The Shenandoah Valley has become an
eclectic mix of history and industry, heritage
and hip, traditional and commercial, as
rural, small-town ways of life find ways to
survive in the 21st century. Valley native
Cara Ellen Modisett ventured out to explore the
nooks and crannies of the Shenandoah and
discovered that the old valley is living still
– in battlefields memorialized along
heritage trails, in Victorian homes
resurrected as bed and breakfasts,
along small-town Main Streets
busy with coffee shops, gift
shops and bookstores.
The screen doors
are tall and painted green, and they look
as old as the building whose front porch
sits a matter of feet away from Va. 623.
This has been a store since 1860. It’s the
sort of place where there should be a
dog snoozing somewhere underfoot.
Look east and the countryside
stretches into the interior of the valley – distant silos, fence rails, red-roofed barns.
Look west and the mountains begin, a wall of ridges marching north to south, parallel with the road.
Everywhere in the
Shenandoah Valley the land is like this.
I love the north-south roads, the ones
that made history. There’s U.S. 11, the
valley’s first highway, where old hotels
and restaurants and quirky attractions
still linger, products of a time when family
vacations involved driving to see
grandparents rather than cruises in the
tropics.
There’s the Blue Ridge Parkway,
winding along the ridges of the mountains
from the North Carolina line until
it meets the Skyline Drive, which traces
a line through Shenandoah National
Park from Afton to Front Royal.
There’s the Appalachian Trail, sometimes
paralleling the parkway, sometimes
going its own way here near the
midpoint between Georgia and Maine.
There’s the Norfolk Southern railroad,
along which towns lived and faded with
the coming and going of steam. There’s
the Shenandoah River itself, which
flows 150 miles to Harpers Ferry in
West Virginia.
But even more mysterious are the
roads that wind off those north-south
routes. For wandering, I take Virginia
and West Virginia road maps to get my
general bearings, and gazetteers to fill
in the gaps – the tiny crossroads and
creeks and communities too small for
the VDOT (and WVDOT) versions.
And then I drive. Every side road
ends up in another hollow, at another family cemetery, another peaceful farm
or hidden creek or soaring view or
falling-down farmhouse.
As I step inside Baker’s Store in Mt. Olive, the first thing
that greets me is the smoky vanilla smell
of pipe tobacco. Old shelves line the
walls, selling groceries and gifts. The
hardwood floor is uneven and worn by years and many feet. It could almost be 1860.
But there’s the tall wine rack at the
front of the store, with handwritten
signs pointing out the Virginia bottles.
And there are the antiques advertised
in the back of the store – a mix of
dusty badminton rackets, dishes, suitcases
and Spanish editions of children’s
books.
In between those two, however, is
the real thing. Not just the groceries on
the ceiling-high shelves, but the folks
gathered around a vintage red table that
reminds me of the one my grandmother
had in her kitchen. This is the origin of
the warm vanilla smell: Carl Ritenour is
sitting with pipe in mouth, reading the
newspaper.
He sits with his wife, retired registered
nurse JoAnn Ritenour, and Anna
Sager, who works in the store. Three
more men arrive wearing work clothes.
They sit at the table, one with a bowl of
what looks like chicken noodle soup.
“These men are farmers,” says Carl,
who turns out to have a wonderfully dry
sense of humor. “They come in to
spread their manure.”
This draws a burst of complaints, but
good-natured ones.
I pick up a paper and a book, and we
talk for a good 20 minutes, trading
names of family members, churches,
streets. We’ve lived in some of the same
places, know some of the same neighborhoods.
We talk about the war in
Iraq, about politics and racism.
The sun’s still bright when I leave,
feeling a little like extended family.
The valley is where
I grew up, where my parents and grandparents
and others back another five
generations grew up. It’s where I spent
a childhood of Sundays navigating cattleguards,
chasing barn cats and singing
hymns in a century-old church where
my mother plays the organ and my great
uncle was in charge of the cemetery
plots.
On this journey, some 20 years after
I last chased barn cats, I drive one
morning out Port Republic Road, from
my hometown of Harrisonburg, heading
east and north.
The Virginia Civil War Trails meander
through much of this region, tracing
the marches of Jackson, Lee, Sheridan
and others. The Carrington
Williams Interpretive Site marks Cross
Keys Battlefield, a quiet expanse of field
where 684 Federal troops and 288 Confederate
troops were killed or wounded
nearly a century and a half ago.
That’s what’s striking about these
battlefields – the quiet. Across the road,
two children play, accompanied by two
cats, a rooster and a sleepy dog. The only other sound is the occasional
whoosh of a car passing by. It’s hard to
imagine violence once happening here.
There are threads
that run through the valley. The Civil
War is one, with battlefields scattered
from north to south. The railroad is
another, and in almost every town I stop
in I can hear the trains clatter and
squeal on the tracks.
Driving on, I head through Port
Republic, then on U.S. 340 to Elkton
and Shenandoah and Luray.
The town of Shenandoah, my mother
remembers, was thriving in the 1950s,
when the steam trains came through for
repairs, loading and unloading when she
came here as a teenager with friends to
see movies.
Today, the town is quiet, but not as
quiet as it was the last time I drove
through. The boarded-up storefronts
along the railroad have new facades and
signs promising new businesses. The old
train depot is bright with paint, and
what was once a gutted, falling-down
warehouse now has new framing going
up. The trains clatter by. Shenandoah is
waking up.
On to and through Luray, home to the Luray Caverns, the
Luray Singing Tower and a charming
main street of antiques, books and cafés, I climb Va. 675 up and over Massanutten Mountain.
I’m eye-to-eye with the tops of the
peaks. Over the side of the road I can
look down and see the Shenandoah
River far below, broad and reflective
and beautiful. It’s a bit like entering
another world, as the road curls on around the mountain and into the woods.
I pass Camp Roosevelt Recreation Area, Caroline Furnace Lutheran Camp, Fort Valley Stables, Town of Kings Crossing, population 39. A man
in a white beard and pickup truck raises
one index finger, the low-key greeting
of Shenandoah Valley drivers.
A right on Va. 678, national forest
closes in, and I’m in Fort Valley – a perfect
place for outdoors folks. Stone
ledges and giant boulders are visible
from the road; here is Passage Creek
Day Usage Area, Elizabeth Furnace
Campground, Massanutten and Tuscarora
Falls trails, Signal Knob. Off the
road, a fly fisherman stands knee-deep
in water in a stream.
Then I’m in Warren County and out
of the forest, and the spell lifts.
Past Front Royal,
the valley’s German and Scotch-Irish
heritage gives over to English settlement,
especially obvious in West Virginia communities such as Berkeley Springs.
One of my favorite corners is a trio
of Virginia towns – White Post, Millwood
and Boyce. Stone houses and
walls, giant old houses and ancient-looking
trees make this landscape almost
European.
The West Virginia line is not far ahead, and it’s 10 miles to Harpers Ferry, 20 miles to Martinsburg.
I have spent enjoyable hours in Martinsburg
and Berkeley Springs – a great
small town with eclectic arts community,
grand old hotel, kitschy attractions, the country’s first national park and one
of my all-time favorite restaurants/night
spots, Tari’s.
But I have never been to Harpers
Ferry, so I head there.
I haven’t made a reservation and it’s
nearly 5 p.m. I take a random left onto
Ridge Road, having seen signs for the
“Hill Top House Hotel.” After maybe a
block, I take a closer look to my left,
through back yards, and realize why it’s
called Ridge Road – we are high up,
hundreds of feet high up, and looking
down on the river – it’s astounding.
Below Hill Top House, the Shenandoah
and Potomac rivers come together.
The railroad goes into the mountain. All
I can hear is the rush of the water far below, between the peaks, and the occasional wail of the trains.
Inside, the hotel is cozy, charming on
the edge of shabby. It was built in 1888,
and boasts guests from Mark Twain to
Bill Clinton. There are wandering halls
and doors that look slightly crooked on
their hinges because of the slant of the
floors. The restaurant looks over the
river, and the service is slow but
friendly. My room is small, furnished
with a quilt, no television, an art deco reminiscent bathroom and an approximately four-inch deep closet.
I love it.
The next morning, I explore historic Harpers Ferry, a collection of small
museums, shops and a walking trail past
the river and railroad. I happen across
the headquarters to the Appalachian
Trail Conference by chance and spend some hours with the folks there. I never get to the national historic park.
I’ve mapped out
an obscure sequence of roads to get me
back into Virginia, following U.S. 340
south through Charles Town, then W.Va. 51 west through Middleway,
Inwood and Gerrardstown – a small,
pretty place.
I’ve missed the turnoff I meant to
take – W.Va. 739 – but I follow 51 up
the mountain to where it intersects
with W.Va. 45. I stop, deliberate, study
the map, take the plunge and turn left.
Glengary, the next town, is three miles.
I descend, ears popping the whole way.
Conveniently, the Siler Country
Store is located right at the intersection
in question. It’s been here since 1892
and is now owned by Richard Kerns. He
sells everything from Advil and Kleenex
to hot chocolate and bananas.
Kerns sets me on the right track, and
I continue to Winchester, home of
beautiful architecture, a walkable downtown
mall with shops and restaurants
and of course more Civil War history.
I wish I had more time to stop: I pass
by Wayside Theatre, Cedar Creek Battlefield
and Belle Grove Plantation.
Strasburg, south on U.S. 11, is home of
the historic Hotel Strasburg and a giant
antiques emporium, plus Hupps Hill
battlefield and caverns.
I take Va. 55 west from Strasburg and
a left on Va. 623, which takes me
through Mt. Olive and to Baker’s Store.
At Columbia Furnace, bear right on
Va. 675, a confusing intersection, and
head downhill, then cross Va. 42, following
675 to Edinburg.
Edinburg and New Market both
make for pleasant strolls, with their history
and shopping and quaint Main
Streets. New Market is home to the
New Market Battlefield and two of my
favorite stops – Paper Treasures bookstore, a long-standing business, and the
Southern Kitchen Restaurant, a true
step back in time.
From New Market to Harrisonburg
is the end of my three-day journey, but
only a fraction of the roads, historic
sites and towns left to explore.
If I continue on Route 11 I would be
back in the southern valley – great spots
including the Virginia Artisans Center
in Waynesboro, the historic rail district
of Staunton, Natural Bridge and its
neighboring museums and attractions,
Lexington’s arts community and picturesque
college campuses, beautiful
hiking at the Roaring Run Falls in Botetourt
County, Buchanan’s Main Street
on the banks of the James River.
Further west are Allegany and Highland
counties, half hidden in the
foothills, home to annual festivals of
maple syrup and bluegrass.
The southern terminus of the valley
is at Roanoke, Star City of the South,
the largest metropolitan area on the
Blue Ridge Parkway and home to museums,
restaurants, railroad history and
the only museum in the world devoted
to the photography of O. Winston Link
– it opened in 2004 in what was formerly
a N&W passenger station, renovated
in the 1930s by industrial designer
Raymond Loewy.
Beyond that, the valley finally ends and the mountain highlands begin.
