Driving down Dry Branch Road about 10 miles west of Huttonsville, I navigate the narrow dirt road that snakes along the wide Elk River, lazy in spots, rushing with rapids in others. Tiny campers and ancient cabins line the river and on a summer evening, fisherman stand like sentinels along its banks. I spot a bushy-bearded man stoking a fire in a rusted oil drum. A small caravan sits nearby and a pickup truck which displays a large placard in the rear window: FISHING. I am in the land of anglers.
“Hello! May I take a photo.” Bushy Beard disappears inside to ask his friend, owner of the camper.
An older man with a beard like a cumulus cloud appears in the doorway squinting and blinking in the afternoon light.
“Got up real early ‘round 5 and was out walkin’, lookin’ at things,” he explains.
His shoulder-length hair is drawn back in a pony tail, his beard falls well below his collar bone. His face is handsome with a far-off gaze more focused on a distant landscape than the visitor now on his front porch. He says his name is Tony. I ask the friend his name.
“Penis,” he says but I repeat “Penez?” to be polite.
I’m not sure if it’s a joke just to get my reaction but I steer clear. The friend, wiry and fidgety, is a truck driver, he says, and moves about quickly, the antithesis of Tony who seems in a dream.
Tony begins to describe the wonders of his early morning walk.
“Early mornin’ was all foggy, beautiful! Nobody out. I was just lookin’ an lookin’, then I see two bald eagles right above me, close, one flyin’ with a snake hangin’ from its claws. Took my breath away. Ya don’t see a sight like that every day. Guess that’s why I’m out here.”
We chat some more as I take photos. Then:
“Wouldn’t ya like a cold drink?’’ The day is unseasonably warm.
“Better yet, how ‘bout some moonshine?”