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The boardwalk leads us from the white cascades to the hot, black parking lot. We jump back in the car and head south. Road construction again on the way back. A mass of traffic at an intersection that had no stop sign our direction. Cars lining the road as we approach the geyser basins. Can’t do that. Too many people. People. People. People. We are people. We are just like them, all these people. We just want to see these wonders, these spectacular events of nature. But we are not like them. We know about nature, we know how far to stand away from animals, we know that this isn’t the only place to find these critters, we know there are so many other beautiful things to see, we know there is so much more to Yellowstone than the people, we know there are better things, better adventures just down the road.

So down the road we go, we head on out of Yellowstone. We stop at a pretty waterfall. We pass beautiful tree-lined pastures. We drive into a magical burnt forest, wildflowers taking it back from the fire. Madly colorful blooms growing on everything. Perfect. The sun shines through the tall, burnt poles.

Better adventures are just down the road, I promise.

Text By: Sam Taylor

Photos By: Sam Taylor

Yellowstone.  You hear the name, and if you grew up in the US, it conjures visions of “the great west”.  The first national park.  The place that inspired President Theodore Roosevelt to create the park system.  A place so incredible, so beautiful, that people didn’t believe the first stories from here, and thought they were tall tales, told by mountain men. 

I have a soft spot for Yellowstone.  I’ve been here literally a half-dozen time over the last decade, and have had the “Experience” – I’ve seen Old Faithful.  I’ve had a grizzly get too close.  I’ve seen wolves in the road while walking back to camp in the Madison Valley.  All of these put together made me almost nervously excited to bring Carmen here.  She’s heard the stories, she’s seen my photos, but this is her first trip, first trip to Wyoming, first trip to Yellowstone.  I really want her to have a good time, I want her to have just a little taste of the wonder that this part of America brings you. 

We wake up in the high desert.  A perfect place.  It’s cold, at least for August.  Low 40s when we roll out.  I feel good about today.  We start rolling early, knowing we have a couple of hours to the park boundary.   We cruise through Cody, and start climbing toward the park, and hit the entrance.  We crest the mountain and I can already feel it start to fade away. 

The Jeep throws a check-engine light – probably just from the elevation – but not something we want to take a chance on 2500 miles from home.  We stop at a service station in the park, and I can already feel my tension starting to rise.  We checked on a campsite, and none available anywhere in Yellowstone.  On a Tuesday.  A park bigger than Rhode Island and Delaware put together, and no campsites.  While we are hanging out getting the Jeep looked at, we make a plan for Mammoth Hot Springs – the one spot Carmen mentioned, months ago, as a spot she has dreamed of seeing since she was little. 

The Jeep gets a clean bill of health – probably just from the elevation – and we head north toward Mammoth.  The hot springs are all the way at the northern corner of the park, we can already tell that Yellowstone is going crazy – crazier than I have ever seen it in my half-dozen visits.  I’ve seen dumb people in the park before, but this is another level.

Cars on the shoulder.  Cars parked in the road.  Literally.  We creep along in a line of traffic, unable to see what the hold-up is, and come around to a herd of buffalo – and cars that people are parking, in the middle of the road, to get out and simultaneously get too close to the animals, while also snarling the rest of us.  We break through the traffic, and while Carmen is excited about the animals, I can already feel our day slipping away from us. 

We get a little further up the road, and more traffic.  Road construction.  Are you kidding me?  The busiest set of days in the history of the park, and half the park is facing single-lane road construction and 45 minute delays each way.

We stop at a wide spot, miraculously empty when we get there, and get out to clear my head and try to drop my blood pressure.  I go find a cool boulder to climb, and it feels nice to pull on something, to do work.  I get on top, and there are a bunch of people in our wide spot now – more gawkers hoping that we had stopped to see some sort of animal, and instead they just get me.  Me standing above the horizon line, center of the scenery.  They leave quickly, apparently confused that someone would stop, unless it was to walk out of bounds on a geyser, or try to ride a buffalo, or something else that no one with any experience with wild animals and wild terrain would do.  A never ending sea of people that don’t know better, and think “nature” is what they can see from the road.

We make it to Mammoth, and I do feel some relief, and a bit of joy.  This place is incredible – and I’ve been here several times – and it never gets less beautiful.  Carmen, in her way, is bubbly and excited – like the excited little girl she described when she first told me she wanted to come here.  I appreciate her energy – because I’ve been feeling like I’ve been letting her down all day. 

Mammoth Hot Springs is classic Yellowstone.  Geologic formations only found in a few places in the whole world.  Beautiful, delicate, and also unstoppable.  The water flows, and a battle older than mankind goes on as the weather breaks the rocks into soil, the trees creep up, then something changes and the water moves, and the stone reclaims the ground it lost eons ago.    

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Feeling a bit refreshed, we turn back to the south, hoping to hit one, any, of the geyser basins.  I’ve been trying to take all the driving shifts so that she can look out the window, and I can tell I’m starting to fatigue.  It’s trafficky.  It’s hot.  The high mountain air (8,000+ feet in the park) has me worried about overheating the Jeep in traffic, so I keep turning the heater on.  Back through the construction.  Another 45 minutes.  Then we sit stopped in traffic. For an hour.  We get to the intersection…. And nothing.  We had the right of way.  No stop signs.  What the heck. 

We get down to the geyser basins, and cars are parked on the shoulder for a mile before we get there.  We get closer, and you can see the crowds on the boardwalk.  At this point, we are starting to chase daylight – hoping to get a view of the Tetons before sunset – and we have no idea where we are going to sleep tonight.  I’m definitely crestfallen and frustrated at this point.  I feel bad that this is Carmen’s first experience here.  I feel bad that we drove 4 days to see Yellowstone from the inside of a car. 

We make the call to boom for Tetons.  We see a lovely waterfall, and then Carmen has us stop at a section of forest blackened by wildfire – and carpeted in vibrant, brilliant, beautiful wildflowers.  The sun stars in my glasses, looking through the forest.  For the first time today, it feels like we are in our element.  Maybe this is a sign.  Maybe the answer is to blow up the plan, because the plan isn’t working. 

Because the best parts of today were the parts we didn’t plan.  And I’ll be damned if I’m going to do my vacation and see the west from the inside of a car. 

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Worth It by sam taylor

Text By: Carmen Bowes

Photos By: Sam Taylor

Note:  Details on trip logistics are included at the end of the article. 

Canaan Valley is 13 miles long and ranges from 3-5 miles wide down its length. It is stunning. The plants grow thick across its span and the Blackwater River snakes and twists its way, cutting deep into the boggy landscape.

We sit waiting for our shuttle to return, canoes at the ready. We weren’t supposed to do this river. We intended to do the Smoke Hole Canyon, the weather was lined up perfectly. A tropical storm was meant to blanket our entire region in several inches of rain. But our mountains caught it and held it too far west to reach Smoke Hole. We woke up this morning and the South Branch Potomac had the same measly water in it that is did yesterday. “No water,” Charles said. And like a true boater he followed the water, and we followed him, to the Blackwater. He said, “There may be a couple of trees down but nothing too bad.”

The canoe we are taking on the river was bought 2 years ago from an older man near Sam’s parent’s house. The man wanted $250 for it. A steal. We’ve only had it out 2 times before today. The first was on a lake and the second a mellow float trip down the Cheat. This trip is more than we’ve done.

I look at the swift, narrow, seemingly bottomless, dark water and I feel my nerves welling. I hear Sam’s nerves in his voice, I’m sure he can hear mine. The wellbeing of this man and his very expensive camera gear rest on my paddle and the strokes I will feed to it.

We watch people launch in front of us, most everyone has a smooth take-off except Todd, he immediately hits a rock head on and nearly capsizes his solo-boat. I feel all kinds of tension as we slide our canoe out into the water. The current moves one end down and the boat is lined up perfectly with the shore. Charles instructs, “Sam, step into the center of the boat.” I am holding the canoe and I feel it shift under Sam’s new weight. I step over the boat into the center and kneel, the boat gently rocking with my body’s addition. I grab my paddle and I say, “Alright Sam, forward.”

I feel the current pull on the boat and then we are floating. Down the river. There are a lot of rocks. I steer us around most of them but we scrape over several. One couple says from their canoe, “That’s the divorce machine!” There are laughs and skeptics. We both smile, we have heard this one before.  

We slide over rocks and around trees. The valley is beautiful but I can barely pay attention to anything but the water. We glide for hours, 2, maybe 3.

Our slightly inebriated, self-proclaimed tour guide says we are getting close to “the overlook.” An hour later, we all pull off. Sam steps uneasy out of the boat and pulls myself further into shore. We secure our boat and climb through thick brush and ankle-deep water to a panoramic view of the valley. The white clouds stand strong against the blue sky and go on forever before meeting the ultra-green horizon. We snack on hummus, bean dip, potato chips, and chocolate covered cashews. They taste good in this place with this view. Filling and easy.

Fed and feeling lethargic, we head back to the water. Before we can launch, Josh, my brother and our river scout, yells, “We have to portage, there is a pipeline.” Everyone else goes further down and starts their carry. Sam and I lift the canoe and start heaving from where we are. We trudge through the thick vegetation; my shoes slide around on my feet. They are drenched and filled with silt.

We get to the other side of the pipeline and I slide down in the creek to hold the canoe for Sam. He climbs in and then I step over and we are off.

We paddle a short while, wandering the sinuous turns of the river. The water gets narrower and the alder bush starts to crowd us and we hear a shout from somewhere we cannot see but seems close, “It gets tight here.” We are floating and I try to steer us straight through the middle but the boat gets hung up on some branches that are lurking under the water and the canoe turns hard sideways and we are stuck. Sam is pushing and pulling branches, trying to free us and I am paddling as hard as I can and the same voice from the other side says, “You just need to hit it straight, you will get through.” And my frustration peaks and I snap, “I know what I need to do, I just can’t get it to do that.” I tell Sam to stop holding the branches for a moment. I take a deep breath and I say, “Ok, push really hard on the branches.” And while he is pushing, I backpaddle like my life depends on it and we are nearly free and I hear that voice say, “Just a little bit more! Keep going!” And then our boat straightens and we float through the branches.

I see Josh, the scout. He was the voice. I apologize for my tone with him. We both laugh and paddle down the river. There are trees that require technical skill and luck, we get around them. There is another portage. The water is deeper here. We struggle to get back in our boat but we do well.

The light gets low and golden. The water sparkles and the sun peaks through the trees at us. The breeze is perfect and a comfortable distance grows between us and the other boats and I start to feel the peace of this place. It is quiet except for the sound of the water. The river gains another tributary and becomes wider, more forgiving.  I steer us gently through the turns in the river and then we come together again.

The landscape starts to change as we get closer to the edge of the valley. Pine trees line the shore, blooming mountain laurel hides under the branches. The water gets swift as it drops out of the plateau. And then we are at the take-out. We all grab hold of the shore and start pulling boats out. We team lift them up the slick, rocky bank. Piling into vehicles to do the return shuttle, there is an orange and pink and purple sunset showing off as we drive out the dirt road back to food and dry clothes and picnic tables and warm beds.

A good, hard day. Worth it.

Notes:
As noted in the intro, this trip became possible because of unusually heavy rain in Canaan Valley, which brought the river level up to "runnable" from where we did it.  We put on at the Beall Bridge access to the river, on Cortland Road.  This trip was strenuous with portages and was technically challenging in terms of multiple trees, rocks, limbs, and other obstacles in the river, and took roughly 10 hours.  This trip should only be attempted by people with the appropriate level of skill and fitness, as much of the route would be inaccessible by foot or motor vehicle.  Those who use this information do so at their own risk, as noted in our Disclaimer.

Home Unconditional by sam taylor

Text By: Carmen Bowes

Photos By: Sam Taylor

Charles hands me the boat out of the back of the truck and we work together to get it inflated before Josh arrives. I am throwing big 14-inch bows on each part of his present. I look up and his car pulls in the gravel lot. I grab the list of people who contributed to the surprise and walk to him. I give him the list and grab his hand, we walk towards his presents and he says, “What is this?” with a funny smirk. I say, “This is your birthday present, we all worked together to get you your own boating gear!!” He says, “Dude, what??!!” He is smiling big and I can see that he is contemplating all the fun he will have.

The crowd cheers and we leave him to get comfy with his new vessel. We pump up boats and get gear organized and down to the river. We are doing the flat section of the Cheat near Parsons, WV. We are ready to launch.  

I stand in the chilly water and hold the canoe as Sam steps in and sits down. I feel it shift under the new weight. Sam is nervous but grinning so huge. I am too. The sky is blue and bright with puffy clouds floating overhead. The water ripples under the front of the boat as we negotiate our sea legs.

I feel the drunk starting, it is warm and good. My body is light, the boat feels nice under it: floating. Sam is in front of me, he keeps turning around with the biggest smile on his face. The people I love are all around me. I can hear their voices, they are happy. Home. Unconditional.

The river here wanders. It splits into channels that wrap around islands. The rocks on the river bottom come up and grab the bottom of the canoe. We have to get out and lift it for a few feet.

 

 

Clouds float in front of the hot sun and give our thirsty skins a break. We all smell like sunscreen and wind. I put the paddle in the boat and let my hands rest. I slip them into the cool river and watch the current make swirls in the water behind them.

The trees have fresh buds on them. The branches stretch way out over the water. Small rock outcrops rise out of the murky, calm river and then plunge back in, turning the bank back into trees.

We float up on an old suspension bridge. Its parts hang heavy on the old cables and the piers stand proud above the river below. We go under it and watch it silhouetted by the bright sun. It is built of angles and manmade. Grand and not of this place.

There is no better view of these old Appalachians than from a boat. This I am sure. The water winds around them and you go with it. The hills rising out of the river fall gently into each other.

Boats are scattered in front of and behind us. They are filled with brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, nephews, nieces, moms, dads, and friends: these are people who have become these things over time. There are puppy dogs and hippies and there is so much love and there is a birthday and there are all of the good things.

Go West - Paden City, Sistersville, St. Mary’s, and Parkersburg in a Day by sam taylor

Text By: Carmen Bowes

Photos By: Sam Taylor

The old rail grade follows us the length of Route 7. It peeks out of the hill side and fades across to the other side of the pavement. It slices through lawns of modern ranch-style homes and rests perfectly tailored to the homes old enough to have been there when trains were shivering through the valley. Some parts of the rail grade are overtaken by mudslides; the bank having given up at one point or another. These old grades stitch their way through the rural counties of our sweet state, reminders of our industrious past.

Today is a half-dreary day; clouds cover most of the sky, gray and flat. The blue peaks through sporadically, sometimes bringing the sun beams with it but mostly not. Then the clouds close in again and the light rests tiresome on the earth.

We are driving west. Route 7 winds through a small valley and weaves itself with Little Fishing Creek. We cross bridge after bridge with the old concrete barely hanging onto the rebar; amused by the 40-ton weight limit signs decorating them. Seeing markers for Route 2, we rise over hills that carry us to the Ohio River; wide, choppy, and murky brown.

Turning south with the water to our right, we see that modern industry is present across the river in Ohio. Paden City is the first town we come to, it is small. It is one of those little spots calling itself a city, aspirational.

Sistersville is just a jump south and is full of history. Riding into town I see pretty, old chimneys standing tall above the buildings. Down Riverside Drive we come to an old oil well and learn of Sistersville’s creation. An oil boom brought this town from having a population of roughly 300 to over 15,000 residents. Hotels were built, homes erected, taverns established, and the boom town story played out. There are blocks of beautiful homes, most needing a little love but grand nonetheless.

We walk up the gentle slope away from the river and finer houses to find the railroad tracks. They run straight through town, houses stand unnervingly close to the rails. I try to imagine a train barreling through and it is challenging; it seems too small a space. This feels real and gritty. It feels like Old West Virginia.

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Leaving Sistersville, we continue south to St. Mary’s, another cool spot on the Ohio River. We wander down to the water and find a bridge leading us to Middle Island, one of twenty-two in the Ohio River Islands National Wildlife Refuge. We hike out to the point of the island to get a nice view of the Hi Carpenter Memorial Bridge. It is briery and poison-ivy covered. A coal barge passes by and we watch the waves roll closer to our feet. The wind is a comfortable kind of chilly.

Since we are still trying to get to Parkersburg, we turn to head out of St Mary’s. We notice as we are leaving that the railroad tracks share the street through the middle of town. The tracks act as the center line between the two lanes. This part of the world is not nervous about sharing space with trains.

It is about 4 p.m. when we get to Parkersburg and we are starving. Having heard about a little spot called Der Dog Haus we decide to give it a try. The vibe it good and the food is better. We had hotdogs and french fries and were not disappointed. If you should find yourself in Parkersburg and hungry, do yourself a favor and grab a bite.  

To finish our day, we go to Point Park. It is in downtown Parkersburg and may sound familiar to you if you have ever caught the river boat to the historic Blennerhassett Island. We walk along the waterfront waiting to see if this cloudy day is going to give us a pretty sunset.

We investigate the bridges, one is for vehicles, the other is a railroad bridge. Both span the entirety of the Ohio River. The piers of the railroad bridge are all constructed of hand-cut stone. The man power that must have taken is absurd.

We finally start to see some pink and orange showing in the clouds. The sun starts casting its rays out onto the river and the city. We don’t usually do concrete sunsets but this one is shimmering for us. As the light sinks into the flat (for us) horizon, the air gets cold and the wind whips.

It is good to see a city going strong in our mostly rural state. We climb in the car and ride back east full of ideas for other adventures on West Virginia’s western border; a whole new area to explore, all new restaurants to try, and a new unique history to study.

Historical Images Courtesy of West Virginia and Regional History Center at WVU

The Light At The End - An Adventure In the Gauley Canyon by sam taylor

The Gauley River has an almost mythical standing amongst outdoor enthusiasts in the US.  It’s known for giant, raft-swallowing white water, adventure rock climbing, and providing a playground for folks looking to “play their own way” all along its 105 mile trip from the mountains in Pocahontas County to where it meets the New in Gauley Bridge.  Growing up in Nicholas County, the Gauley has always been a feature in playing outside for me.  We lived a few short miles from the “top Gauley”, upstream of Summersville Lake, and we have had adventures and camping trips, too many to count, on this section of river.  

It occurred to me a while back that other than rafting trips, there is a whole section of the Gauley that I haven’t explored – the section from the dam to Swiss – and as I started planning a trip, I wondered why that might be.  As it turns out, the reason is that the “Gauley Canyon” is as wild and inaccessible as other, more well-known canyons in the state.  There are few roads into the canyon, a rail trail that is blocked at the northern end by a closed tunnel, and is lined with cliff faces and fortresses of rhododendron along its entire length.  

Into The Canyon

My adventure started on Ramsey Branch Road, near Leander.  The drive across this high plateau is quintessential West Virginia, with farms and fields, and small churches, and all of them seeming placed for the highest scenic beauty.  At Ramsey Branch Road, I drove along the ever-narrowing road until I reached a point that was as far as I dared go in my car.  It was a 25F morning, and I was well stocked with snacks and layers, and loaded up my pack to start the trip.  Dropping into the canyon, Ramsey Branch Road quickly became suitable for high-clearance only, with evidence of landslides and washouts from the enormous, "1,000 year flood" from last Summer apparent all the way down. I came round a bend and got my first glimpse of the Gauley; I realized that I was in for a gorgeous day in the woods.  

My goals for the day were to connect three waterfalls – Ramsey Branch, Laurel Creek, and Peter’s Creek into one, roughly 10-mile hike through the canyon.  My route traced an old railroad grade, a line of the Nicholas, Fayette, and Greenbrier Railroad for most of the trip.  Owing to the short winter days, I made up my mind to head for the furthest point first, and then start working my way back – taking photographs and exploring along the way.

The Koontz Tunnel and Peters Junction Trestle

The hike along the grade was incredible.  The river on one side, cliff lines and falling water on the other.  Mileposts from the original railroad are still present along the river, and provide a historic and interesting way to judge your progress.  After about 3 miles, I came to one of the most interesting and mysterious parts of my trip – the Koontz Tunnel.  

There are a few tunnels along this grade, and in my research for this trip, I kept coming across news that the Carnifex Tunnel had been closed by the National Park Service due to the danger of collapse.  This effectively closes the northern end of this trail – and I had some concern that this may be true for the Koontz Tunnel, but thankfully this tunnel was still in good condition and open.  

The Koontz Tunnel is roughly 3,100 feet long, and straight as an arrow.  You can see the other end of the tunnel from the start.  This makes it a bit misleading, as you start walking through the tunnel thinking the other end is closer than it actually is!  Somewhere in the middle of the tunnel, it became so dark I couldn’t see where I was going, and pulled my headlamp out of my pack. 

I was also glad for this tunnel, to follow the river all the way around Koontz Bend would have been quite the detour.  As soon as you exit the tunnel, you launch onto a trestle across the mighty Gauley.  Stepping back into the light, what you notice is the sound of the river running beneath your feet.  Looking up river, you can see cliffs ending right in the water, as if the mountains wanted to further emphasize the suddenness of the terrain. 

Peters Creek Falls

From the trestle, you can see Peters Creek emptying into the Gauley.  This was my first waterfall of the day, just ⅔ of a mile up the drainage from the river.  There is an active rail grade that one could follow at your own risk, or work your way up the drainage from the bottom. I went up the creek and arrived at Peters Creek Falls.  

I was surprised at the size of the falls, having grown up in the area and only now seeing them for the first time!  I worked along the base of the falls, taking some care to keep my camera from the spray at the bottom, and taking extra care on the extremely slippery rocks lining the creek – I can’t over emphasize this, these rocks are SLICK!  The rocks were so slippery that navigating the bank needed both hands and feet to keep from slipping and landing in a pile of rocks.  I used all my points of contact (including sitting down) to make my way out to a small point to take some photos.  This was a good point to sit down, and have my lunch – as this was the turnaround point – roughly 4 ½ miles of hiking from my car. 

Laurel Creek Falls

Leaving Peters Creek, you start retracing your steps – back across the Gauley, and back through the tunnel.  I thought the approach to the tunnel from this side was incredibly picturesque, and noted the “1910” build date on the crown of the tunnel. 

Roughly 2 miles towards the car from Peter’s Creek Falls, you will arrive at the base of Laurel Creek.  The Laurel Creek Road definitely took damage in last year’s flooding. The climb from the rail grade up the first section was demolished.  It was possible to walk up it, but not a lot of fun.  Climbing up the road, you will arrive at what looks like an old campground or picnic site.  Just over the bank is Laurel Creek Falls, one of the most beautiful waterfalls (in this author’s opinion) in West Virginia.  If you just want to look at the falls, you can approach from the top, or from the main road – but if you want to get to the bottom, you need to be willing to get dirty, and you better have a rope or strap that can be used as a handline.  Rigging up the handline, I descended into the creek, and wow – it was putting on a show this day.  The sun was starting to set over the falls, and was casting beautiful light into the mist.  

I spent the better part of an hour photographing the falls, sitting on the bank having a snack, and watching the water flow.  Realizing that I was starting to chase daylight, I used my handline to ascend the bank, and started on the last leg of the trip.  

Ramsey Branch Falls

Back to the main grade, it was roughly 2 miles from the base of Laurel Creek back to the bottom of Ramsey Branch Road.  Dear reader, you may note that I don’t have any photos of Ramsey Branch Falls in this article – and that is because I simply ran out of daylight to photograph them.  The falls are located near the river, roughly 600 feet up-drainage from the rail grade, but I was already pondering needing my headlamp for the climb back to the car.  It is 500 vertical feet over about a mile from the river back to the top, and I was puffing pretty hard by the top of the hill.  The tale of the tape?  10 miles, in total, through some of the prettiest and least-hiked terrain in central West Virginia.  I saw things I have never seen before – and left with a desire to return, many things had only piqued my interest without time to fully explore them (including Ramsey Branch itself!).  A solid day exploring a beautiful part of the state – and I didn’t meet or pass a single other person all day.  Truly an underappreciated gem.  

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Getting to the Top - Seneca Rocks (Daytripper Issue Feature!) by sam taylor

This is our third feature for Daytripper in 2016, and we've really enjoyed working with them!  Words below by Carmen Bowes, Photos by Sam Taylor

Life’s progress is not easily measured in the present. We do a lot of looking back and thinking of ways we could have done something differently. Rock climbing is not this way. You can try hard to complicate it, you can make it so many small problems and puzzles, but at its core there is only one clear goal: get to the top.

Seneca Rocks

Seneca Rocks in Pendleton County, WV is one of the most astounding landmarks in this state. It is two massive fins of Tuscarora quartzite sticking straight out of a mountain and standing proud above the trees and valley below. If you haven’t seen it, go. You won’t be disappointed. The north peak of Seneca is accessible by a trail that winds up the mountain. The south peak, however, is only accessible by technical rock climbing. This means it is more challenging and steep than “hard, up-hill walking” will allow. You have to use your hands and feet and makes moves to get up this thing.

The first time I summited the south peak of Seneca Rocks I felt like I had done the impossible. I had climbed 300 feet of technical climbing to get to this place. I was invincible and then I remembered that I had to rappel off of the 300-foot-face. Ladies and gentlemen, if you haven’t done this, get your big-kid pants on. It is a long way to the ground and you get to look at all of that open air as you slide down the rope. It is the single most exhilarating thing I have ever done.

Get to the Top

For this trip, we have a guide. His name is Stephen, he is super nice, and he loves to teach people how to rock climb. I will paraphrase for him because we were on the side of a rock face when he said this to me (notes were not easily taken). He said of his teaching and guiding that he loves seeing people achieve things they thought were unachievable. That is one of the most romantic things I have heard anyone say about their day job.

With Stephen in front, we take off out of the picturesque parking lot toward the fins. We cross a small creek before attacking the affectionately-named “Stairmaster.” It is steep and keeps going for much longer than we want it to. I am covered in sweat and my calves ware pounding when we reach the start of our route.

After catching our breath we put on our harnesses and check the long rope for knots before we start up a route called “Le Gourmet.” Stephen and Sam both go up ahead of me and I watch them both as they climb. I pay attention to their hands and feet, noting which ledges they use as they go. I put my already-tired calves to work as I move. Each pull up the face I take, the more exposed the world behind me becomes.

 

I see Stephen and Sam waiting on the ledge above me and take a moment to turn around. I have quickly put 70 feet between the ground and myself. The trees roll away from the bottom of the face down into the valley. I can already see the roads stretching out. It is a warm, sunshiny summer day.

We follow our leader up a pitch of a route called “Front C” and then finish out on the classic “Old Man’s.” We walk up the summit ledge and get to the final scramble that takes us to the top. I climb up the polished rock. It is slick from decades of shoes wearing away at the quartzite. I look up from my feet and the world opens up. I see a cozy farm hiding behind the rocks and valleys trailing off into the distance. The summit is narrow and tight. Stephen grabs an old ammo box and hands it to me. I pull the notebook from the inside and sign my name with the note, “Summit #2!” I hand it to Sam.

 

 

 

 

 

After a while we traverse the summit and set up to begin our rappel. My hands are sweating and my heart is fluttering. I lean back and look over the edge, the drop takes my breath away. The breeze blows across us on the face. Stephen sets up our rappel devices and takes off down the rope. After what seems like 20 seconds I barely hear his voice yell that I am to begin mine. I lean back into the air and let my weight take me down.

I slide slowly down the length of the rope until I awkwardly find my feet again. The earth feels solid and immovable. I think to myself “I got to the top” and I smile big. Sam follows me down and we haul out the gear. We got to the top.

 

 

 

A Note about Our Guides

Seneca Rocks Mountain Guides have an awesome spot. It is tucked between the road and Seneca Creek. They have a few small camp sites available to those who book trips with them and an outdoor shower with a view of the rocks. There is a fire ring and a small bar where folks can kick back after a day of playing hard. In addition to privately guided trips, they offer several other courses and programs. They work closely with the Adventuresports Institute at Garrett College in Maryland to set up learning opportunities for folks just beginning to the more experienced climber looking to craft a specific skill. The man that runs the place is Tom Cecil. He is a bit of a legend in these parts with some really epic first ascents and a solid 40 years of climbing under his belt. He has built an incredible facility with the intention of allowing room and opportunity to grow as a climber and hone your skills. These folks are professional and excited. I highly recommend them.