Highland County, VA
It’s not often we take advantage of the opportunity to stop, sit and listen.
I’m not talking about those times we stop, sit and listen to presenters drone on about performance measures or inter-departmental synergies in corner conference rooms. Or, those unfortunate times when we succumb to the lure of a cushy couch and veg while a TV blares a Beyonce-wanna-be who will ultimately be voted off by narcissistic “recording artists.” I’m talking about those rare moments when you stop, sit and listen to the earth breathe, speak to you; move you.
Highland County, Virginia is an ideal place to do just that. It hides an hour northwest of Charlottesville off route 250 and claims to be the least populated county in the Commonwealth with roughly 2300 people calling the rural pastures and high mountain valleys home. It was originally settled by Scotch/Irish highlanders and German immigrants in the mid-1700’s. Fast forward a little over a hundred years, and the county was the site of The Battle of McDowell, the first Confederate victory of Stonewall Jackson’s Shenandoah Valley campaign campaign in 1862. Fast forward yet another 120 years and it’s when I first started to come up to what the Highland Chamber calls “Virginia’s Switzerland.” I’ve been to Switzerland and this comparison takes a good deal of imagination.
When I come here, I hang my hat and cast aside any worries in a modest, cinder block home affectionately known as “The Camp.” It was built in the 1950’s by a couple who lived out back in a discarded school bus during construction. For the past 30 plus years, I’ve made a semi-annual pilgrimage here to spend time with incredible guys I met during college. It’s a time to disconnect, connect and laugh until I cry.
A valley view of Highland Country from the Camp porch swing.
It’s a Friday afternoon in early May. I’m the first to arrive and waste no time popping open a soccer chair and a cold beer. The sky is Facebook blue. It’s one of those afternoons where you don’t feel the temperature, but I suspect it’s hovering in that ideal low 70’s range. It’s a welcoming quiet: Cell signals can’t creep over Shenandoah Mountain. The closest home is a quarter mile away but no longer inhabited. And, you can count the number cars that come down the dirt road on any given day on one hand.
I stop, sit and listen. Although I’m alone, the sounds of the mountains and valleys keep me company.
A wood pecker pounds its way to a massive headache on a nearby pine.
Two black cows exchange an afternoon greeting. Please note that I resisted the notion that they said “hay.”
Humming birds ricochet off a nearby feeder.
The Cow Pasture River out back is running high due to hard spring rains and gurgles its through log jams and wedged rocks.
A tattered American flag flaps respectively outside the screened in porch.
The wind blows gently at first. Trees resist with a soft roar that gets louder as the wind picks up My near empty beer bottle joins in with a “whooooo” as the wind tries to take a sip.
I sit. I listen. I smile. I grab another one.