Mountains are the
world’s best hiding places. They can shield you from what’s immediate and
threatening and place you closest to what’s most important in a single breath.
This, I am certain, was God’s intention; to move or alter one should be a
sacrilege. The communities and cultures that emerge at the end of the roads
that navigate the folds and ridgelines, and cross the creeks that animate them,
are, by design, strongholds for old-world values and charm. Thus my soul is
pulled down secondary roads that lead up and away.
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| Photo by Matt Reilly. |
For a few hundred
miles, as they dive into the southwest corner of Virginia, the Appalachian
Mountains find girth. The highlands to the west begin to expand from the narrow
crest that mounts in the central part of the state, and continue to do so as
they roll into western North Carolina and eastern Tennessee—the Great Smokey
Mountains. Ridges and fertile valleys take turns striping the land to the east,
giving rise to a number of small mountain towns that once dotted a railroad
that wandered the valleys and hollows.
Taylor’s Valley is one
such destination. Nestled in the palm of the southwest Virginia highlands, the
village is as far removed as you can get in just a 15-minute drive from
Damascus—affectionately dubbed “Trail Town USA.” Fork Mountain, which separates
the two populations geographically, pushes the traveler south into Tennessee
along a mountain highway before a ramshackle, faded, wooden sign directs him
northward along a pot-holed road back into the state from whence he came.
While I refrain at all
costs from writing about secrets, Taylor’s Valley is none such. In fact,
visitors—hikers—en route from Springer Mountain, Katahdin-bound on the
Appalachian Trail, pass through shortly after making their collective favorite
stop in Damascus. Perhaps Virginia’s most popular bike trail, the Virginia
Creeper Trail, drives dozens of bikers through town daily. A single-lane bridge
spanning Whitetop Laurel Creek—arguably one of the highest quality trout
streams in the Southeast—is the town’s welcome mat.
Gardens are plentiful;
gas stations, nonexistent. Churches outnumber restaurants, which are few; and
on a pleasant fall morning it would not be a surprise to find the majority of
residences vacated for the comfort of nature. The Game Department’s regular
stocking of the creek throughout fall and spring makes the retired man sporting
hip-waders, creel, and limber spinning rod a common character—canine companions
are optional, but largely endorsed.
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| Photo by Matt Reilly. |
It’s a homey place.
That’s the impression I got when I opened my car door in a small gravel
shoulder by the creek to find my very own dog waiting for me, like a
housewarming present for my sojourn. Perky ears and friendly eyes stared me
down, a wet nose implored my hands for attention, as I shouldered waders and
strung my fly rod, intent on sampling some of the Valley’s aquatic villagers,
but not without satisfying its four-legged one.
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| Photo by Matt Reilly. |
Golden leaves barreled
down the creek pecking at my fly line, catching my fly on occasion. Patience
and persistence payed out, though, in the form of four chunky brown trout,
flamboyantly adorned with spawning garb.
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| Photo by Matt Reilly. |
I released the last
fish and looked up to notice an elderly man fishing a good way above me. I
stepped out of the river to explore upstream and give the man some space to
enjoy the morning, but happened upon him leaning by his aged red pickup,
retired from fishing.
“Seems every time I
looked you were doubled up with one of them!” he exclaimed.
“The jury’s still out
on the luck part of it,” I returned politely.
“Any browns,” he
inquired?
“All browns,” I replied,
“Huh,” he returned,
hoisting a stringer of four rainbow trout. “They looked pretty good sized. Last
year the state did a questionnaire asking people if they’d have lots of small
and average fish or fewer bigger fish, and I think they settled on bigger.
Works out good for me. I come down here when I can, but I don’t fish any of
those other creeks. This one is the prettiest.”
“There’s something to
be said for that,” I said. “They say ‘trout don’t live in ugly places.’ Those
are some nice fish.”
“Tell me, are you a
Christian?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“I thought I could tell
it on your person,” he replied, smiling. “Most folks here are. Some of ‘em
opened up their home as a café for the bikers. Their chocolate cake won some
award in one of them southern magazines.”
Talk of family and
fishing petered out after a snack and a wave. I moved upstream to explore, caught
a dozen more trout, exchanged waves with the bikers and hikers, and thought a
familiar thought: These hills are home. And everything in them.
*Originally published in the Rural Virginian
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