March 23rd, 2006
Meet Virginia
Steph and I went to visit her mom, stepdad, and brother this past weekend. They live in Hot Springs, a very, very, very small town in Northern Virginia. It’s about a six-hour drive, usually involving going north through North Carolina, then cutting northwest once you’re over the Virginia border (there are about 10 different ways you can go, all of which take the same amount of time), and heading up into the mountains, where, at many points, there are no signs of civilization.
This may sound pretty uneventful, but our ventures up and back are never without some type of incident. There’s always something along the way giving us white knuckles. Over Christmas it was ice covering the steep mountain roads. This last trip the “Check Engine” light in Steph’s Hyundai came on, for some unknown reason, in the middle of nowhere. We drove home with it staring back at us, knowing full well that you can’t get cell phone reception for almost half the trip home, so there’s no way to call for help when you get in trouble…. Good times.
Also, we have yet to complete a trip to Steph’s family’s without getting lost at least once. Partly because we’re always trying new, unfamiliar routes. Partly because we’re always get into serious discussions (“where we are going with our lives,” etc.) on long car trips, to the point where we’re no longer looking out for the requisite highway signs.
Not that the signage is very helpful, in this case. The roads in these parts are really only meant for people who have lived in the area all their lives and just know where they need to go. On our journey up last fall, we decided to take all back roads once we got to the mid-section of Virginia. Well, somewhere in there, we missed whatever highway it was that would have taken us west. (I maintain to this day that the turn we were supposed to make had no label whatsoever.) Once we realized we were off course, I consulted the map. I found what looked like a reasonable route from where we were. No need to back track. So we kept going. Soon, even the few little homes and farm operations that had kept us company on most the trip had disappeared. Then it got dark. And out came the deer. I was already on edge, waiting to hear those first few notes of “Duelin’ Banjos,” and these groups of deer darting across the road every few minutes were not helping. We kept plugging along. At certain points the car was at what felt like a 45-degree angle, heading up some very steep inclines. The car’s 4-cylinder engine was straining for every last bit of torque. After driving in these conditions for hours we got to a place where deer were just hanging out in the middle of the road…. Have you ever driven up to a deer that doesn’t so much as flinch? Not the most comforting experience. We’d pull right up and honk the horn and they’d turn, look at us for a minute, and then slowly saunter off the gravel. (The “highway,” by the way, had deteriorated into a gravel road many miles before this.) The needle of the gas gauge was fast approaching “E.” Then, I swear to you, we started to hear howling in the distance. Wolves or coyotes or something. Who knows where we were? I hadn’t seen any indication of what road we were on for 90 miles. Then we passed a group of deer that were just leaning against a guard rail, smoking…. But wait, the road is sloping downward! We’re heading down the mountain! Oh my God, there’s The Homestead! We’re saved!
And this is basically how the trip up to Hot Springs works. Every time. If it’s daylight and your car is working ok, it is one of the most beautiful parts of the country. Of course, after many hours of it, you become less enthralled and more concerned that you’ve been driving in circles…. There’s a lot of it and it all looks very similar. If you go far enough down 220 (the only path to and through Hot Springs) though, the little two-lane road eventually runs smack into a huge, ornate, mansion-type building. This is the one major attraction Bath county has to offer: The Homestead. It’s a resort, nestled high in the Blue Ridge mountains, where you can go to get away from it all — if you can afford it. Based on the number of Land Rovers I’ve seen zipping about and the number of ladies I’ve seen walking around in fur coats, it’s a bit pricey.
The Homestead is where almost everyone who lives in Hot Springs works. Steph’s step-grandad, Mac, works there as a cook.
The scene when you come over the mountain and first see this behemoth really sticks in your mind. This is why I recognized a snapshot of it in a box of photos that my family received after they’d been cleaned out of my grandma’s house. I didn’t understand why grandma had this picture, since she’s been a resident of Michigan all her life, but it turns out it was from she and my grandpa’s honeymoon! They went to The Homestead! (Steph’s mom and step dad Larry came up to The Homestead for their honeymoon, too, though they were still living in North Carolina at that time!) And, get this, my dad was born nine months after my grandparent’s honeymoon, so when I go to visit my in-laws I could be in the very town where he was conceived!
I’m sorry, but when we’re all finally in the same room I’m going to suggest we lock arms and sing a rousing chorus of “It’s a Small World After All.”
I’ll be singing the loudest. After the crazy trips I’ve had to that town, I’m just happy to still be alive.
Tags: Car, Family, Travel - No Comments »
