I co-opt a famous lyric from Mr. Denver’s song, because it suits this short blog like pancakes pair with syrup.  “Country roads, take me home, to the place I belong, West Virginia…”.

My lovely girlfriend has a cabin in the hills of that beautiful mountainous state.  Her family acquired it in the early sixties and her grandmother passed it on to her.  It doesn’t boast of infinity pool, or staff masseuse, or eatery with Michelin star, but a river runs by it, I rub her shoulders in the cool of the evening, and we’ve been known to turn out a good meal.

The modest structure is composed partly of the original timbers dressed with chinking and a newer stick frame portion that houses additional bedrooms and a galley kitchen.  I can scarcely stand erect in certain sections as it was not constructed with six-foot-six man in mind.  But none of its “limitations” rob one of the mysterious sense of peace that fills heart and soul when stepping foot on that single acre plot—I often refer to it as an enchanted cottage.  My sweetheart calls it her, “little slice of heaven”.

When the sun feels it has labored sufficiently and night’s blanket settles over the land, a bedazzled sky compels one to put head back and marvel until neck begins to ache.  Creatures who prefer cover of darkness roam, mostly unseen, but they’re present—fox, racoon, bear, coyote, skunk.  When there is but a glow on the morning horizon, the wood comes alive with the sound of daytime dwellers of all make and model—winged, four legged, and even those who travel on belly.  Though I can’t name the creatures that take to the sky by their song, there was a woman who visited the cabin many years ago who claimed that skill and said she had identified two hundred different avian voices.  Even if she was off by a few feathered heads, it is testament to how bountiful wildlife is in this corner of the world.

We’ve built a rugged staircase down the hillside to the river.  It is constructed of stone surrounded by forest moss.  If you employ a wee morsel of imagination, you can see leprechaun or elf descending the same stones to gather water or set sail in a craft of their making.

The river, on balance, is lazy and lends itself to kayaking, whether for paddling or for casting line.  Though I feel it carries with it an element of risk, we sometimes hear midnight kayakers make their way in dark of night.  Others choose to anchor float and let water do all the moving, while sipping on choice of beverage.  The message I seek to pass along is that the river is refuge on hot summer days—a cool relaxing place away from busy places.  At paragraph’s beginning I used the phrase, “on balance”.  This qualifier was used as any body of water can at times get riled.  Though it requires the river to rise above the nineteen-foot mark, it has, on rare occasion, and flooded the quaint cabin, which you can imagine makes a fine mess.

The neighbors are, to steal another phrase, downright neighborly.  They have shared their food, their tools, their decks, their time, and their kindness without thought given to, “what can you do for me in return.”  This generosity of thing and spirit apparently stems from the simple, easy attitude of, “aren’t we blessed to have this day.”  I’m sure as in all places that humans dwell, there may be times when hate and discontent arise, but I’ve yet to see them and I hope those shortcomings keep their own quarter.

There are also humbling sites to behold that are a mere bicycle ride or short drive from the cabin.  These treks and trails lead to mountainous vistas, waterfall, and bog—an ecosystem I never expected to encounter in the hills and hollers of West Virginia—the variety of natural wonders to visit would compel a list maker to record for days.

I anticipate your question, who am I to recommend an adventure to this land, and you’d be right to ask, but I still say you should allow yourself a chance to meander this way at some point on your journey from infant to elder.