Twin Rocks

     There is a small place that exists in the mountains of East Kentucky. Untouched by the destructive nature of strip mining, yet so close its unnerving. A place that is pure and original. The creek beds still run clear. You can do a three hundred and sixty degree spin and not see any traces of modern technology. It is Perry County's best kept secret.

  In the 1940's, an Evangelical Free Church purchased a large piece of property called Twin Rocks in a remote corner of Perry County. It was named Twin Rocks because it has two large boulders that mark the entrance to the property. Over the years, the church used it to host christian camp gatherings. However, the church did not change or develop the land aside for building a few small cabins at the base of the camp. This property is as wild and natural today as it was one hundred years ago. The church that I grew up in now owns Twin Rocks. My pastor and his wife live in a small house near the entrance to the camp.

     In order for you to appreciate just how special this place is, you must first know this: East Kentucky is a land torn between great beauty and great despair. The ancient mountains that run through this corner of the state are known as the Cumberlands. Jean Ritchie describes them in her book Singing Family of the Cumberlands: "They rise in long, gently arching ridges, one following another and one beyond another as far as the eye can see. Because of there shapes they have been given local names like Razorback Ridge, Devil's Backbone, and Longbow Mountain. To stand in the bottom of any of the valleys is to have the feeling of being down in the center of a great round cup. To stand on top of one of the narrow ridges is like balancing on one of the innermost petals of a gigantic rose, from which you can see all around you the other petals falling away in wide rings to the horizon."

     Though the mountains are beautiful, their inhabitants have notoriously struggled, effecting the region in negative ways. For the record there are natives who hold down good jobs, have nice houses, automobiles, and a reasonable quality of life. I was fortunate enough to grow up in one of these families. There are also those who fit the bill of the poor, white, Southern Appalachian stereotypes to a tea. These downtrodden folks are raised in a generational cycle of social backwardness, obesity, abuse, are poorly educated, and heavily rely on government assistance. The more rural parts of East Kentucky have larger populations of these struggling people. Twin Rocks is about as rural as you can get. Yet, these folks are not in the vicinity.

     Another negative issue effecting this region is strip mining or mountaintop removal. It's consequences reek havoc on the landscape and environment. I grew up playing and hiking in the mountains. Over the last few decades, each time I've gone home I see another mountain leveled by strip mining. Since the turn of the century, the coal mining industry has been the largest sustainable source for employment in East Kentucky. Strip mining is a more effective means for harvesting coal when compared to traditional deep mining. The coal companies are able to expose an entire seam of coal by literally blowing up the top of a mountain. Though this method proves to be most efficient and economical for the coal companies, it scars the landscape, liquidates regional biodiversity, pollutes the water tables and leaves behind a toxic dust which is harmful to breath.

     East Kentucky is now facing a new future with tighter regulations from the EPA, combined with the cheaper cost of natural gas and renewable energy on the forefront. In 2008, the United States reported 50% of our electricity usage was from coal consumption. Three years later, we consumed 1,003 million short tons of coal which accounted for 42% . In 2012, we were at 40% which is the lowest its been since World War II. It is projected to fall to 30% by the end of this decade. I am happy to see these results, but I am sad for all the folks in East Kentucky who are losing there jobs. Coal companies are currently laying off thousands of employees across the Southern Appalachian coal fields. An already economically depressed region is getting slammed hard. As one would imagine, natives are by in large pro coal. They feel the government's "war on coal" is trying to take away their livelihood. It is a sad and complex situation.

     My final point has to do with the concept of solitude. If you go to any Kentucky State Park, you will find plenty of natural beauty. However, I feel that it takes away from the experience when you have to share the view with three hundred other tourist and onlookers. It seems to be increasingly difficult to find solitude in nature these days. Especially in a relativity populated state like Kentucky.

     What does any of this have to do with Twin Rocks you might ask? Twin Rocks remains isolated from tourism, mountain top removal and impoverished holler dwelling folk. It is not protected by state of federal government. It is completely off the grid even from local folks (aside from my home church congregation). It is in my opinion, an endangered species among geographical locations. I wanted to give you the entire background so that you could fully appreciate how rare it is.

   My parents had told me a lot about Twin Rocks, since their church purchased it earlier last year. My mother, who was sick with breast cancer, spoke fondly of the place. The church was planing to have a special birthday party for her at the camp, but she passed away one day before. While walking the property with my Dad, he couldn't help but think of my mother and how she would have enjoyed spending more time in that environment. The following is an account of my first experience at Twin Rocks.

     It was April the 6th, 2012. I made the two hour trip in from Lexington to Hazard. While in Hazard, I reconfigured my camping gear and picked up a few necessary supplies.  Hazard is not exactly beer capital of the world, so I was excited to find a six pack of St. Pauli Girl Beer. 

     I arrived at Twin Rocks around 1:30pm and parked my car as far up in the holler as I could drive. It was a sunny, April day. The sky was blue with a slight chill in the air. A gravel road gave way to an old wagon road leading up the steep mountain and winding out of sight. It didn't take long for me to locate a camping spot. I hiked about 10 minutes up the twisted road, which was more like a trail, until I came to a clearing by a stream. From there, I could not make out any of the dilapidated cabins or my preachers house. They were much further down the mountain, completely out of sight. From where I stood, woods surrounded me on all sides. The pleasant sound of a mountain stream trickled down a rock bead. I unloaded my gear and made plans to scout out the rest of the property before setting up my camp. 
   

     I have always enjoyed running. One of the best ways to get a good feel for the lay of the land is to run it. Usually, in East Kentucky when you go on runs or hikes you have to know where you are going, or else you might end up on someones property. Folks in the hills can be territorial. Depending on what time of the year your in the woods, you may stumble upon someones patch of pot. That's not a situation you want to be in. Marijuana is Kentucky's number one cash crop with 95% of it grown in the hills of East Kentucky. I have encountered folks with guns in the woods while on hikes, ready to shoot over there patch of money. Its never a comfortable experience. 

     I don't have to worry about that at Twin Rocks. The church owns the entire expanse of property. Prior to my run, I walked back down the mountain to speak with my pastor regarding the parameters of the propriety line. We were in the bottom of the holler. He pointed to the ridge of mountains that encircled the camp and said "you can run the whole ridge line and still be within the property." To give some prospective on this, just to climb to the top of the mountain would take twenty minutes to half an hour moving at a fast clip. I normally run about an 8ish minute mile. Its slightly slower for trail running. I was able to run for a solid hour through the hills and not see repeated scenery.

     The run itself was invigorating. The mountain sides were so steep in places, that I could reach out and touch the ground in front of me. At times it was more like climbing than running. The feeling of trail running takes me back to my childhood. Darting through those same woods that I grew up in is such an interesting fusion of sensations and memories. It is if I am instantly transported back to a ten year old boy who truly believes he is a ninja. After my run, I had to get my tent situated before dusk. I also started a fire in preparation for dinner.

     Everything was in order. It was chilly and getting colder as the sun ball dropped quickly behind the mountains.Visually, I could make out the black silhouette of a distant rolling ridge against the plumb purple sky. The fire smacked and popped in the dry night air. My hands held a warm bowl of udon octopus soup. I sat crouched on a large rock slurping up every bit.

     After dinner, I nursed back a few beers by the flickering light of the orange glowing fire. My banjo provided some entertainment (or harassment) for the local population of squirrels and birds. I ran through a set of songs that would have echoed through those same woods a-hundred years prior. I played and sang until my fingers became unresponsive with numbness and my fire was dying down.

     I retreated to my tent and took out my laptop in preparation to watch my favorite movie, Blade Runner. I wrapped myself under several layers of warm blankets and snacked on M &M's during the show. There is something very magical about watching a movie like that alone in such a location. When the movie had ended, I lay awake in the dark listing to the sound of squirrels scampering across the dry leaves on the forest floor. High above in a tree top, a hoot owl sang me to sleep; his calls becoming softer and dimmer as I faded into unconsciousness.

     The morning after was fairly routine. I resurrected my fire in order to make coffee. I had a granola bar and some dried fruit for breakfast. I packed up my belongings and loaded up my car for the trip back to Lexington. The following is a short video clip taken that morning. The cabins in the clip are in the lower part of the camp where there is generally more development.


     It would be a dream come true for me to someday build a small, primitive cabin high in the hills of Twin Rocks. Sometimes, I catch myself daydreaming about it. The only road to get to my cabin would be a dirt wagon road (too small for a car.) This way, folks would ether have to walk up the mountain or ride a mule if they had belongings to transport. I like the idea of leaving technology behind and retreating back to a simpler place.

     I remember when I was small, we lived in a holler called Laurel Fork. During the winter, sometimes the steep mountain road would freeze over. We would just park our cars at the foot of the hill and walk up. It forced us to get some good exercise, and It was never considered troublesome. The below photo is of a cabin built in 1827 in Knott County Kentucky. My ancestors were born and married in this house. I would love to have a similar construction for my cabin.

     The cabin itself would be constructed traditionally with hand hued logs. It would feature a wrap-around porch, with an awning as I love to sit outside when it rains. The porch would include a few straight back rocking chairs and a swing. These chairs would have Appalachian quilts draped over the backs. Porches are pleasant places to sit with friends and family, play music, or socialize. The interior would feature a central kitchen with a cast iron pot belly stove. This stove would not only be a cooking/baking tool, but also provide heat for the house in addition to the fire place. I would prefer not to have electricity hooked up to the house. Gas lanterns would be mounted on the walls. I would have running water for convenience in order to strike the perfect balance between old world and new. The walls would also be adorned with antique photographs of my ancestors.

    
     This cabin concept includes a small garden for fresh produce. A garden would also give me an opportunity to have an alternative means for exercise, fresh meals and the use of my mule for plowing. I would also love to have an old wash tube behind the house. If you've never taken a hot bath outside on a summer night, then your missing out. You can just soak and sip on a glass of wine. Insects chirp and drone a symphony of sounds while Fire-flys light up the dusky-dark sky.

     I realize that all of this is much to romantic to fit the bill of reality, therefore, I would be happy to settle for 50% of what I wrote. To have a place at Twin Rocks would be fantastic, let alone a mule, garden and all I have described. I am also a little concerned about my churches involvement with the land. I hope that they don't develop it in ways that diminish its natural uniqueness. I have no control over this. I do have a secret hope that it remains changeless. From a far off place, (Fargo North Dakota) I will keep my eye on a remote corner of Perry County that most folks in Perry County have never heard of. Only time will tell the future of Twin Rocks.    

Straight Edge Bourbon

     It was Christmas of 2003. I was twenty five. That year I had received an old fashioned straight edge razor for a gift. It came as a set including a mug, soap bar and lathering brush. I was eager to try it out. The blade had been sold through an estate sale and was truly vintage. This was no problem in terms of sanitation, as I was working in a sterilization department at the time. So, I had it sterilized prior to use.  The blade, however, was dull. My grandfather Denver Campbell had worked his entire life as a butcher and was an expert at sharpening blades. He still kept his sharpening stones under his old meat block in his kitchen.

     The Campbell house at any holiday was a festive environment. Christmas was no exception. Denver was not only a good butcher but a wonderful cook. The family had dubbed his kitchen "Denver's Diner". It was his domain. He took great delight in preparing a holiday goose or duck. The table was filled with all the typical American dishes but also included some Southern Appalachian specialties as well. These typically included shucky beans, cushaw pie and corn bread.

     After the meal, my family would gather in the living room and lay around for hours. My father and uncles could be found strewn out on random couches and lounge-chairs taking naps. My grandmother, mother and aunts scurried about the kitchen scrubbing dishes and packing up the leftovers. Grandada was off to the side sizing up the sharpening blocks in preparation for my big shaving experience.

     Let me just say that he was in his element! He stood, stooped over his prehistoric meat block, slowly and methodically dragging the blade down the narrow stone. It made a dull hiss as it went. His hands, worn with age, shook a little as he worked. "Denver, you be careful!" My grandmother said verbally fulfilling her role as the family worry-wart.

     It was around this time that my family made a concerted effort to hide my grandfathers knives. He also lost his ability to drive an automobile. His hands had become unreliable, as had his eyesight. Perhaps I should have sought out a more efficient and safe means for getting my straight edge sharpened. I didn't care if it was not perfect, I'd rather have my grandfather sharpen it because I knew how much he would enjoy the experience. I also knew that the risk of him injuring himself was minimal. "Man alive.....Hits' sharp enough to cut through paper. Go snatch-um bald-headed!" He chuckled a little as he handed me the razor. I went down the hall to the back bathroom and started making the necessary arrangements.

     I wanted to go slow as it was my first experience with a straight edge. I ran hot water, mixed my soap into a lather, brushed a healthy amount of foam on my face and took a deep breath. From the first stroke of the blade against my bare cheek it became evident that the blade had not been properly sharpened. It felt as though the blade were pulling my hair rather than cutting it. It was dreadfully painful and took twice the amount of time of a modern conventional razor. I entertained the idea of taking it back to my grandfather to see if he could get it sharper, but I knew that the dullness was due to his age and not his skill. 

     Midway through my shave, I emerged from the bathroom my face bleeding in spots and chapped with a redness that you would normally associate with a bad sunburn. I had only shaved about fifty percent of my face and a brief intermission was needed. My mother looked upset she begged me to stop. "You'll regret it. I don't think what your doing is very smart," she said with a scornful look. I ignored her protests. I was fully into this thing, be it good or bad. I learned later from my wife that my mother implored my wife to step in and put a stop to it. My wife's response was "It's his face." My mother seemed shocked by this response, for it was always the role of women in her culture to step in and save there foolish husbands when such things occurred.

     Halfway into round two, the bathroom door slowly opened. It opened just large enough for a hand to slip through. A hand holding a glass of much needed Even and Williams black label bourbon. Not a word was exchanged as my grandfather placed the bourbon on the sink counter-top. The door closed. It was like the moment in Bloodsport when Frank Dux was loosing dramatically to opponent Chong Li. Then the whole fight turned around after he had his emotional flashback sequence. The bourbon on the sink was like the turning point for me.

     Ten minutes later I exited the bathroom with an empty glass and grinning like a opossum. My red swollen face showed the battle scars and I had emerged the victor.....or at least until the bourbon wore off. I never told my grandfather that the blade was dull. I didn't want to hurt his pride. He may have known and felt bad that I struggled through the ordeal. That would explain why he snuck me the bourbon without a word. Ether way, it's a great memory of mine.

   

      I never shaved with the straight edge razor after that. I thought about taking it to someone who could properly sharpen it, but it seemed like a lot of hassle to go through when you could just buy a package of disposable razors for five bucks at the grocery store. I recently learned that you can get a straight edge with disposable razor inserts. I am growing a beard now, but would be interested in this system for the future. I know that any time I pick up a straight edge razor I'm always reminded of my grandada's silent hand graciously bestowing Even and Williams upon me during my time of need. 

                

           

     

We Boys

     If you grew up in Italy, your first exposure to alcohol would have no doubt been wine. Likewise, Russia is to vodka as Germany is to beer. I grew up in East Kentucky. Both of my Grandfathers drank Kentucky Straight Bourbon. This is the story of my first experience with alcohol which came to me in the from of good ol' KY bourbon.

     It was the summer of 1990. I was twelve. My grandparents houseboat creaked back and forth atop the blackish green murky lake in East Kentucky. It was nightfall. The clinking of dishes could be heard from the boat kitchen. My grandmother, dressed to the nines, stood scrubbing the grease from the pots. My grandfather sat in a lounge chair sipping Makers Mark and conversing with other family members on the front deck. The giant avocado colored luna moths swooped in erratic circular motions around the outdoor lamps. They were the size of small bats, and we boys tried to kill or capture them with our flyswatters.

     The stereo was always tuned to 101.1. This was the radio station that my family owned in Hazard Kentucky. The signal would sometimes fade in a snow of static crackles.  On Sundays local church sermons would be broadcasted. As we ran round the boat the sound of Southern Appalachian Pentecostal preachers would ring out in the humid night air. The country preaching was more like singing; rising and falling in rhythmic waves. A thick cover of fog rolled over the lake. The boat still smelled of bacon grease from the evening meal.

     My mothers high voice was heard clear over the radio. "Boys its getting late. Grab your shoes!" At this moment, I found myself in the master bedroom. I was with a friend. "Want to see something cool!" I said rushing him, knowing that Mom would be asking for us. I took him over to a trunk that was normally locked. I opened it up and pulled out a leather decanter. It looked like it could have come off a 16th century pirate ship.

     "What's in it?" my friend said. "I think its liquor." I did not know what "liquor" was. Perhaps I lacked the bravery before to try it alone. Perhaps I was more prone to dive in because Mom could have walked in at any moment. Ether way, I took the plunge and swilled two big gulps. I recollect above all the burn. The feeling of kerosene trickling slowly down my throat and landing in my belly. At age twelve your not exactly doing a lot of bourbon flavor profile analysis. Its just fire in you mouth. I kind of liked it in a strange way. Similarly to when you eat extremely spicy food and it makes you fill alive. I then passed the decanter to my friend. He took a sip and said nothing. I thought that maybe if I took another sip I will get to feeling funny on the walk to the car. I wanted to feel funny, so I took another fast gulp then  quickly threw the decanter back in the trunk and announced "Coming Mom!"

     We gathered up our things and told our grandparents goodnight. We walked down the long skinny ramp that lead across to the marina. Our sneakers squeaked and squashed with every step. It was a gross feeling of bare feet in wet shoes. Our untied laces flopped as we listened to the sound of bugs getting juiced in the overhead purple/blue florescent zappers. Folks would be fishing off that ramp till daybreak; Silently staring into the lime green water. Beer cans in hand. Cheeks swollen with chew. As we walked passed them in the dark, the sound of occasional spit into the lake was the only silence breaker.

     We nearly reached the parking lot and the liquor was not making me feel funny. It did make me feel a little grown up, even if I had to sneak it. "Maybe I didn't drink enough." I thought. Oh well, it didn't matter. We were soon playing games and singing songs on the way home.  My friend said nothing of it. Perhaps, this is an unsensational story. It was, however, my first encounter with alcohol. It was also my first experience with Kentucky Straight Bourbon, which is always sensational! It would not be my last.

     That old leather decanter was always around at my grandparents house for many decades. The last time I saw it, it was pretty beat up. If I ever see it again I'll try to arrange to have it in my home bar some day. 

This photo was taken on the houseboat around this same time. I am on the far right.