October 2002 – March 2004
I began to take frequent trips to West Virginia after my parents moved to the farm. At first, the trips were just to visit them—for holidays and breaks from classes and work—but over time, the meaning of those visits changed. As I started helping my dad more on the farm, the trips became about connection. Not just with my parents, but with the land itself. I began to bond with the animals. The rhythm of life out there slowed me down in the best kind of way. The farm slowly started to feel like home.
If I was going to stay for an extended period of time, I’d bring my calico cat, Buffy, along for the ride. She was a big cat, sweet and affectionate. I adopted her from a PetSmart when she was just a kitten, not long after losing my tuxedo cat, Murphy, who’d been hit by a car. Buffy was clingy in the best way. She hated her travel crate, so instead, I’d put a laundry basket full of blankets or clothes in the back seat of my 1995 Ford Escort, and she’d curl up in it like it was her personal throne. I’d talk to her as I drove, and she’d meow back as if she understood. That was our thing.
The drive began on Interstate 85, heading north out of Spartanburg. Eventually I’d hit Charlotte and try to navigate the maze of signs and exits to find Interstate 77. You’d think after making the trip so many times I’d know exactly where that exit was—but somehow, I always missed it. Like clockwork, I’d realize I’d passed it and have to circle back, costing me ten extra minutes. Once I made it out of Charlotte, the drive would pick up speed—until I hit Davidson, Mooresville, and Statesville. That stretch was always a headache. Two-lane highway, way too many on-and-off ramps, and narrow bridges spanning small lakes. No matter what time of day I passed through, it was always stop-and-go traffic. My anxiety would spike in that stretch, but once I got on the other side of Statesville, it was like exhaling. Open road. Cruise control. That was the life. I’d slide in one of my travel mix CDs, mostly packed with ’80s tunes, and let the music carry me the rest of the way.
If I left Spartanburg with a full tank, I could make it all the way to Wytheville, Virginia, before stopping for gas. Wytheville’s prices were usually ten cents less per gallon than anywhere else, and I had my spot — the Pilot Flying J off exit 77 on I-77. It wasn’t just about the gas. Inside was a Dairy Queen, and that was where I treated myself to a Snickers Blizzard with extra Snickers, made with chocolate ice cream. That Blizzard became my halfway-point tradition, a little reward before the last leg of the trip.
Then one day I found something even better — a Kangaroo station a few miles north in Bland, off exit 52. Their gas was another ten cents cheaper, and they had a Dairy Queen too. From then on, Bland became my stop. It felt like a secret I’d stumbled upon, a tiny upgrade to a familiar ritual.
But Covid changed that. The station closed, and when it reopened as a Circle K, the Dairy Queen space was gone, turned into storage. Now, I still stop for gas in Bland, but I have to drive back to Wytheville for my Blizzard. The ritual survives — just not quite in the same way.
After Wytheville, I’d start to feel the anticipation building. I knew I was getting closer. The next big milestone was the two tunnels. Something about those tunnels—especially the second one—always stirred something in me. If it was winter, the mountains would be dusted with snow. If it was spring or summer, they’d be lush and green, rolling out like a welcome mat. Coming out of the second tunnel and entering West Virginia felt like crossing into another world. A better one.
The next stop was usually the Tamarack, a large rest area and tourist spot just off the interstate. It had everything—restrooms, fast food, a Starbucks, and a gift shop filled with local crafts. RV families and truckers passed through constantly. Sometimes on the way back to Spartanburg, I’d even sleep in the Tamarack parking lot for a few hours, especially if I was too tired to make the whole trip in one shot. It was peaceful there. A little cold in the winter, but I never had any trouble.
After leaving the Tamarack, I had two route options: stay on I-77 until I could merge onto I-79, or cut over using State Route 19 through Summersville. Route 19 was the quicker choice—it bypassed Charleston—but it came with a cost. Summersville was notorious. It’s home to the nation’s most infamous speed trap. One minute the limit is 65, then it drops to 50, then 35, sometimes without much warning. If you’re not paying attention, you’ll get a ticket. No “maybe” about it. You will get a ticket. The local police watch the transitions like hawks, ready to make their revenue off every unsuspecting traveler. Ask me how I know.
Once I made it past Summersville and onto I-79, I was in the final stretch toward Bridgeport. That’s where I’d meet up with my parents. Depending on the time of day, we’d meet at one of two places. If it was morning or early afternoon, it was Bob Evans. If it was late afternoon or evening, we’d meet at Uno’s, a Chicago-style pizza place. Funny thing is, I never ate pizza at Uno’s. I always ordered the same thing—clam chowder and a big salad. The clam chowder was amazing! It would come in a huge bowl with half a dozen bags of fish crackers. I’m getting hungry just thinking about it. The place was usually quiet, which made it feel like the staff was waiting just for us. At Bob Evans, the atmosphere was classic—booths, warm lighting, the smell of biscuits and coffee. My parents would always wave from the booth when I walked in and greet me with big hugs. Just seeing them again after the long drive made it all worth it.
After dinner, I’d follow them back to the place they were staying. We’d caravan through the winding back roads, headlights flickering through the trees. I’d end the day on a full stomach, Buffy purring in the back seat, and the quiet thrill of anticipation for what tomorrow would bring. Life on the farm was different. Quieter. The land stretched out in soft, rolling hills. I loved sitting outside just to listen to the breeze rustle through the trees. It felt like I was stepping into an alternate world—one where everything I needed was right there in front of me.