The Rivanna Rambler

July 24, 2008

 This show originally aired in July 19, 2007 and then again on July 24, 2008 on “The Rivanna Rambler,” a weekly public affairs show airing every Thursday at 11:55 a.m. on WTJU 91.1 FM or wtju.net

 

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It is 8 am and the temperature is 78 degrees. With the mercury set to climb towards 100 and the relative humidity chasing after it, I have decided that I, too, will climb, escaping to the hills and a change of climate.  My friend Alyson and I set a course towards the western mountains, the Alleghany highlands in that corner hump of Virginia where it shares its boundary with West Virginia.  We’re headed to that block of the Virginia Gazetteer, where Maps 64 and 65 spread open across the page reveal the topographic marvel of the ridge and valley contours of this region.

We take Route 250 out of Staunton towards Whites Store follwing Jennings Branch, tributary of the Middle River which bisects the Valley as it heads towards its confluence with the South Fork of the Shenandoah and on to the Potomac River.   Though it is imperceptible to my eye, something does shift here.  Somewhere between Chestnut Oak Knob to the north and Crawford Mountain to the south of 250, we descend ever so slightly into the valley of the Calfpasture River crossing it in the hamlet of West Augusta.  Starting here, the rivers and streams collect and flow to the southwest towards their eventual mother river, the James.

Once again our car climbs slowly, past the cool green, but dry river bed of Ramsey’s Draft, then on to the crest of Shenandoah Mountain at 3500.  In the distance, in spite of the haze, we can see mountaintops marching blue towards the horizon. Alleghany comes from the Algonquin word for “endless,” and it is easy to see why.

The road descends serpentine down into the next valley defined by its river, the Cowpasture. Turning down the valley on Route 614, we open our windows and let the fresh air in.  It is thankfully cooler – even in the valley we are at least 1000 feet higher than Charlottesville, which climatologically means we’ve achieved a drop of 3.3 degrees Fahrenheit.  Before the advent of air conditioning in the 1930’s these highlands were where Virginians who could afford to would retreat – some to the healing waters of lavish resorts, others to more modest cabins and camps.

At Williamsville, elevation 2360, we turn northward through the Bullpasture River gorge.  When the valley opens up, we take a rough driveway to a row shacks along the river, all seemingly empty, so we park and make our picnic along the bank.  Because the cooler air holds less moisture, my body is better able to cool itself by evaporation.  The urge to immerse myself in water, has been replaced by the pleasure of a comfortable temperature and the sound of the river descending its gradient.

The Bullpasture is considered one of the most scenic and pristine rivers in Virginia.  As we eat our sandwiches, a rustle on the far bank catches my eye.  A mink winds its way over branch and rock down the river bank in a rhythym of bounding hops and strides, unheeding of our presence.  Shortly thereafter, a kingfisher screeches down the river in the same direction, its flight a lilting counterpoint to its call.  From time to time, a fish jumps, flashing luminescent pink and green.  These rivers are known for trout, native and stocked.  We are clearly not the only ones eating.

There is a story in the names of these rivers. When the British settlers arrived in the 1720’s, they renamed that which the Indians called Walatoola for winding waters, the Cowpasture River. According to legend, a band of Indians stole a herd of cattle belonging to the settlers and attempted to drive them westward.  When the calves, which naturally tired first, slowed the escape, they were left behind at the first river, the Calfpasture.  The Indians kept driving the herd, but the cows also tired and were abandoned in the next valley, the one through which the Cowpasture now flows. Heartiest of all, the bulls were strong enough to make it to the next river valley, where they, too, were finally abandoned – hence the Bullpasture River’s name.

The mountains separating these valleys, Shenandoah Mountain, Bullpasture Mountain, and Jack Mountain, slow our travel and bring us into a quieter, greener, and wilder world.  I am aware that to be able to drive westward to create our own change of climate is a luxury I will not take for granted as the summer reaches the fullness of its heat.