I woke up early in the Cracker Barrel parking lot and decided to get on the road.  By 4 a.m., I was on I-81 south intending to exit west into the mountains near Staunton, Virginia. But as the old Bert & I story goes, “presently we were locked in a dungeon of fog.” The few people on the road were all passing me. I limped to my exit looking for a place to wait it out, but before I found one the fog was gone.

So we started on our way toward to Monterey, Virginia, which is tucked away in the northwest corner of the state — Highland County. The stressful fog was gone but I started to climb into equally stressful switchbacks that rose in the dark toward the Shenandoah Pass. Speed limits were often posted at an excessive 15 mph.

I once again started looking for a suitable spot to wait until it was light, but it didn’t come until the summit where there was a scenic lookout.  I pulled over and it was dark like I haven’t seen since my days in the middle of the ocean.  A million stars as Dolly and I took a quick stroll. Back to bed for some additional stress free sleep.

  I got up for the second time as it was getting light and checked out what I hadn’t seen in the dark. The turnout was at the site of Fort Edward Johnson, who, with Confederate troops, built a defense to protect Staunton from the northern army approaching from the west. After a long winter they abandoned the fort to the Yanks, who quickly gave it back with better prospects elsewhere.

  Looking west, the sun was rising behind me and ridge after ridge of mountains lay in front of me.  The sun lit up them up one at a time. Below the illuminated ridges the mountains still lay in shadow and the valleys below were flooded with fog.

It was spectacular. I realized how hard it would be to draw because each value was so close to the next and it was constantly changing with shifting  shadows and the sun in and out of theclouds, but I thought I ought to give it a try. If nothing else I’d have a tangible link to this very cool morning.

It turned out to be just as hard as I expected, but I got it down on paper and then Dolly and I started down the other side toward Monterey. The road down turned out to be as full of twists and turns as the way up, but it was light.

We reached Monterey looking for a diner and found Claire’s Cakes & Cafe in a log cabin — a fairly chi chi little log cabin for a town without cell service. How did they find out about lattes? I had a nice chunk of coffee cake and a small black coffee, Dolly had another walk, and then we headed down the valley formed by the Jackson River.

It was like Shangri-La. Pastures of black cattle, sheep, even the occasional donkey.  Waterfalls. I was overloaded with suitable drawing sites so I kept going south occasionally poking off the main road up one little side valley or another. There must have been speckled trout in the river because there were signs “no fishing from the bridge” on the one lane bridges.

 I finally decided to stop and draw. I was off the main road in one of the tributary dales.

After a couple of hours a white pickup stopped to check out what I was doing. I showed him the drawing. He said he had noticed me on his way to church earlier and saw the plates were from Maine and asked how I had found the place. I told him that I found it quite beautiful, before he clarified that he wanted to know how I happened to end up here. So, I gave him a little more of the story and he finally drove on.

But, he was back about 15 minutes later and started by saying how he was just full of questions. He was.

So we talked some more and he told me the cows in the pasture in front of me were his and his daughters and he ran this farm for the woman who owned it and who lived down the road in a big stone house. 

Next he decided he had to give me something. Asked about how much cooking I did on the road. Did I want some eggs or a chicken? I told him I’d pass. Then he asked me if I drank and I said I drank a little and he asked if I’d like a quart of moonshine.  Who would refuse an offer like that?

Back in his truck and he was gone down the road again.  Ten minutes later he pulled up beside me again and got out.  I got out and we introduced ourselves.

It was a very narrow road so we had it completely blocked and while we chatted the first two other cars in the last two hours pulled up behind him. He said the first car was his cousin, a state trooper, and the one behind him was the sheriff. He said they were both good boys, but I was glad we weren’t standing there having a taste.

He chatted with them briefly and then moved his truck out of the way to let them pass.  When they were gone he brought me a quart of clear liquid in a mason jar and a pint jar of pickled beets.

He told me it was called Gramercy Farm and I wrote the name under the drawing, signed it, and gave it to him.  He said he’d get it framed. 

  He’s planning to retire in about a year and Maine’s one of the two places he wants to go — eat a lobster and then see Niagara Falls.