Monday afternoon I arrive at Kumbrabow National Park a bit weary but ready to settle in. Cabin #4, my favorite of the Primitive Cabins, will be my home for the next seven days. The log cabin sits at the far end of a cluster of five cabins with a single path leading from the back door deep into the forest along Mill Creek. I haul two pails of water from the communal pump, heat up some dinner on my Coleman stove, then set off with Simba, my dog, to gather kindling for a fire inside later that night.
The next morning over coffee, I am already thinking about the people I met and photographed on my July trip. I have prints ready for Brandy, Hailee, Brian, the man on the steps, and the Curley-haired Cupid, the young driver of a shiny black Ford pickup truck. Would I find them to hand over the photos I’d made?
I ease down Brandy’s street in the village of Huttonsville. Her red Jeep Cherokee is not out front. I knock on the door I think is hers, but no answer. Not to be deterred, I climb the dark stairway littered with candy wrappers where we had photographed in July. Up on the second floor about five doors open onto the hallway. I knock on the closest one to the open stairwell. A woman hollers out in a gravely voice:
“Who’s it?”
I say I am a photographer looking for Brandy. The door swings opens and a woman looks out at me with a scowl. Her hair is teased up, her mascara is heavy and smeared. She wears leggings revealing a torso long a stranger to exercise. But then, she switches to a kinder tone.
“I’m sorry, Hon. I’m not havin’ a good day,” she wheezes. “I’ll ring up Brandy for ya.” She coughs inches from my face then yells into the phone:
“Brandy, where the hell are you? A woman’s here, says she’s a photographer.” We descend the stairs and step out into the fresh air. (Thank God, as I didn’t have my mask on.)
Just then, Brandy pulls up in her red Cherokee with her little one in the back seat screaming. She lifts him out of the car seat and Raccoon Lady snatches him and carries him upstairs. Is she a friend? A relative? I present the photos to Brandy. She is delighted, then we start making plans for another photo shoot. Cheat Pond.
“It’s really beautiful,” Brandy says. “And the kids, they just love playin’ there. You’ll see.”
I ask which apartment she lives in and she points to the one in front with the torn screen door.
“Come on in. I’ll show ya around.” I figure I can do a quick maskless tour and still be okay. At this point, Covid has not really reached West Virginia.
The apartment is dark—four rooms, nothing on the walls, no curtains, no pictures. Everywhere clothes are draped over sagging couches and chairs.
“Dryer broke down last week,” she explains. A kitchen, living room, two bedrooms and, on the way, three big holes in the dry wall.
“Yep, those were here when we moved in.”
Outside again, we arrange a time for our next photo shoot. Tomorrow. Meet at 6 o’clock at her house. We are both excited to have a plan.