And miles to go.
#043
It seems like I blinked and November is almost over. Thanksgiving is less than a week away and time feels like it’s stuck on fast forward. I’m not complaining, just observing how time really does fly and I’m reminding myself to make the most of it.
Between the last two weeks and over the next few days, I will have driven nearly a thousand miles in southern West Virginia alone working on four different assignments (two for publications in Europe and two here in the United States). Next Friday, we leave for Santa Fe, which will take us through more than half a dozen states where we’ll cover over 3,000 miles out and back.
I can’t thank the editors I’ve been working with lately enough. They’ve trusted my vision and expertise to show what words can’t and to offer readers a look into this landscape. While these assignments have kept me relatively close to home, they’ve given me access to corners of counties I haven’t visited in a long time. I’ve met some incredible folks who have endured tragedies and hard times, yet still find ways to roll up their sleeves, help their neighbors, and just do the next thing.
I’ve met folks organizing food pantries in their communities, folks who experienced flooding and the long arc of recovering from those floods, and people who face uncertainty trying to navigate a failing healthcare system in one of the most vulnerable states in America.
And yet, there is hope. Resilience is a word that gets thrown around and overused in Appalachia (and elsewhere). I don’t think most folks think of themselves as resilient anymore than they think of themselves as Appalachian; they’re just trying to survive. When you’re in survival mode, everything else is just background noise.
All four assignments I’ve worked on have been in four of the six poorest counties in West Virginia: Mingo, Logan, Wyoming, and McDowell. (I live in Lincoln County, the 7th poorest). While poverty has not been the focus of this work, it’s inextricably linked to the stories of everyone I met and photographed. I’m thankful for editors who trust me to center humanity over statistics and tropes.
I look forward to sharing more of this work when it’s published.
We’re only a few days away from deer firearms season in West Virginia; bow season opened at then end of September. Earlier this week, my good friend and neighbor, Athel Kinsolving, called to tell me he harvested a doe. As soon as we hung up, I grabbed my camera and headed down the hill to make some pictures of him breaking it down.
Athel is a master hunter, fisherman, tree cutter, and a host of other things. He has a heart that’s too big to contain and he’s quick to share his knowledge and expertise. I try to absorb as much as I can from him and, when he’ll let me, help him in return.
When I harvested my first deer just a few years ago, Athel taught me how to field dress it and then, with the patience of Job, walk me through the different cuts of meat: backstraps, tenderloins, shoulders, and hams.
He wastes nothing and I appreciate that. Even the hide is being used by a buddy of mine in the next county over as he experiments with making a banjo drum head with it. I’ll share more about that if it works out.
I haven’t shot a bow since I was 10 years old, but I recently picked up a compound bow and I’m having fun with it. A lot has changed in 40 years, but patience, aim, and repetition remain steadfast principles of archery (and life?).
Here’s a ridiculously long video (2 minutes, 27 seconds) of me throwing arrows at a target at 20 yards (18.288 meters for my European friends). It’s better with the sound up.
Thanks for reading, y’all. I appreciate your support in all the ways. I hope you find some time to get outside and away from your screen.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
- Robert Frost, Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
- Roger
The five days before Thanksgiving, for me, were called Hunters' Wife's Holiday, as the men migrated to the Cabin for the Hunt. Thanks for the reminders
You say a lot in a few words. Always with the grace of brevity. And insights -- intended or not.
Thanks.