Tight and winding roads led the way between dingy trailers and ramshackle buildings long forgotten and reclaimed by nature. Harlan County is one of the poorest counties in America and it showed; drugs and poverty were taking over with the decline of the coal industry. We were listening to The Carter Family which no doubt helped to set the tone – sad and hopeless, like this part of Appalachia and its people had been left behind, forgotten in the mountains. It was melancholy, but the Baptist and Pentecostal churches around every bend said that community was still alive. These people were at the bottom of the rope and seemed unable to climb, but were still holding on, together.
This is not to say that all was poor. There was real charm here and certainly character. We saw a few cute and modest homes that made me fantasize about living there for the scenery alone. Personally, this place had all I’d need to be content: natural beauty and solitude.
We passed countless dead-end hollows, or hollers — narrow mountain valleys with a stream running through that carved the gorges over millennia. They were intimidating. Steep roads, often dirt, shot up or dove down into the darkness of these voids, obfuscated by foliage. Of course we explored one.
I felt my heart rate rise as we descended; I was horribly nervous. To be honest, it was Marty who insisted that we drive in. I tried to make excuses, saying we could do it another time after we had settled in in Harlan, and that I was just too tired now. Some adventurer I am! But God, I knew Marty was right, I knew this is what good travel entailed and that we'd both be glad we did in the end, so we did. I won’t name it out of respect for the privacy of those living there, but the name of the holler we ventured into was spooky and fitting for the escapade. This was a place where the sun never shines and surely no one enters except the residents and the mailman.
Greenery loomed over us and covered everything except the road, but even that had thick weeds sprouting through the cracks. There was barely room for one car on the pavement and no barrier, let alone a shoulder, protected us from the drop into the valley. Far below, a destroyed shack was being devoured by Mother Nature.
As we rounded one of many curves, there was a heavyset, dirty man walking with an equally dirty, but skinny cow. We slowed down, and he noticed us, yelled, “Git!” and whipped the cow with a switch so that it hurried down the pathway he was leading it, its bell jingling. He then beckoned us through with a quick, impatient gesture, and disappeared down the trail.
The road went on for longer than we expected. Every once in a while, shabby trailers with blanket or tarp covered windows revealed themselves down in the valley. We knew we’d have to turn around eventually, so we decided to drive up a dirt path opposite the valley, see where it went and turn around from there. Thank God for four-wheel drive, because this was the steepest slope I had ever driven on.
The path leveled at the top and turned left, then right, to reveal a gated but open private cemetery with a “No Trespassing” sign. Beyond, it was completely overgrown. Feeling like we had already been trespassing, we took multiple maneuvers to turn the car around and head back the way we came.
The man appeared again on our way out, walking in our direction with another man following him a ways behind. He was strange looking, in ways I don’t dare speculate, but there was something off about his face. I rolled down my window as we neared him.
“This is a beautiful part of the country you live in!”
He grunted and kept walking. We kept driving. Through the rearview mirror, he flailed his arms and blurted something totally incomprehensible, but not hostile.
The second man looked off too, but was far cleaner than the first. He was an older man who wore a plaid collared shirt tucked into his pants, and he glared at us, his brow furrowed. We simply smiled and waved, and he relaxed his face and did the same.
With drizzle gently falling onto the windshield, Marty and I carried on in silence to Harlan proper. We were shocked by the state of the town when we arrived. Again, not all was poor, but much of the place, surely a majority of it, appeared to be in decay. We even saw who we assumed was a homeless man loitering on the rusty train tracks that cut through town, perhaps an old hobo traveling the classic way, keeping that culture alive.
Harlan is a dense town with a rough history. The whole county earned the title “Bloody Harlan” due to labor conflicts in the 1930s between coal miners and unions on one side, and the coal companies on the other. Big Coal, virtually the only industry, dominated many of the towns in the region and held all authority, so when the already poor miners tried to unionize in response to wage cuts, many were fired and evicted from their company-owned homes, causing, understandably, violent unrest.
We proceeded to the south end of town where we had a reservation at a cheap motel. The place looked like it had been built from Lincoln Logs — orange stained logs with green roofing. I parked the car and walked into the reception office to be greeted by a sullen Indian man sitting behind the counter and, as was all too common, a dirty, large and round man sitting in the corner, staring at the outsider in overt suspicion.
Our room was shared with some local lizards who scurried under the walls as we stepped in. An old CRT television hung from the wall in front of the beds with brown-stained and burn-holed sheets, and on the window sill dead bugs laid still on their backs with their tiny stick legs pointing up in the dusty air. The bathroom was relatively clean, but our towels had yellow stains and there was no soap.
I returned to the reception and asked for some fresh towels and toiletries, and the man seemed bothered as he rose from his chair with a sigh to lazily walk to the backroom and get us some. The “fresh” towels were yellow too.
Who else would be guests at this lovely inn, the sort of place where the roaches are bigger than the dust bunnies and the bedbugs check out early? There was a group of Hispanic laborers that took over most of the rooms and a little greasy-haired feller that stood smoking beside his beater filled up full with fast food garbage and scrap wood. I waved at him once only for him to scowl at me. My hand changed trajectories to wipe my forehead out of awkward instinct.
We had two nights reserved in Harlan and were looking forward to what adventures we would have and characters we would come across in this neglected town. Like Middlesboro, downtown Harlan did have a real charm to it, despite the dilapidation. We walked through the quiet streets past empty buildings and quaint shops, and noticed a flock of pigeons that had taken over the top floor of an old structure with broken windows.
A boutique coffee shop was one of the few stores open this afternoon, so we strolled in for a pick-me-up. The place was empty except for the two nice looking girls that were working. We made small talk as we ordered and, of course, they noticed our accents.
“Where you boys from?” the one with purple hair asked.
“Minnesota. We came here for documentary film work.”
“No kidding. Did y’all come with a crew, or?”
“Just ourselves actually. You guys know anywhere cool to check out? Downtown seems interesting, but obviously we aren’t familiar with the rest of the area.”
She turned to speak to the other girl behind her who was making our drinks and filled her in with what we said as if she didn’t hear us herself.
“There’s Martins Fork Lake, but other than that… there really ain’t much,” she said with a polite laugh. “Tell you what, we were gonna go there tonight with some friends for a little party. You guys are welcome to join us.”
I was surprised at how willing she was to invite a few strangers. I turned to Marty, who nodded in approval and asked her for directions. Cell service was spotty out here, so technology couldn’t always be relied on.
She took our phone numbers and told us she’d let us know the plan later that evening when they were off work. She then offered to take us four-wheeling in the mountains tomorrow if the weather permitted.
This is why we traveled. This is what it’s about! The people you meet, the experiences you have. We did not come to Appalachia for a vacation; we came for adventure, raw and pure, and we were now on the righteous path with confidence and giddy excitement.
With only time to kill until we heard from the girls, Marty and I drove to Martins Fork to check it out beforehand. I raved about the stories we would have and how tonight and tomorrow would be the epitome of great adventure and travel films. We hollered and pounded on the car ceiling like drunken fools while our music blasted. You couldn’t wipe the smiles off our faces; we were brimming with enthusiasm.
A big red truck trailed us, riding our asses and putting pressure on me to speed up. I gave in and picked up the pace and just about crashed as the road veered almost 180 degrees, and Marty held on tight to his seatbelt and panic handle, cursing me. I accepted my place as an outsider and kept it slow and steady from there on out, no doubt frustrating the guy behind us, but he was familiar with these roads and we were not.
Our energy slowed too, though not our passion, as we came around the last bend of the squiggly mountain road and were presented with one of the greatest natural sights we had ever set our eyes on. Martins Fork Lake is a crystal clean reservoir of blue-green water surrounded by the vibrant peaks of Appalachia. We were silenced, enchanted by the pristine beauty, and aside from a gentleman pacing the sands with a metal detector, we had the place to ourselves.
We hopped out of the car and called out to the man, “Find anything good?”
“Couple penny!” he shouted back with his thick mountain accent.
We took our time with slow strides, taking in the scenery as we made our way toward the man. Believe it or not, this was the first coal miner we had come across. He spent all his working life in the mines, just as his pappy and grandpappy had done, and had only retired, or “retarrd,” as he pronounced it, the year before. He lived, “Just yonder that mountain there,” barely a mile from this tranquil lake.
The man continued to scour the area while we sat in front of the water and basked in our surroundings. We had found a hidden gem, and we absorbed every bit of it in utter admiration.
Just as quick as our optimism rose, it fell, along with the rain, which had been dormant since we got to Harlan. It came down heavier and heavier and showed no signs of easing up by the time we returned to the motel. I messaged the ladies to ask about the next move, and they told us they’d keep us updated. We never heard from them again.
The rain subsided around 11:30 and by then Marty and I were sipping beers and watching Benjamin Button on the crummy little TV. I was stressed and Marty was lax, as he tends to be, but he just came along for the ride. This whole excursion was my idea and its future wasn’t looking too bright with the forecast showing high chances of rain all week. I was angry at myself for not considering the weather before we left — a rookie mistake.
I stepped outside for some fresh air and to think about our game plan. Aside from the streetlights, darkness obscured everything, turning Harlan into a silent black pit.
I spotted a woman walking along the road in front of the motel and decided I’d edge a bit closer and light a smoke, just to see if I couldn’t have one more encounter with a character before the rain locked us down for good. She approached and asked if I had another to bum, which I gladly did, as this was my intention. The woman must have been in her 40s, but was aged from a lifetime of smoking and drugs, I assumed from her blemishes and by her walking the dark streets alone at this time of night. Regardless, she was friendly.
“What brings you to Harlan?” she asked joyfully with a smile, although I’m not sure if she was sincere or just happy to get a cigarette.
I told her about our plans to film, if there ever had been a plan, but how I wasn’t so sure about them now with the weather.
“Well, no matter what comes of it, welcome to Harlan.”
“Thank you, miss. We’ve had a good time so far. I gotta say I really do love the way you people talk too.”
Wrong thing to say. She scoffed and turned her head away.
“ … ‘You people.’”
I deescalated the situation by explaining my sincerity and changing the topic, asking about herself. She understood and we carried on like nothing had happened. She told me she had just gotten out of the hospital (I didn’t ask why) and that she was on her way to a friend’s house, since she didn’t have anywhere else to go. I wanted to know more about her, but as soon as she finished her smoke, she thanked me and went on her way.
Any hope we had left of our great Appalachian adventure was shattered when we woke up to more downpour. Completely disheartened, Marty and I knew it’d be a waste of time to proceed any deeper, so we canceled our second night at the motel. In hindsight, I put far too much pressure on myself to “succeed” in filming great content on this trip and I couldn’t help but sulk, wanting to throw in the towel and head on home. Marty was going to get his money’s worth, though. I have to give credit to him, as he grabbed hold of the reins at that moment and declared that we would carry on, although we’d have to pivot.
This was no longer an Appalachian adventure; we loaded up the car and headed for the Deep South.
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