Donnie talked about Pocahontas County all the time. Camping there. I wasn’t interested. We were neck deep in converting the barn and my whole life was a primitive camping trip. I didn’t think I needed to wander into the Wild and Wonderful to experience more awkward cooking attempts and uncomfortable sleeping arrangements. My life was full of such.

She continued to wax poetic. Lyrical, an ode to the Williams River and I told her I was sure it was beautiful. But declined.

And then she was diagnosed with breast cancer. And then it metastasized before we were even able to process the news.

She wanted a last trip to the river. And we agreed to go along.

It was a grand affair. A living wake with the star of the show front and center tired but beaming from ear to ear. The Bings were there – a celebrated mountain music band. Kirk Judd, someone I hope is someday our poet laureate was there. There was good food. And good drink including the Plum, a flavor of moonshine I once wrote a short story about. All of Donnie’s friends were there – it was astonishing to learn how many of us considered Donnie our best friend. She was my best friend.

The Williams River runs through the Monongahela National Forest. The campsites are primitive, and this group of people always camped at the same site. It was holy ground.
I understood that as soon as I encountered it.

A bit down from the campsite were the falls of the river. We were there in July. We had left hazy, hot and humid also known as Hell in the Ohio River Valley for the cool air of the high mountains. The water of the river was turn-your-skin blue. We took the kids there to bathe. Gave them a bar of soap and let them loose. They were so cold they were teeth chattering shivering heathens, but we couldn’t get them out as one by one they lined up again and again to slide down the falls. Happy shrieks and child laughter. Moms just shaking their heads. From the campsite, the sound of the band, and everyone else playing the instruments they had brought along. The smell of venison roast. The air clean from the morning rain that flooded our tent but didn’t dampen our spirits.

Holy Ground.

That night, Kirk took us up on the ridge and recited some of his poetry. I’m not a poet, but I love to hear poetry read. It’s an aural art. And oral. Kirk doesn’t read — he recites from words engraved on his heart. It is as much of an experience to hear Kirk’s poetry as to listen to the Bing’s play fiddle, banjo, mandolin, guitar and bass. The traditional arts are alive in West Virginia.

We later sat around the fire. Musicians continued to play. We all told stories. Donnie grinned from ear to ear. She grinned the whole four-day weekend. I think it was the 4th of July.

Sunday morning, I woke to the sweet sound of a mandolin. I peeked out of the tent and saw Mike standing at the picnic table in front of a camp stove cooking breakfast and playing the mandolin. The sun was dappled through the trees and the mist was still settling. The river burbled and babbled, the sausage sizzled, and peace flooded my soul.

I relaxed, totally, for the first time since Donnie had called me with the news.

A tragedy, yes. But one I could live with now. We had feted her properly. We said our goodbyes to her in a way and at a place that mattered.

We further consecrated that holy ground.

She died the following March.

Ten years or more later, I went back to the Williams. To that very site. I stepped on the rocks at the falls and remembered Donnie’s laughter as her small child and mine sent peals of giggles vibrating through the air. I remembered Mike and the mandolin. Kirk and his poetry. Dave’s artistry with the fiddle and the roast. Monica passing out rain ponchos.

I left my sorrow on that hallowed ground and left with only happy memories.

I miss her still. She was my best friend. And her spirit soars at the Williams River in Pocahontas
County, West Virginia at the gateway to the Monongahela National Forest.