A leisurely drive up I-81 in Virginia, no different from the several other times I have driven the same route, heading toward a few days of relaxation and renewal.  Yet this Sunday afternoon was somehow very different. 

Having spent almost every waking hour (and many that should have been sleeping hours) of the last month immersed in genealogical research, the names of the Southern Virginia exits were speaking to me with a new familiarity.  The beautiful never-ending Blue Ridge Mountains to my right, with their majestic peaks and breathtaking valleys, appearing as a painting across the clear blue sky, this day were crying out to me.  This day they were my mountains.  They held the mystery and history of my own heritage, and I knew I must answer their call.

Over the next few days the pull of adventure only heightened, so I made plans to explore those rugged mountains on my return home.  I mapped out an adventure that would include mountain towns, family cemeteries, and rock churches, and I called my mom for directions to the family cemetery of my grandmother's ancestors.  She and Daddy could go with me, she said, with a tinge of her own excitement.  It would be an all day adventure, miles and miles of riding the Blue Ridge Parkway, little mountain towns, and winding mountain roads.  Were they really interested?  They were.

So Saturday morning I left my vacation spot and began a scenic route to Ararat, Virginia, where my parents would meet me to begin our adventure.  The trip down the interstate seemed long, as my excitement mounted about what I might be about to experience.  I left I-81 at Christiansburg, VA and headed down Highway 8.  I stopped for gas, and began to feel my time travel had already started when the gas pump was so old-fashioned I had to work at remembering how to operate it.

I turned onto highway 221 at Floyd and drove through Willis, looking for clues of how to get to Buffalo Mountain.  I instinctively pulled off at a little rock church, thinking "Could this be one of the six little rock churches built by my great-great-uncle Bob Childress (1890-1956)?  No, it was a Baptist church, and he was Presbyterian.  I decide to ask for directions to Buffalo Mountain.

Upon entering a roadside store in Willis, I asked the girl at the counter.  She called for another lady who was more familiar with the area, and she was more than happy to talk with me.  "Do you really want to go to the mountain," she asked, "or to the church?"  I had not mentioned anything about a church, or about the biography of my great-great-uncle, that the people there apparently called "the book," but she knew exactly where I wanted to go.  "Just go down this hill, 'til you see a horse farm on the right, that used to be a prison camp.  Then turn left.  That's Buffalo Mountain Road."  

Her teenage son piped in,"Watch the turn.  It's a false turn.  There's a ditch there you'll land in if you're not careful."  "Thanks," I said, smiling.  "That sounds like good advice."

The lady continued.  "Go out that road 'til you come to a road on your right.  Rock Church Road."

"It's a good ways out there," added the son, "and it's a winding road."

"You'll turn beside some green dumpsters," she said.

I thanked them for their help, jotted down some notes, and headed down to meet my parents.  I hit highway 799 straight across from the store, where I caught my first quick glimpse of Buffalo Mountain, easily recognizable from pictures, but the road was narrow and winding, and there was nowhere to pull off for a picture.  I hoped I'd get another view sometime later.  Soon I came to the Blue Ridge Parkway, at mile marker 174.  I knew two of the rock churches were visible from the Parkway, so I was watching for the first one with anticipation.  Milepost 180.  There it was!  Suddenly the adventure became real! 
 

Above: See the rock wall in the distance.  Below:  A closer view.


Here, among the weeds and overgrowth was the burial ground of one set of my great-grandparents and my great-grandfather's parents, among other relatives.  My mom took notes for my genealogy work.  My dad and I took pictures.

Then back over the fence, and we loaded into my car to head back toward the Parkway.  By this time, I had a feel for where we were headed and some of what we might see.  First stop:  Bluemont Presbyterian Church, 1919.  The stone work is starting to look familiar.

Here one of Uncle Bob's eight children is buried.  Daddy spotted a group of deer at the edge of the woods, the first of many he would be the first to see before our adventure would end.

Next stop:  Granny Puckett's cabin.  This time we could walk around.

Then just a few yards before the Mayberry Church, we stopped for a little refreshment at the Mayberry Country Store, where, of course, "the book" was for sale (but the gas seemingly advertised in this photo was not).

After walking around the Mayberry church, we took 799 to Willis, to begin our trek to Buffalo Mountain, which promised to be the climax of the day.  "Willis," my mom said,  "One of the churches was between Willis and Floyd."  I hadn't noticed one, I told her, but we could go back.  Then it hit me.  The little Baptist church.  "That's the one," she said.  "There's a marker on the corner that still says Willis Presbyterian Church."  (She had all kinds of literature with her, she was reading and checking as we rode.)  

I pulled back into the parking lot of the same little church that had caught my eye earlier, and it was as she said.  There was the marker.  Willis Presbyterian Church, 1954. 
  

Then we headed for "The Buffalo."  The directions I had gotten earlier from the lady in the store were perfect.  Buffalo Mountain Road.  Stopped to photograph the Little Flock church which Uncle Bob didn't build, but he did preach there.  Turned onto Rock Church Road and drove a while.  Then all of a sudden we all three gasped.  There it was.  Buffalo Mountain Church, named for the mountain Uncle Bob had "moved."  Just across the road in the church cemetery (enclosed in a rock wall of course), he, his wife Lelia, and three of his children are buried.  We saw the school he built, the manse where they lived (although we didn't agree for certain on which one it was), daddy spotted two more deer, and behind the cemetery was the most perfect and breathtaking view of "The Buffalo."
 

Stricken with what we had seen, we started to backtrack toward Ararat, where they would return to their car, and I would follow them into NC to Slate Mountain church where other relatives and ancestors were buried.  "Are  you sure," I asked my mom," that Slate Mountain is in NC?  There's a Slate Mountain in VA not far from here."  She shuffled further through her literature and agreed that there were two Slate Mountains, one where her relatives were buried, and the other was another of the rock churches.  Although we were near it all the time, it was a search, but, after a couple of rainbow sightings, we found it.  Located off the Parkway between mileposts 174 and 175, turn at the wooden sign for cabins, go one mile, and there it is on the left, off the road, at the top of the hill.  Slate Mountain Presbyterian Church, 1932.

We had found 5 of the 6 churches.  The other was toward Hillsville, a trip for another day.  A couple more deer sightings, and we would head for NC.  Ararat was easier to find this time, although we still never found 614.  From Ararat I followed them across the state line to the other Slate Mountain (Baptist) Church, where we saw the burial grounds of another of my great grandfathers and other relatives.  Another storm was brewing.  There had been evidence throughout the day of scattered storms:  the sound of distant thunder, an occasional lightning flash, a few drops of rain, an occasional dark cloud, but not once were we caught in a storm.  Mostly bright clear blue skies.

What a day!  I can't begin to explain what it all meant, or why I feel so much more alive after spending the day connecting with people who have died,  but I know I won't ever forget it.  Connections.  With ancestors I never knew, and with parents I am fortunate to still have living and well! 

Well, enough of this.  I must get back to my genealogy.