Biker’s Orgy
by Charlie Carroll
Several years ago in the spring I was beginning a long weekend with no plans in particular. On the spur of the moment I decided to take a trip to Tucker County in Northeastern West Virginia, a beautiful rugged mountainous region rich in lush forests, laurel thickets and mountain streams. In times past, my trips to this area have always taken a familiar course traveling the back roads, hiking, forest trails and fire brakes, always searching for fire towers to climb and new places to perch. During this trip, my son and father accompanied me, both being at opposite ends of the age spectrum with me almost in the middle. Arriving at the entrance of Blackwater Falls State Park in the early evening I noticed the traffic on the main highway was becoming heavy.
Knowing the lodge was full we decided to stay at the Pendletonheim Apartments (fake-o alpine-ish name) a cost-effective alternative to most lodging in the area–really just a place for skiers to crash and party. My father, always being one to assign nicknames to places he is not completely satisfied with, named our weekend lodging The Haystack Condo because of the steep ladder to the loft.
Actually, we were very lucky to have found a place to stay. All but two apartments had been taken. This seemed a little unusual to me at the time.
The eating establishments in the area are a disappointment to say the least. It is necessary do drive twelve miles to Canaan Valley Lodge or to the Oriskany Inn, two decent places by local standards. We opted to pack a large cooler, cheap and portable. Being tired and wanting an early start in the morning, we decided to hang out at the Haystack and watch MTV, this being the equivalent of cultural slumming for us, since we don t have cable TV at home.
As the evening progressed, I noticed the sounds outside from traffic, people, motorcycles and the surrounding apartments seemed to be getting louder. I remember thinking that this place must have become more popular than I’d remembered it.
Friday morning we awoke rested. My son and I had made plans to make a forty mile bicycle ride from Blackwater Falls across Route 33 to Stony River Dam, then to the town of Scherr at the bottom of the Allegheny front. From there.,we would turn south on Route 42 to Maysville. Under most circumstances this would be an easy pleasant ride.
My father agreed to follow us in the car. As we left we noticed a large number of cars and trucks towing motorcycles and four-wheeler trailers as we turned onto Rt 33. We could see campsites on both sides of the highway as far as it s possible to see. Lots of people but no big deal.
After our ride and a side trip to Dolly Sods, we drove further north-east to Romney and ate a wonderful home cooked meal at the Pioneer Restaurant. Returning the same way we came, we drove back up the Allegheny front in the late evening. When you get on top, the terrain changes to a plateau rising gently westward. It’s approximately twenty miles across the plateau from the dam back to the Davis Strip mines, which, active and inactive, occupy both sides of Rt 33 across the top, a real boon for mountain bikes and all-terrain vehicles. Most people unfamiliar with this area wouldn’ t realize they were in a strip mining region.
With all the sun-set receded into darkness, we approached the last nine miles of Rt 33 to our amazement, a frenzy of activity came into view: infinite campfires bonfires, tents, campers and motor homes of all shapes and sizes were dispersed along the roadway. A cauldron of dust and wood smoke. All this chaos was punctuated by random highway crossings of dirt bikes four wheelers and other forms of ATVs at alarming speeds and vectors. As we traveled through this spectacle, I was fearful of colliding with one of these road warriors, undoubtedly impaired by a mega beer haze.
Upon arrival at the Haystack, it was apparent that the complexion of our lodging had changed considerably. The parking lot was completely clogged with dirt bikes, trucks, trailers and a platoon of riders all of whom were clad in moto-cross racing apparel. Finally I approached a reasonable looking man on the sidelines to ask what the hell is going on? He said it was the Blackwater 100, a two-day dirt bike and ATV race. Furthermore, he said he’d driven down from Hagerstown, Maryland to spend a long weekend bird watching and hadn’t been aware of the race till now.
Friday night at the Haystack was like being in the midst of a combination all-night brawl and heavy metal concert. The last sounds of Anthrax seemed to die at 4:30 am. Thinking we’d start early and beat the crowd, we drove to the grocery to restock our cooler, where at 7:30 we arrived to find thirty or forty people already waiting for the doors to unlock.
After restocking our food, we decided to drive to the south east entrance of Dolly Sods. This area is very unusual in the respect that it is a peat bog at elevation. Flat on top, eleven miles long by one mile at the widest point, it is home to many unique plants and flowers. In late summer, a carpet of wild blueberries and cranberries reside among the rocks and wind swept firs.
During WWII, Dolly Sods was used as an artillery range. Warnings are posted about the dangers of unexploded rounds which are sometimes found by campers.
As our afternoon proceeded, we took in the many scenic overlooks and climbed the fire tower on the southeast edge. The trap door being locked stopped our ascent to the gallery, but the view to the east made it worth the climb. Crisp blue skies with a thin veil of cirrus clouds made this stunning day bring that feeling all good things are possible.
Being a spontaneous and somewhat unorganized man, I forgot to bring an ample supply of water. The Red Creek campground about midway across the Sods has d well with a hand pump. We refilled our bottles there. Unfortunately I didn’ t heed the warning about the purity of said water. Now I can state I am intimately familiar with Giardia, an intestinal parasite.
Late afternoon, our travels headed further northeast to the Patterson Creek range in Grant County. Smaller in stature, somewhat akin to piedmonts, these mountains were the home of my ancestors. Searching for family grave sites on a large balding mountainside our efforts were not fruitful. Time and light ran short. As we drove back towards Dolly Sods I decided to drive to the south end and drop down to Harmon, then head north to Canaan Valley, hopefully avoiding the biker’s orgy now in progress. As we approached Davis from the south on Rt 32 we were greeted with the same sights as the night before.
Entering the town traffic movement was slowed to a trickle. Leather vested bikers were roving both sides of the highway. This is what I would imagine the Sturgis run to South Dakota would look like. As we edged further into town a band stand came into view. The shear size and scope of this white trash festival promised to be a pagan ritual that I was tempted to witness. After returning to the Haystack my son and I hurried back into town on foot, my father staying behind. Although unspoken we knew we didn’t want to miss any of this. The deeper we penetrated the crowd the more a kind of polarized psycho mob behavior seemed to prevail.
We made our way to the bandstand as to position ourselves in a location to watch both the band and people dancing. The band called The Croakers were from Washington DC. They put on quite a performance. Their style was somewhat like The Fabulous Thunderbirds. The drummer was a hard thumpin guy who favored his trap cymbal and cow bell. I noticed his bass drum was tethered to the stage. These guys were rock and roll brawlers In a classic old style sense and the crowds response was immediate reckless abandon!
Towards the center of the street, West Virginia State Troopers were gathering, some with police dogs and ball bats impressive crowd control. Their presence was just enough to keep things in balance. West Virginia State Troopers seem to be hired by the pound–a local adage: Big stout brutes In dark green suits.
The stage was in close proximity to the street. A passing car stopped to gawk at the band. Instantly a female trooper close to the driver’s side ordered the driver, a young woman in her twenties to move on. She was slow to respond and made a sarcastic remark. That’s all it took. The female trooper barked an order to stop. Again the young woman was slow to respond. In a flash, the female trooper had her by the hair and pulled her through the driver’s window, slamming her to the ground. Almost immediately the crowd’s activity seemed to slow and I wondered if this measured demonstration of police force would sustain the crowds’ demeanor. Not a chance. Full beer cans with their tabs slightly pulled were launched from deep in the crowd landing in the street, spraying police and all others within range. The police seemed to back off to the area where their cars were parked. The crowd surged to the music a song the Croakers wrote called “Push, Pull.” The degree of intoxication seemed to be surpassing my expectations. Since I gave up drinking some years back I enjoy watching others, a voyeur of human debris. The volume of beer was unbelievable. I noticed a drunk woman in her thirties, mud caked on her back and butt. She had a little white vinyl purse with sequins around the top. She was attempting to apply lipstick, but had spread it way out of bounds around her mouth. It was also quite apparent she had urinated on herself. In every direction, people were stumbling and falling. There didn’t seem to be any portable toilets and no one was using any discretion about relieving themselves. Seeing this my son and I felt in was probably time to head back to the Haystack.
Sunday morning saw us packing up. One more trip to the grocery to service our cooler. Most of the people appeared to be still asleep. I guess they were trying to heal up from the festival. The grocery was all but stripped of most of the items I was looking for. Leaving we drove south to Harmon, then southeast to Seneca Rocks, an unusual rock formation that thrusts out of the narrow South Branch River valley. This place is popular with free style and rope climbers. A steep switch-back trail takes less than an hour to hike to the top. A panoramic view to the west reveals Spruce Knob the state’s highest point.
Realizing our weekend was on the wane, we decided on one last side trip to Spruce Knob before heading home. A steep switch-back road almost twelve miles long is shielded by a dense canopy of hardwoods. Emerging close to the top into pines the steep road grade subsides, and a little further on the pine trees are transformed into a kind of directional shrubbery that appear to grow no taller than a couple of feet on the windward side of the mountain. At the summit a constant wind is present and the temperature is always twenty degrees or more cooler. Positioning ourselves among some rocks out of the wind, we ate lunch and enjoyed the warmth of the direct sun light. The solitude and beauty of this place was in sharp contrast to the Biker’s Orgy the night before and those scenes in my consciousness quickly evaporated that day
Sometime after this trip, I was told by a West Virginia Conservation Officer who is familiar with the region that the Blackwater 100 was stopped. Apparently a Monongalia Power company executive staying at Blackwater Lodge with his family witnessed this spectacle in person. Since Monongalia power owns the land along Rt 33 where the race was held and the campsites are located they pulled the plug on future races.
