July 23, 2021
I started doing some work on the land in Blaine—clearing a path to the granite markers that sit on a three acre portion of the land identified for tax purposes as a family cemetery. I’m not sure how long it would take for my relatives to fill a three acre cemetery, but there is no one I know on the Robertson side doing the procreation required for the opposite result.
I also started some work on making the shed useful again. I will pick my nephew Anthony up from a train station in southern West Virginia next week and bring him down to camp on this land and help with taming the wilderness—at least a little. The camping will be what is called primitive—no water and we will have to dig a pit toilet. There are cousins here in Jasper who have lent me a tent cabin which I may set up before Anthony arrives. (I’m in Jasper after attending Virginia’s funeral.)
Survival is its own occupation. Camping won’t be that extreme as I have access to a credit card and grocery store about five miles away. It’s really about making the land more hospitable. The seed of an idea germinated and began to grow as I picked my way through the forest knocking down spider webs and looking up at the tops of trees. I’ve begun to think about building a cabin here.
For all the joy the land brought to my father’s family in the 1940 and 50s, my father spoke discouragingly of the land that is left. My grandfather pieced together close to 200 acres of continuous land although in my search at the register of deeds I was only able to find the two parcels that are still owned by my family (Sharon specifically). There are 12 acres with the Sheridan cabin on one side of Poor Valley Road and 26 acres on the other side where the cemetery and shed are. The 12 acres are relatively flat with a gradual slope toward the road. The 26 acres are what my dad called knobby. The parts best suited for farming were sold off in the 1960s after my grandfather died.
“My mother was afraid I was going to start a commune on the land,” my dad used to say with equal parts whimsy and bitterness. He claims this was Grandma Robbie’s reason for selling off the land, but it was more likely that she just wanted cash to lay down as many of those granite slabs as she could and travel around the world a few times—which she did. Truth be told, the land was never considered good farm land and my dad was quick to admit as much.
“There is a reason this is called Poor Valley. You can’t grow much here,” my dad told me a number of times. He said Richland nearby, just like Poor Valley, has a reason for its name.
I don’t know enough about geography or soil science to know why, but it may be that Richland is rich because of its closer proximity to the Holston River. Grainger County tomatoes, which seem to have some level of fame in these parts, are grown there.
Beyond poor soil quality, the other thing I heard most mentioned about the land was that it’s snaky and full of ticks and poison ivy. The ticks I can confirm and the poison ivy may be the most prevalent ground cover.
Apparently copperheads and rattlesnakes abound too though in the four days I’ve spent exploring the woods I haven’t come across one…and part of what I was doing recently was clearing timber and logs on the ground where they would normally hide.
I don’t have much fear of rattlesnakes. All my encounters with them in the past involve hearing them before I see them. Copperheads are a different story though. One of the nearby land owners say they are more aggressive and hold their ground during encounters whereas rattlesnakes retreat. Both snakes have bites that are painful but rarely deadly.
What I fear more than either is ticks which can harbor pathogens. Five or six years ago Anthony and I visited the land with Sharon and Aunt Linda. There were bushes of lush raspberries along the road up to the Sheridan cabin and we got out of the car to pick some. We were not more than five minutes at this task. Before getting back in the car we did a tick check. I found nine on the outside of my clothes and Anthony found a similar number.
Aware of this, I dressed appropriately this time. My first three days of exploration I wore my blue rain jacket zipped to the neck with a bandana tied above it. I closed the velcro fasteners tightly around my wrists. Underneath I wore a long-sleeve shirt tucked into long pants and had the long pants tucked into rubber boots that I borrowed from Aunt Linda’s boyfriend Stewart. I topped my head with a ball-cap and sang the wonders of not seeing a single tick during any of those days.
But sealing myself up like that came at the price of being hot so, two days ago, when I did the log cutting work seen in the photos below, I chose to forego all the precautions.
I substituted the boots with my regular walking shoes. I tucked my pants into nothing—not even my socks. I wore a long sleeve t-shirt untucked without the jacket.
At the end of the day, after finally applying the Wet and Forget to the granite markers, I found two ticks crawling on me—one on my shirt and the other on my ribs when I lifted it.
When I got home and took off all my clothes for a more thorough check I found one that may have been attached but not completely burrowed on my back in a place that I could just barely reach.
At this point, a rather large dose of heebie jeebies took hold. I started feeling things crawling on me that weren’t there. I took a shower washing my hair and checking the crevices of my body where ticks are known to hide.
When I was done I dried off and went to my bed with my computer to check emails and catch up on the day’s news. A dark cloud began to form over the ideas that I’d begun to nurture about the land and building a small cabin for writerly retreats and nature studies in which I would learn every species of tree.
As an afterthought I began running my hand through my hair and checking the terrain of my scalp. Damn! Damn! Damn! I found a bump and knew immediately what it was—another damn tick! I pulled it off and went quickly to the bathroom where I put it in the sink, unfolded a blade from my Leatherman and chopped the tick in half as I’d done with the one before. Later I kicked myself for not taking a picture of it.
It’s been two days now. I have a red spot from the bite on my back which surprised me because it had come off without much effort. I’m watching it carefully and asking relatives to keep an eye on it too. My dream has had a good dose of realism burrow its way in (to use the obvious metaphor). Still, I’m not giving up on the little cabin idea. Knowledge is power! The next tick I see is going under the magnifying glass and you can bet I’ll be buttoned up tight for coming excursions to tame a small part of this little wilderness.
Here are some before pictures:
Here are some front views:
Here are some after photos:
Spotty West Goes East 