* * Roger O’Quinn engineered mining equipment

There are no occupations I find more intriguing than coal mining. The industry has a long history throughout southwest Virginia, eastern Kentucky, and most of West Virginia. Roger O’Quinn of Blacksburg is a retired engineer, having spent much of his life designing mining equipment.

Roger grew up surrounded by miners. “My house was in Buchanan County, near Haysi, but you could see the Dickenson County sign from my front yard.” Aptitude tests pointed him towards engineering, where he earned a degree in Mechanical Engineering from Virginia Tech, just like me!

He worked for several different companies, but often not leaving his same desk, as employers through mergers and acquisitions frequently changed. He spent much of his time working on massive earth-gobbling machines called continuous miners. He brought a photo to our conversation.

The business end of the machine has a horizontal drum, perhaps 10-feet wide and three feet in diameter, festooned with sockets where carbide tipped “teeth” are implanted, perhaps 100 overall. The drum rotates, powered by two 250-hp motors, clawing coal from the seam. A hose carries water that is sprayed continuously to keep the dust at a minimum. Below is a tray that looks like a dust-pan, equipped with starfish-like paddles that move the coal towards a conveyer that carries it to the aft of the machine. From there, it is loaded onto carts where it is carried to the loading end of a long, rubber-belt conveyer to the exterior of the mine. Many continuous miners use 1000 Volt motors, and may consume thousands of dollars of electricity monthly.

The continuous miner is operated by a remote, radio-controlled panel that the operator carries with him. “The reason for that is to allow him some distance from the noise, water spray, and airborne particulate that the cutting generates and so he can stay under supported roof when the miner advances past the roof bolts.”

Roger said his father and uncle worked in the mine. “I’m a big guy,” he admitted, “about 6-feet 3-inches. Dad was a little under 6-feet, but he was working in mines 30 to 40-inches tall. So he’d work for hours, either walking stooped over, duck-walking, or crawling. I didn’t work in the mines myself, but I visited the mines often.

“People often don’t understand how technical coal mining is these days. They envision dirty old guys carrying picks and shovels. It’s not like that any more. The equipment is complex and sophisticated. The guys need lots of education and technical training, in addition to training in safety. Obviously, nobody wants to get hurt. For the mining companies, they want workers to be safe, but it’s more than altruistic. When somebody gets killed, the regulators shut down the mine to do their investigations. So there is no production.”

Roger was well aware of the controversies these days over the burning of coal, and recognized that someday it will need to be superseded by other energy sources. “I like my house to be heated in the winter and cooled in the summer. I like having my computer and television. These things require electricity. I read a study recently where an engineer calculated how many new nuclear plants, new windmills, square-feet of solar panels, and the like, would need to be deployed to replace the coal generation we have now. It’s enormous.”

We talked about global warming as well and the impact of coal mining on atmospheric carbon generation. “Here in the United States, our power plants have done a good job of reducing the particulate and sulfur oxide emission. We’ve done less well at controlling mercury emission. And of course carbon emission is contributing to global warming. But China is consuming six times the coal we are, and we’re second place. Their plants are much dirtier than ours. I’ve been to China. When I was in Beijing, I never saw the sun. It was completely blocked by atmospheric pollution. I only saw the sun when I went to the countryside. And China is building several new plants every week. I’m glad here in the States we have more restrictions on pollution.”

In spite of China’s rapid growth, Americans consume almost seven times as much electricity per person as China. India is also rapidly emerging as a consumer of coal. And we talked about many other issues associated with coal mining, delivery, use, and disposal, including the recent uptick in new cases of Black Lung disease, coal ash storage, gob (liquid waste material, including clay, shale, and other non-burnable materials) storage and remediation.

“Coal has a lot of problems,” Roger admitted, “but it isn’t going away soon. People should know of the enormous contribution coal has made to our economy and lifestyle. The benefits have outweighed the downsides.”

* * Miles of pain on the AT

Let me set the scene for you. I was half-way up a 4000 foot mountain just northwest of Lake Watauga on the Appalachian Trail and I was slumped over my trekking poles, gasping for air. The forest was redolent with the sweet fragrance of wildflowers and there was nary a waft to ruffle the leaves of the trees. The air was stiflingly hot and wickedly humid. I was miserable in more ways than I could count; my feet were screaming, my shoulders and lower back were crying, and my hips felt like the sockets had collapsed. Would I ever reach the top?

I enjoy the out of doors and take frequent day hikes on our area trails. Once a year or so, I schedule a more extensive backpacking trip, often with my old friend “Retro” (his trail name) and often on the Appalachian Trail. We’ve been doing this off and on for decades.

I have come to expect some discomfort; it goes with the territory. Carrying 35 pounds or so of equipment over mountains is inherently strenuous and no training can replicate the activity other than the activity itself. Plus, it involves sleeping on the ground (or on a wooden-floor hut). And then there are the inevitable insect bites, which come fast and furious regardless of the precautions.

But this was a level of magnitude greater than usual. I was in abject agony! Is a whiff of cooling breeze too much to ask?

Retro won the genetic lottery, as hiking goes. While I’m short and wide, he’s tall, lithe, and lean and although a few years older than me, he hikes with ease. It is maddening.

I’ve never done well in the heat. Physical exertion on hot, muggy days destroys me. As I’ve gotten older, it’s gotten worse. But new aging problems were making themselves known.

In the last couple of years, my feet have essentially collapsed. I have almost no arch any more. My first metatarsal on both feet has migrated outward from my feet and bunions have formed. As they say, “the knee bone is connected to the thigh bone,” and thus the misalignment so caused has put more stress up my legs to my knees and hips.

I had been having trouble with my old boots for some time. With the re-shaping of my feet, I had outgrown them. So I bought a new pair. On the day-hike to break them in, I developed a blister. I exchanged the boots but the blister remained.

Beyond that, almost thirty years ago, I had micro-disk surgery on my lower back. Again, under normal circumstances I’m essentially pain-free. But the stress of the weight on my back was agonizing.

Retro wasn’t climbing much faster than I was, but he didn’t have to stop every 50 yards to take a break. So onward he went (mostly I think to avoid hearing my complaints). Finally, after what seemed like an interminable and excruciatingly painful march, I reached the top. The trail got easier but my pain barely subsided.

When the trail went downhill, my blister screamed out. When I went uphill, everything screamed out.

We were on the ridgeline, so there were no sources of water. Finally, the trail dropped into a little ravine that had a small trickle of a spring. We re-filled our water containers and began hiking uphill again. Back at the crest of the mountain, I found a nice camp spot where we stayed the first night, accompanied by one of the many thru-hikers, headed to Maine.

The next day was marginally cooler, so I felt better. But still, every step was painful. We camped the second night at one of the AT three-sided shelters, avoiding a brisk thunderstorm that lasted from 4:30 p.m. until dark. All the while, hikers arrived. Several stayed and others pressed on. None bothered with a raincoat; they simply got soaking wet. Their tolerance for pain was amazing.

Overnight, I made a couple of trips into the woods to pee, and I could barely walk, my hip hurt so badly.

At that point, we had done about 15 miles of a planned 40 mile trip, but when we came to the first crossing of a paved road four miles later, I convinced Retro that we should bail. We hitchhiked back to his car and went home.

Now I’m wondering if my backpacking days are over. Foot surgery is notoriously complex. I’m told that a hip replacement patient is on is feet in two days, but bunion surgery keeps you off your feet for weeks… and I need both feet done. And results are not guaranteed.

As I type this essay, I’m constantly scratching my insect bites.

The allure of the wild is still strong, but I’ll happily avoid that level of pain ever again, if I can.

* * Trail Magic

Trail magic.

It’s what hikers call the random, unprovoked acts of kindness that spontaneously happen as the weeks turn into months on the long walk from Georgia to Maine. Several days ago, at a little dirt parking lot on Craig Creek Road, I attended a feast of monumental proportions and astounding delectability, where several local people fed a free gourmet meal to more than 40 hikers.

Increasing numbers every year take on the challenge of hiking the entirety of the Appalachian Trail from Springer Mountain in north Georgia to Mt. Katahdin in Maine. It’s a grueling physical challenge that takes several months, typically four to six. Most meals on the trail are simple, quickly prepared, and light in weight. Fresh food is particularly hard to come by. So a good, fresh, fulfilling meal is a special treat.

Lots of people who live near the trail have taken it upon themselves, for a variety of personal reasons, to do something special for the hikers. It’s common now to find coolers filled with sodas or sandwiches near trailheads. But this event was entirely grander.

As they sat in plastic chairs chowing down, I spoke with several of the hikers to get their impressions of the endeavor and the day’s event. All hikers adapt trail names, masking their real names.

“Geared Up” is from Portland, Oregon. He’s about 5’7” tall, about 170 pounds, having lost 30 pounds since he started. He has dark hair and a thick beard that “I just trimmed to look more human and less like a mountain animal. For the past three years, he’s been constantly adventuring. He’s made a reputation for himself in that he seldom consumes more than 500 calories daily. Most adults burn upwards of 2000 calories, over 3000 if extremely active. He had been hiking since February, starting well south in Florida. “I seldom get going until 9:00 am. I eat some cereal. I take a short break around 2:00 pm and I eat a snack. I don’t eat much. I keep walking until nightfall.” Geared Up sleeps in a hammock under a tarp, eschewing the shelters unless the weather is bad. “Virginia is great. It’s one of my favorite states.”

I talked with “Hot Sauce,” too, who was spooning steaming lasagna and beer-bread into his mouth. He’s from Michigan and has been on the trail since March 10. “It’s been everything I expected and much more. I’m in love with what I’m doing out here. I couldn’t think of doing anything else right now.” He had worked for a construction company for fifteen years and wasn’t getting ahead. He went back to college and got a degree in web design. Unsatisfied and unappreciated, he got antsy. He saw a National Geographic documentary about the Trail and decided to do it. His father died of cancer on March 10, six years earlier. He was walking for his father. “When I started, I was a 40 year old couch potato. I’m 5’10” and I went from 195 to 170, so far. I feel great.

“The people are great,” he continued. “We have a common goal. We pitch in to help each other. It’s a lot more of a social experience than I expected. I was seeking peace and quiet, and you can find it. But I’ve loved traveling with people and meeting them.”

I spoke with one of the organizers, named “Lizard.” She told me, “It’s all free. It’s about honoring what they’re doing. We believe they’re on a journey that will change them and hence change the world. They will pay it forward.”

Hikers continued to arrive. Some told me they sped up or slowed down the prior week to arrive on time.

Another organizer made a public address announcement, explaining their motivation. “We think what you’re doing is extraordinary. You are taking yourselves out of the everyday, mundane world. Nothing is repeated. You don’t go to bed in the same way or the same place. You talk with strangers. You allow people to help you. You see things that people in the car never see. When you do this, you can’t help but figure out more about yourself, and learn and grow. You get deeper and wiser. You deal with your imperfections and those of others. You help make the world better. We feel it is our moral obligation to help you on your journey. For us, it is natural.”

For the rest of their lives, those hikers will talk about Virginia, the lovely landscapes, the awesome views, the endless forests, but more than that, they'll be talking about the friendliness and unparalleled generosity and about the people who provide an amazing meal for free, just to make the world better.

Let’s all do something magic, something a stranger will never forget.

* * Celebrating our Tradition Keepers

We try to do some good things in our lives, things people will appreciate. Things that are win-win; they’re good for us, good for others. I’ve had a few moments like that in my life. But I can never recall doing anything that made SO many people SO happy as with my new project, Keepers of the Tradition.

Here’s how it came about.

In November 2013, I lost the only election I ever contested, a race for the Virginia House of Delegates. I have a dear friend, Leslie Roberts Gregg who was concerned about my possible letdown. Leslie is as thoughtful and empathic as anybody I’ve ever met, and she called to tell me she was concerned. She had called my wife to inquire about my mental state. Jane said, “He’s fine, but he needs a project.”

Thinking about it, she realized she’d long wanted to paint some of the area’s matriarchs and patriarchs. Ya see, she’s a professional portrait artist, and had made her living for a generation with commissioned works. Within 20 minutes we’d decided to work together on chronicling an assortment of these folks. The name generated spontaneously, as did a handful of potential subjects. From that seed, we reached a deal. We would track down people throughout the area and ask them to participate. We’d look for quilters, herbalists, luthiers, and moonshiners. I’d interview them and write their stories. Leslie would paint them. The “deliverables” would be a collection of portraits and a book that featured them. We hammered out the financial arrangements and got started, hoping we’d find enough receptive people. Oh, we did!

The first person we asked was Floyd County’s Jason Rutledge. Jason is a restorative forester – a nationally renowned silviculturalist who raises magnificent Suffolk Punch draft horses that he uses to drag cut tree trunks from the forest. We met at his barn on a wicked cold winter day in late December and got to work.

His story was fascinating, expertly told, with a surprising brilliance. I wrote up what I’d heard, sent it for his concurrence, and waited for Leslie’s portrait.

“Okay,” she said. “You can come see it.”

Not letting me see her work until finished, she drew a cover over his visage in pastels, and I was pleasantly flabbergasted! “When he sees this, he’ll wet his pants,” I quipped. It was a magnificent; far superior to any of her earlier work I’d ever seen. Jason’s image stared at me, a hand hanging languidly behind him to some tack hanging on a barn peg. The coloration was perfect, the face lighter and bolder than the background. I instantly realized that while my stories would be important, Leslie was the superstar.

On we went. We met Jimmie Price of Prices Fork whose family dates back to the mid-1700s. Jimmie told us about the family business that for 210 years carved buhrstone from the southern slope of Brush Mountain and chiseled it into millstones. Jimmie has taken it upon himself to keep that fascinating legacy alive.

Arthur Conner is a nonagenarian who taught himself how to make exquisite violins in his retirement years. A man with a 7^th grade education, he mastered the complex mathematics of turning pieces of wood into a priceless instruments.

Our efforts were reinforced by the words of appreciation we heard. Each person, in his or her own way, spoke about how pleased they were to be included.

My work took less time per person than Leslie’s. I was enthralled, motivated to have done twenty people, but Leslie was spending fifty to sixty hours per portrait. By the time we’d done eight or nine, she and I compromised on a dozen.

Jane and I had acquired Pocahontas Press when the founder died a few years earlier, and we decided to eschew the big publishing houses and publish Keepers of the Tradition ourselves. We found a printer, digitized the portraits, designed and typeset the book, and placed our order. Meanwhile, we scheduled the unveiling at the Alexander Black House in Blacksburg on April 26^th. We invited our “Keepers” and their friends. We hung, and then draped the portraits. The books arrived. Excitement built.

Bear in mind that none of them had seen their portrait. Each Keeper would see his or hers with everyone else.

The day came. I expected a big crowd, but NOTHING like what happened! One by one, I announced the names while Leslie worked with each Keeper to pull the drapes. Eyes moistened. Friends and family members hugged. When the last one was unveiled, I showed the book. People streamed to the sales table for their copy and brought them back to the Keepers for signatures.

Two weeks later, Leslie and I are still floating in the clouds, reveling in the appreciation of our Keepers. I hope never to come down.

* * When a confrontation goes angry

I had an interesting e-conversation the other day with a complete stranger, a young woman from Brooklyn, New York, who I’ve never met, named Marisha Camp. You may have read about her; much to her consternation she’s been all over the news lately.

Marisha is a young, free-spirited soul, a vagabond, an adventurer, a student of the human condition. She’s a talented photographer. She and her brother Jesse were on a lengthy road trip recently when they encountered enough hostility to fear for their lives and on the front pages of local newspapers. I took more than a passing interest because the incident took place not five miles from War, West Virginia, where one of my novels was set.

(Note, these days you can find almost anybody on the Internet. Try it!)

(Note, the internet can also spread a story like wildfire.)

I took it upon myself to reach out to Marisha. When I wrote, she quickly replied with this response: “Had we merely had a weird incident in a parking lot, it would have ended there. But Adkins posted photos of our car and license plate on Facebook, along with cryptic comments about protecting children. So we wake up one morning and these posts are getting 200 shares and people are commenting about every place they've seen us, some of it true, some not, and there are these crazy stories about us chasing children out of parks...”

So here’s what happened. Marisha and Jesse were traveling around in his car, with Massachusetts license plates, seeing and photographing their way across the country. Admittedly, they weren’t minding their own business. They were openly friendly, engaging men, women and children in conversation and often taking their photos. But they were certainly not out to hurt anybody.

McDowell County, West Virginia, is by far the poorest county in the third poorest state in the nation, the most destitute of the destitute. From a zenith of 99,000 people in the 1950 census (more than Montgomery County has now), it has shrank to around 21,000. It is likely the largest non-disaster related diaspora America has ever seen. Nowhere has there been a greater boom, then subsequent bust, tied to the fortunes of coal mining, than the War area. It’s where assistance program, both public and private, go to die. It’s a gold mine for a novelist, but often hell for passers-by.

Marisha and Jesse stopped and spoke with some teenage boys who were playing outside, hitting each other with sticks. They didn’t even take photos of them. They drove a few miles up the road and stopped at a convenience store. While inside, a woman, the aforementioned “Adkins,” apparently a mother of one of the boys, parked her van so as to completely trap them. Twenty minutes of loud, angry, and accusatory confrontation ensued until they were finally “rescued” by a state trooper who roundly scolded them before allowing them to drive away.

Marisha wrote to me, “We were terrified. We'd spent maybe three minutes in (the prior town), in great part because the only adult we found to talk to did not want to appear on camera. So all of this was caused by Jesse asking some boys whether they were having a stick fight. A five second encounter. We didn’t have a long conversation or photograph them. The world has become a very dark place when either of these things causes a world of fear...”

Ms. Jennifer Adkins, the aforementioned woman who cornered them, took it upon herself to say nasty things on-line, posting their license plate and sinister accusations, and calling the act of taking a photo an act of aggression. Seriously!

Yes, there are child molesters out there and there are pedophiles. But most child tormentors are familiar to the victims. The Camps got portrayed as cultural strip-miners, so to speak. And the locals got portrayed as mob-like vigilantes. Nobody came out looking good.

Again, Marisha, “The internet turned what could have been just a weird and bad encounter in a parking lot into this nightmare that won’t end – people are still writing awful things about West Virginia and calling me ‘prissy’ and Jesse much worse. People were writing, ‘shoot first, ask questions later.’ It shook our foundation of safety, not naively overestimated in the first place, and then the whole world feels like they have to offer a critique of your behavior when you felt so vulnerable.

“I can’t tell you how much I wish none of this had happened.”

Me, too.

I do lots of similar travel, meeting and talking to lots of strangers. I try to conduct myself civilly but I’m opinionated and I’m sure I’ve ruffled some feathers. But do we have to be so suspicious of strangers?