January 2006
The first week of January felt like one long exhale we never quite finished. The days were short, the sky a dull sheet of gray, and life on the farm moved along in that slow, practical rhythm winter demands—hauling feed, stacking wood, keeping an eye on the weather like it was another neighbor who might drop by without warning. In the evenings, when the chores were done, we’d settle into the hum of the television, letting the world spill into our living room one headline at a time.
It was during one of those nights that I noticed something strange. Every time I turned on the TV, West Virginia was there—but the stories couldn’t have been more different. On one channel, the national media talked about us like we were some kind of accident that had wandered into a big-city party—the uninvited guests crashing the 2006 Sugar Bowl. On another, the crawl at the bottom of the screen broke grim news from a coal mine in Buckhannon. One story painted us as hillbilly caricatures; the other carried the heavy dread that settles in your chest the moment you hear the word explosion next to the word mine.
It felt like the whole state was standing in two emotional worlds at once—celebration and heartbreak—trying to make sense of them both.
The Bowl Game the Country Never Expected
In the days leading up to the Sugar Bowl, the media treated Georgia like the rightful heir to the evening. They were ranked in the top ten, practically playing at home, their fans decked out in respectable red sweaters and neatly pressed polo’s. When the cameras panned across their tailgates, the shots were warm, polished—people smiling in the kind of soft lighting that announcers love to pair with words like “tradition” and “prestige.”
And then there were our fans—shown through the same tired lens we’d all grown used to. Beer-guzzling hillbillies in blue and gold. Loud. Unrefined. Lucky, apparently, just to be invited. You could almost hear the unspoken line beneath the commentary: West Virginia should know its place.
Most of the country had already written us off. Georgia was the mighty SEC. We were just an eleventh-ranked Big East team with two freshmen in the backfield. Pat White and Steve Slaton—names nobody outside Morgantown even bothered to learn.
But that night in the Georgia Dome, the script didn’t hold.
WVU didn’t just show up—we tore the story to shreds. Rich Rodriguez’s spread-option offense didn’t look innovative that night; it looked revolutionary. Before anyone knew what was happening, the scoreboard flashed 28–0. You could feel the entire dome shift—one half in disbelief, the other half swelling with something that felt suspiciously like vindication.
Steve Slaton ran like he had something personal to settle with the entire country—over 200 yards, three touchdowns, slipping through Georgia defenders like water through fingers. Pat White was poised and steady in a way that made the word freshman feel like a joke. Every snap whispered: You underestimated the wrong people.
Even when Georgia clawed back to 38–35, the heart of the team never wavered. And when Rodriguez called that fake punt on 4th-and-6—one of those decisions that only makes sense if you trust your players more than anyone else possibly could—WVU sealed the win and sent the Georgia fans, with all their confident pregame smiles, into stunned silence.
For us, it wasn’t just a win. It was a kick in the face to every person who ever looked down on West Virginians. A reminder that grit, heart, and hard work matter—even if no one bothers to show that on television.
That night launched a new era. Pat White became one of the winningest bowl quarterbacks in history. Slaton became a household name. Rodriguez’s offense helped reshape modern college football. But I remember the win most for that feeling—a whole state standing tall, proving we belonged.
For once, the world had to see us differently.
The Tragedy No One Saw Coming
Just as the Sugar Bowl had given the state something to celebrate, a darker story was already working its way into the headlines.
Early on January 2nd, news broke that an explosion had trapped thirteen miners in the Sago Mine near Buckhannon. Most of us heard about it the same way—through the morning news, through neighbors murmuring in the aisles of the grocery store, through the slow spread of worry that every West Virginian recognizes instantly. A mine accident isn’t just an event. It’s a shadow.
Rescue crews rushed in, working conditions most of us can’t even imagine—unstable walls, dangerous air, the kind of darkness that feels alive. Families gathered at the small Sago Baptist Church, turning it into a place where hope and dread sat shoulder to shoulder.
For nearly two days, the updates were thin, the kind of quiet that wears you down. When rescuers found one miner, Terry Helms, he had already passed. Even so, people clung to the hope that the others were alive somewhere behind a pocket of collapsed coal.
Then, late on the night of January 3rd, a rumor spread—whispered at first, then out loud—that twelve miners had been found alive. The church erupted. People prayed, cried, hugged strangers. Even watching from a distance, you could feel it—a full-bodied relief that made you believe that maybe, just this once, things would turn out differently.
But the celebration didn’t last.
It took nearly three hours for the truth to make its way back. Only one miner—Randal McCloy Jr.—had survived. The others were gone.
The joy that had filled the church collapsed into something hollow and raw, the kind of grief that drops you to your knees. Across West Virginia, the news traveled not as information but as ache. Even if you didn’t know a single miner by name, it felt personal. You felt it in your bones.
In the days that followed, vigils were held, candles lit, prayers whispered. Investigators arrived to ask how communication had failed so catastrophically. Questions swirled about safety violations, management decisions, and how a mine with so many red flags had been allowed to operate as it did.
But beneath all of that, the people of West Virginia did what they always do—they stood together. Quietly. Steadily. Carrying the weight as one.
Looking back, what strikes me most is the timing. Within days, the state had lived through two completely different stories—one triumphant, one devastating. You could flip from channel to channel and see two versions of West Virginia that didn’t seem to belong in the same world.
But they did. That’s the reality we know.
Being West Virginian sometimes means waking up to heartbreak and going to bed with hope—or the other way around. West Virginians are a people who celebrate hard-won victories even as they mourn the losses that never seem far behind. They carry joy and sorrow like twin buckets balanced across their shoulders.
The Sugar Bowl showed the country our pride—our talent, our grit, our ability to rise when counted out.
Sago showed the country our heart—our loyalty, our grief, our refusal to let tragedy isolate us from one another.
Most outsiders saw two unrelated news stories. But those of us who call West Virginia home felt the twin pull of both events in the same breath. One reminded us of what we could be. The other reminded us of what we’d already lost.
Together, they revealed the truth:
West Virginia is never just one thing. Never just a punchline. Never just a tragedy. Never just an underdog win. West Virginia is a place shaped by both coal dust and celebration confetti, by the roar of a stadium and the quiet prayers of a church basement.
Bringing the Alpacas Home
Toward the end of that week, just as the cold seemed to settle into the ridgelines for good, we were finally ready to bring the alpacas home. Moving alpacas is an all-day affair. They’re conservative creatures by nature—gentle, cautious, and deeply suspicious of anything new. Sometimes you have to give them a good twenty minutes just to think about a doorway before they’ll bother walking through it.
We drove to Salem that morning, the trailer rattling behind us, and found the herd milling around in the pasture. Loading them went smoother than expected. With alpacas, once one decides the trailer isn’t a threat, the others fall in line like schoolchildren who suddenly realize recess is over.
We eased them back to the farm, taking the turns slow so the trailer didn’t sway too much. When we opened the gate, we didn’t coax or push—we just waited. Eventually Isis stepped down first, ears flicking, his expression the alpaca version of curiosity. Orbit followed close behind, both of them sniffing the barn like they were inspecting a new apartment, their goofy, soft-lipped grins making the whole thing feel lighter than the January air around us. One by one the others trailed in behind them.
Getting them into their pens required no magic—just food. If there is one universal truth about alpacas, it’s that their stomachs make all their big decisions. A scoop of grain and some gentle encouragement, and they were in their new stalls as if they’d lived there forever.
By evening, everyone was settled. Dad and I trudged back to the house with that kind of tired satisfaction that only comes from farm work done well. Mom had dinner waiting, warm and familiar. After the dishes and chores were finished, we finally settled into the quiet of the evening, feeling—for the first time in a long time—that something important in our lives had clicked into place.
The alpacas were home. The farm felt complete.
Nice Hat!
Winter had a way of throwing surprises at us, but Dale popping up that morning still caught me off guard. I was heading to the gym at the college, easing down the driveway, when I saw him walking toward my car waving his arms like he was hailing a taxi. He was wearing a brand-new West Virginia University cap—nice enough that for the briefest, ridiculous moment, I almost felt the urge to roll down my window, fist-bump him, and yell, “Let’s go ’EERS!”
But then I remembered who it was.
I shook my head no and kept the window firmly up. Dale kept gesturing, pointing back toward the garage and those survey papers he’d been obsessing over for months, jawing about something I couldn’t hear and didn’t care to. I just gave him a polite wave—the bare minimum—and turned onto the county road.
We hadn’t seen much of him through the fall or the early winter, which had been a relief. But the quiet never lasted long where Dale was concerned. His gun-brandishing trial was set for the next week, and though I tried not to think about it, the whole thing sat in the back of my mind like a stone in a shoe. The prosecutor had warned us that Dale had hired one of the best attorneys in the state, which did nothing to boost my confidence. Still, I told myself we’d be fine. Dale was a habitual liar, always rambling, never able to keep his stories straight. Surely it would be open-and-shut.
We’d be out by lunch.
Boy, was I wrong.