Exploring the Southern Appalachians.

Aw $*@#! The bike’s first scratch. Thinking that glamping might be fun, my buddy Gary and I were following a narrow road that wound through steep forests deep into West Virginia. Laneways descended at impossible angles and when my GPS led us to the wrong property, we faced railway-style gravel, loose and freshly laid. It was a little hair-raising. And not entirely successful. I lost traction and dropped my new Suzuki GSX-S1000 GX — not the best way to start a test ride. Nevertheless, after a few deep breaths, we got Gigi righted, dusted her off, and found our glamping bell tent, complete with minifridge, barbecue, hot tub, and s’mores. I began to feel better. Propping the GX and Gary’s 2012 BMW R1200 RT at the bottom of the hill, we sat on the deck listening to cricket song as the night sky emerged like a real-world planetarium.

Morning was cool and clear as we found the old road into New River Gorge. Tight corners and switchbacks descended more than 275 metres to a single-lane bridge that for more than a century had been the only way across the river into remote wilderness. Once we had climbed the other side of the canyon, we leapt into the present day and raced over the new New River Gorge Bridge that stretched almost a kilometre across the dizzying chasm. When it was built in 1977, it was the longest single-span bridge in the Western Hemisphere and the third highest in the United States. Its construction transformed an arduous 45-minute journey into a breeze of 45 seconds, and has itself become an attraction with an annual Bridge Day that includes BASE jumping, bridge climbing, and guided walking tours.

BEWARE THE RATTLESNAKES

Farther up the river, we made a second descent, past abandoned coal company houses almost completely reclaimed by nature. A few stone chimneys and the odd plank were all that remained. We also poked around behind a derelict Baptist church where a mining memorial told of the 1915 explosion and fire that killed 112 men. Another 42 survived by building a barricade a mile into the shaft and waiting for rescue.

 “Yuh could push through the brush to see what’s left of the entry,” a friendly neighbour offered, “but I wouldn’t … rattlesnakes is bad this year.”  

Duly dissuaded, we turned west. Winding tarmac soon led us out of the gorge through Oceana and Man and countless other tiny valley towns squeezed between the mountains into long, narrow settlements. The farther we moved south and west, the poorer the dwellings appeared, some so dilapidated that it was hard to tell which were still inhabited. 

In the obscure village of Dingess — a name that just made us laugh (“You Dingess!”) — we rode through…