Assault on Camp Allegheny

by David March Fleming

Original Source

Chapter 1: Infiltration

Chapter 2 - Commencement

This run took place September 8, 2009.

“Take the first step, and your mind will mobilize all its forces to your aid. But the first essential is that you begin. Once the battle is started, all that is within and without you will come to your assistance.” — Robert Collier

“Clunk!” the iron base plate announces as I step off the old Deer Creek bridge. The bridge was closed to traffic in the ’85 flood, but a configuration of metalwork permits those on foot to pass welcomed. The base plate apparently hovers a fraction of an inch off the ground, just enough to slap down when persuaded by an energetic foot. Nearly a mile from the house, the plate serves as a kind of mental starting gun; a point where the mind begins to commit to whatever lies ahead.

Our three cats often walk nearly this far with me and Maddy. Along such outings, Spot, Domino, and K. C. will, being self-scheduling as cats just are, drop from time to time to roll and stretch upon the sun-warmed asphalt. It is to them no inconvenience at all upon us larger, less understanding and more hurried types. But that’s alright. Maddy and I usually drop with them and soak up minutes of a good day. As for this day, a running day it being, the cats knew not to try nor to pursue. I imagine by now they have settled back on the porch, awaiting my return.

Just off the bridge, there is now a different sound under foot. The scrape scrape of gravel. It mixes with my own breathing, mixes further still with an escalade of cricket song from the fields left and right. The crickets continue their days-long courtship of fall. This really is a perfect day. It isn’t hot, it isn’t cold, it isn’t really fall.

The transition up and onto Route 28/92 near Sheets Road is complete. I enjoy the approach to the bridge over North Fork of Deer Creek, just where the valley of Green Bank opens up. The ensuing straight into and through Green Bank is a lot of fun, and is a pleasurable passageway into the longer runs.

Across the bridge and now in front of the Church of God, I recall sitting in there a month or so ago for Jim White’s funeral. A full church came to pay their respects to the storied man from Cass, World War II veteran, and friend to clearly many. The service began at 2pm, with a long moment of silence to give time for the Cass train to whistle in his memory. How nice and thoughtful.

I hardly knew Mr. White. I sat on the benches at Cass with him and others a few times. He had a quiet and kindly way about him, always pleasant and smiling in his bits of conversation. That day, in that church presently to my left, so many spoke of Mr. White. I was touched at the conveyance by others of his remarkable life and lessons. It caused me to reflect upon the many special souls we have here, and of how powerful the lives of others can be in our own lives. Rest eternal, Mr. White. I was glad to know you even just a bit.

Straight stretches are time warps in the runner’s mind. I am already past Sheets Garage before I find the end of my thoughts upon that day at the church. The straight arcs left, then resumes to the Green Bank post office.

“Hey twinkle toes, how we doing?” I inquire just two miles out. No response. I gathered that I was being rude, or interrupting, or something.

From the post office to the library is the first inkling of a hill. I feel notice of this marker disseminating from my feet up through my hips, and I return back through my feet to the painted path a tacit acknowledgment that this is, of course, the smallest possible preview. A shimmy of intangible uncertainty washes my mind. This is nothing, I counter, and it is behind me.

Oh, what a father’s treat as I approach Green Bank Elementary! I see the kids playing, and there running with her friends is my Madalaine. She sees me before I have a chance to go past undetected, and hard-lefts from her present vector towards the black wrought iron fence. Her smile is immortal in my eyes as she arrives across from me, joining rank and pace along with me on her side of the fence.

“I’m running to Camp Allegheny!” I beam and proclaim confidently to her.

“Where?” she asks but knows.

We talk another ten seconds perhaps, exchange our see-you-at-homes, and she breaks rank hard-left into the playground, declaring to her friends as she fades from me, “My daddy is running to Camp Alle...”

The school and parking lot now behind me, I notice I’m running at a speed over budget and pull back to previous pace. Reassured and recharged with her encouragement, I am unbreakable. I must have smiled my way through Arbovale, which is good, because everybody I ever see in Arbovale smiles, so I fit right in.

I am putting Arbovale behind me as I pass the Rabbit Patch and descend the first stage in a pair of downhill/uphill combos. All is proceeding well. Road and feet are meeting in concert, repeatedly, peaceably and efficiently. My twin thigh-powered engines are now at operating temperature, extending and pushing in their exchanging and noiseless reciprocation. This is a good sign. The last time I was here, this part was harder. Today is better. Good pace, no pain. Excellent.

You know how at night, when you’re driving up a hill and you can see a brightening horizon of oncoming car headlights cresting over the hill? A heads up that your reaction will be forced in the ensuing seconds? Yeah. It was like that, a similar cresting of awareness that began interrupting a quiet, complacent me on this last climb towards Deer Creek Farm. Not at all of a bright nature, however, it was instead the intensifying reverberance of the mountain’s recriminating and prophetic contempt, an admonishment from that mountain still far away. My feet notice too, and next my legs. The unanticipated offensive has our undivided attention, and the message is essentially this: I see you.

Then presently, all is resolutely settled as a surge of unmitigated unanimity mobilizes from my mind, down through my frame, is executed by the feet, and this hill and conversation is, like the others, behind me.

My feet mumble something, but I can’t make it out. Something I believe angry and equally recriminating, directed back at the mountain.

Whatever. I, at least, was glad to see the flats of Deer Creek Farm. And I was glad to know that Boyer wasn’t far beyond. There, there would be some smiles. And water.

TO BE CONTINUED

DF
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Commissioner Fleming,

That is a well written account.
About 16 years ago I took a journey on the Staunton to Parkersburg turnpike(I visited the battlefield briefly) and on the way back decided to turn onto another road and I eventually ended up on Buffalo Mountain Road.
As nice as the trek is along the main route, the back road to the battlefield is even more scenic in my humble opinion and would not be as far in terms of distance.
I just looked at a map and it does indeed look like a section of Buffalo Mountain Road does come out on "Old Pike Road." Also, a section of Green Bank Road comes out up there on the "Old Pike" as well.
Of course, you are probably already aware of this but I thought I might pass it on.