Burke’s Garden, Virginia
Geographic anomalies fascinate my husband and fellow traveler,
Klep who is a civil engineer both in temperament and in training. When he recently read an article describing
the high mountain valley known as Burke’s Garden, he put it on our day trip
list for a future trip to Winegar Hollow.
The future arrived yesterday morning. We awoke to a lovely late August day when a little
October invaded August, a fine day for a mountain ramble which we started at
the Hitching Post Diner
on Highway 11W near the turnoff for Stanley Valley Road
where our cook was also waitress. She
operates the diner during the week, closing every day except Friday which is
catfish day at three. On catfish day her
day is 17 hours long. I can understand
why she closes on the weekend!
After a fine East Tennessee breakfast including some of the
finest biscuits we’ve had lately and some nicely cooked fried eggs, soft
yellows, crispy on the edges whites, complimented with sausage gravy, we passed
through the edge of Kingsport and over the Virginia line to Gate City where we,
by chance, managed to land on the correct road the wind us through the
mountains, past Lebanon and on to Tazewell, the closest incorporated town to
the area known as Burke’s Garden, Virginia.
As we travelled, we twisted around curves, gained elevation,
and enjoyed the intense green of the roadsides decorated with banks of blooming
goldenrods and the lower brilliant blue from the late summer chicory. Occasionally we passed a garden in a low flat
spot near a house and the road which made us green with envy, the corn on the
stalk just maturing, and tomatoes ripening on the vines.
As we entered Tazewell, Virginia, not to be confused with Tazewell, Tennessee or New
Tazewell, Tennessee, we passed a brightly painted sign advertising Donut Diva
on Main Street, but we did not see it as we passed through and found Burke’s Garden
Road which would lead us rather circuitously to our destination. We filed that information for the return
trip. Who doesn’t occasionally need a
doughnut!
Our surroundings became even more beautiful as the altitude
became higher. At first we passed a few
mini-mansions, but then the trees thickened, the climb became steeper, and the
curves, sharpened. I held on to the edge
of the seat a few times and reminded myself to breathe although the road was
actually quite a good one and it did have a line down the center. My East Tennessee husband was thoroughly
enjoying the drive! We were soon over
three thousand feet high and climbing.
We wondered as we enjoyed the luxury of making the trip in the car what
it must have been like for the band of men who accompanied the surveyor Burke
to this area in 1745 who tramped up this mountain with only their feet to carry
them and no road. As we climbed, the
temperature dropped to the point that when we leveled out and saw the valley
stretched out in front of us, the temperature was down to sixty degrees and the
elevation was well over three thousand feet.
As we slowed at the approach of the Amish Country Store, the
one and only retail establishment for the area, we were amazed at the vast
pastures and fields stretching to the rims of the ranges surrounding them. Occasionally we could see the buildings for
the farms.
We had been on the road for almost three hours although we
had driven only about one hundred and thirty miles. We knew that the country store served
sandwiches. As we drove in, two other
cars joined us in the parking lot.
Two young Amish women with their little white hats and
traditional dresses made our sandwiches and also took care of other customers
as we waited. One customer, traditionally
dressed, came in for a bulk order and I
enjoyed overhearing the conversation although I could understand none of it,
for it sounded much closer to German than English. As we waited, we fell into conversation with
those who had followed us into the store.
The couple now own a farm in the valley, retired from Minnesota, and the
other gentleman was from Nashville, Tennessee and seemed to be on a genealogy
trip. The couple from Minnesota had
renovated a hundred and eighty year old farmhouse and had always wanted to live
on a farm when they bought their farm, complete with a herd of goats. The first
summer they occupied the house there was no running water. They learned how to survive the way it used
to be. We later drove past their farm which is a show
place now, the old two story house stuccoed over three brick deep walls.
While we ate our thick ham and cheese sandwiches on homemade
sourdough bread on the wide front porch,
a couple of motorcycle riders rode up. I
was amused to listen to them talk as though they would not be welcome in the
area. After they got their helmets and
jackets off, they looked pretty harmless and run of the mill to me. I find it somewhat amusing that just because
people ride a two wheeled vehicle that it somehow changes their won persona and
makes them tough dangerous people. Ah,
well, to each his own. They did not seem
to be looking for conversation.
After we finished eating, we wandered back inside and paid
the young women. We were sorely tempted
to buy a pan of cinnamon rolls, but we resisted and drove up and down the small
roads of “The Garden.”
Mrs. From Minnesota had recounted that the name of the area came
from when the surveyors buried the peelings from the potatoes they peeled and
boiled for supper when they were camping in the valley. They did not want to leave any sign that they
had been there since the natives were occasionally a little less than friendly
back in 1745. The following year when
others followed into the area, they found potatoes growing there from the peels
buried. Now the potato plays an
important part in the annual festival.
We passed the old school which is now closed (The few school
children who live in the valley are bused down to Tazewell.), the old closed
post office,
lots of farms, silos, cows, goats, cornfields, hay fields, and
creeks. The area has never been developed
because for a very long time, the owners would not sell any land. In fact, it is believed that Vanderbilt
wanted to build his Southern mountain retreat there and even he did not have
money enough to tempt the owners. I can understand
that they truly did believe that it was “God’s Thumbprint.”
After an hour driving around with the windows down,
relishing the smells of mown hay and the colors of the flowers, we turned and
started down the rollercoaster road. We
stopped at an overlook, but very little could be seen because of the foliage,
but we could glimpse down into the valley at some of the farms we had seen.
We were blessed by spotting “Donut Diva” as we made our turn
onto Main Street in Tazewell. Klep got a Cappuccino to fortify him for the drive back
to the hollow and we each chose two of her doughnuts. Klep got one which had blue berries with,
white frosting, and blueberry drizzle. I
got a German chocolate one. We each got
a vanilla frosted one with chocolate drizzle which we saved for breakfast. The young woman who owned the little shop
told us that she had been in business for three years. She had a list of orders hanging in her
window and was still busy preparing more doughnuts while we were there. After sampling her product, we could
understand why she was doing well!
We found US19, traveled down to I 81, joined rush hour on
the interstate, got off on 11W after we passed Bristol, and arrived home after
six.
We feel blessed to have seen one of God’s unique
geographical creations. His work is indeed
magnificent.
