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‘Journey into the Wild and Wonderful’ documentary seeks to include every WV county

Posted by | August 26, 2014

Please welcome guest author Wayne Worth. Worth, of Clarksburg, WV, is the producer of a new documentary, Journey into the Wild and Wonderful.


Journey into the Wild and Wonderful is a video history of every West Virginia County told by folks who are invested in promoting and preserving the best of their county’s heritage. However, to understand the passion behind this project and why one would desire to undertake such an endeavor, you first have to understand the history of its producer.

My name is Wayne Worth. I was born on October 5, 1978 in Manchester, CT, and the first 10 years of my life were full of uncertainty and perpetual transition. It started when I was six months old with my biological father’s incarceration. Like many 23 year olds who experienced a turbulent childhood and spent the majority of their lives in the child welfare system, my biological father became a young adult with no direction, support, or family.

As a consequence organized crime became the means of support, employment, and family for him. It cost him 32 years behind bars, and overnight, my biological mother became a single mother. Being only 19 years old, and also coming from an abusive childhood experience, my bio-mother had her own issues to deal with (i.e. severe anxiety and depression). For six years she gave it all she had to provide me the best life possible, considering our circumstances. However, it was the abusive people (i.e. mainly significant others) that she had in her life which ultimately resulted in my admission into the child welfare system.

From the age of six through ten I was in a foster home of 18 people and then a group home of 20. My experience of family was a foster sibling, friend, or staff member of a facility who were all just temporary situations, waiting on their next destination. I can still remember vividly looking through my bedroom window at the group home, in tears, as another roommate left with a new family. It’s a feeling that no 9 to 10 year old should ever experience. It would be the last for me.

At age 11 I was adopted by a single father in Marlinton, WV. He at the time had two other adopted children (my brothers Michael and Chris Worth). My adopted father (Jud Worth) later married a wonderful lady, whom I proudly call Mom today (Margaret Worth). She brought her one-year daughter (Katie) into the family from a previous marriage, and then four years later, Sarah (my youngest sister) was introduced to the family. I became a child of the mountains.


Growing up in Pocahontas County, WV not only defined my connection to the land, but also instilled in me the value of family and community. The principles that I stand for and the success I experience in life, all originated in Pocahontas County. My experience of being supported with the utmost love and compassion for who I was, of setting goals for myself, and of being expected to contribute of myself, had a profound impact on my future, and was something that I wanted to share with the world.

At the age of 20 I moved to Huntington, WV where I attended Marshall University. In 12 years living in Huntington I had both my fair share of victories and failures. However, I lived life to its full potential. I had this thirst for learning and growing, and through that process I began to understand my contribution to the world.

I now wanted to make a difference and continue to learn, connect, and grow. That sort of desire directed me into the field of social work, where I had the opportunity to not only help others find the resources to navigate through the uncomfortable path to success, but also had the opportunity to become connected with other systems that were making a difference in the community and our state.

This process inspired me to want to learn, connect, and grow more with a state that provided me a family, community, and opportunities for success. So, in 2005 I jumped in my 1988 Chevy Corsica and drove to every county seat in West Virginia and started to learn the history and culture of all of our counties.

I later took two more driving tours (2007 and 2009) to even gain a better understanding our state. In my travels I learned that what defines our values and culture, and what is most important to us, is our history. It was my new found understanding of this that inspired me to undertake this project, Journey into the Wild and Wonderful. I now wanted to share with the rest of West Virginia our story, county by county.

I started producing Journey into the Wild and Wonderful in March of 2012, with three objectives: 1) I wanted to provide our state’s citizens and the world with an online video documentary (i.e. snapshot) of the history of every West Virginia county, told by people in those counties who were knowledgeable of and invested in preserving and promoting their county’s history. 2) I wanted to provide every eighth-grade West Virginia history teacher, free of charge, the opportunity to use this in the classroom and expand the knowledge-base of West Virginia history beyond what is learned in the textbook, for future generations. 3) I wanted to just contribute to a state that has given me so much in life, including life.

My journey started in Wyoming County, WV at Twin Falls State Park. I was very nervous. However, David “Bugs” Stover, Wyoming County Circuit Clerk and Scott Durham, Superintendent of Twin Falls State Park (my very first interviews) gave me the encouragement and confidence to continue the project.

To date, I am 42 counties into the project with 13 counties to go, and have interviewed over 90 people. I have a website and a Facebook page that has over 600 followers. To my followers, Journey into the Wild and Wonderful reminds them of the strengths of their heritage and brings them to a happy place in their own history.

The one thing that I have learned in this process is that our own personal history is connected to our overall local history. It’s what gives us a sense of pride, foundation, and direction. That is why we have fairs and festivals. They are opportunities to celebrate our personal connection to our heritage and what is most important to us. As a producer of such a project, you start to understand your own personal connection to a history and a story that is greater than yourself. A project like this changes you. As it grows, you grow with it, until you become one with it. For me, when I walk into an interview, I meet a stranger. When I walk out of the room four hours later, I have a friend for life.


I hope you get the chance to have Journey into the Wild and Wonderful inspire you as much as it has me and the 90 others I have interviewed thus far. You can follow and support this one-of-a-kind journey into West Virginia’s history told by our wonderful people by going to the website or to Facebook. Please share with your family, friends, and historical organizations. If you live in West Virginia and know an eighth-grade West Virginia history teacher, share the website with them and encourage them to use it the classroom. It will enhance their curriculum and enrich their students with knowledge of where they came from and the possibilities in front of them. It’s free! My gift of paying it forward! My gift to a state that has provided me so much…a state I call home!


Book Excerpt: ‘Downstream: Reflections on Brook Trout, Fly Fishing, and the Waters of Appalachia’

Posted by | August 25, 2014

two authors togetherPlease welcome guest authors David L. O’Hara (left in photo) and Matthew T. Dickerson. O’Hara is an Associate Professor of Philosophy and Classics, and directs the philosophy program at Augustana College (South Dakota), where he teaches courses in environmental philosophy, ecology and deliberate living, and an annual course in tropical ecology in Guatemala and Belize. He has written for the Chronicle of Higher Education, Books and Culture, and Orion. Dickerson is a professor at Middlebury College (Vermont), where he has taught essay-writing courses on nature and ecology and on the literature of fishing. His other books include The Road and the Torc (an historical novel), A Hobbitt Journey (on the writings of J.R.R. Tolkien), and two other narratives about fly fishing, trout, and ecology: A Tale of Three Rivers and Trout in the Desert. We’re pleased to offer you ‘Timber Barons, Splash Dams, and the Brook Trout of the Upper Tellico in Tennessee’, from chapter 5 of their newly published , (Eugene, OR: Cascade Books, 2014).


Matthew and I are driving the Cherohala Scenic Skyway, a beautiful two-lane road that connects the Nantahala and Cherokee National Forests. “Scenic Skyway” is a good name for this road; for a little while it lifts you out of the valleys of the Smokies and brings you to the top of the mountains, following their ridges.

OHara_Revised cover-page

Building roads in the mountains is tricky business, and the results are often ugly scars across the mountain face. Here I feel like I’m being treated to the work of engineers who thought first of beauty and of submission to the contours of the land, then only later about speed. This is not a road to hasten you on your way; it is a road that is both a means of transit and a beautiful end in itself. We glide over the mountains at a leisurely pace, and begin to coast down into eastern Tennessee.

We’re headed for the town of Tellico Plains, where we’ll meet a guide who will take us on the upper Tellico River. The Tellico River is a little more than fifty miles long, many of those miles suitable for trout. This is the longest free-flowing coldwater river in Tennessee. It’s also one of the most heavily fished and heavily managed put-and-take trout streams we’ve visited. One state biologist we spoke to described the lower Tellico as “a circus.” Every week from mid-March to mid-September, stocking trucks full of hatchery- raised rainbow trout drive along the river, stopping to pour in trout for anglers to catch.

Something like 135,000 trout are put into it every year, most of which are promptly taken out by anglers. The river is closed to fishing two days a week for stocking, presumably both to give the stocking trucks time to work, and also to prevent anglers from following the trucks and removing the fish right after they’re placed in the water. Each week on the day it reopens the lower Tellico becomes a fish market. People line the banks to fill their creels with fish that have lived in the river for only a day or two.

Upstream of this circus, in its headwaters, the Tellico gathers the rain that falls on a broad swath of mountains, carrying that water down from the Smokies toward the Tennessee River. The Tennessee, together with the Cumberland, drains most of Tennessee. Water from the Tellico eventually flows through Tennessee and south into Alabama, watering cities like Chattanooga and Huntsville, before turning north again, to cross Tennessee a second time, flowing parallel to the Cumberland for a short while before both rivers join the Ohio River.

The Tellico gained notoriety in the 1970s when it gave its name to the infamous Tellico Dam, the dam that impounded the waters of the Tellico and the Little Tennessee Rivers in the Tellico Reservoir, flooding native American historical sites and endangering the snail darter, a small river fish that most people had never heard of until it became a political byword.

Sampling for aquatic invertebrates on the upper Bald River.

Sampling for aquatic invertebrates on the upper Bald River.

In the springtime, the Tellico boasts some class IV whitewater, some of the best—and roughest—water available for kayakers. Its major tributaries include the Bald River, with its majestic falls, and the North River. The Tellico is a powerful river, and when it floods it floods hard. The banks give us a view of how high the floodwaters can get. Building bridges here takes careful engineering. The steep sides of the Smokies concentrate rainfall and snowmelt into narrow channels, and calm rivers can quickly become torrents.

In the 1880s clearcutting timber harvest began in earnest in this region. By the early 1900s a railroad reached Tellico Plains to allow the fine Tennessee hardwoods that covered these mountains to be carted away to build homes in Michigan. The timber baron who brought the logging operation here promised that he wouldn’t leave a stick standing in his efforts to turn the forest into capital, and he very nearly kept his promise. One logger said of these hills, “all we want to do is get the most we can out of this country, as quickly as we can, and get out.”20

When you remove the trees, floods happen more quickly. Rain that would have coated leaves and soaked bark, rain that would have been absorbed by the debris on the forest floor, and rain that would have been drawn up into root and branch, simply runs downhill with nothing to impede it. The soil and leaf debris are carried away into the river, which is bad news for anything that breathes clear water, like hellbenders and trout, or for anything that needs unsilted beds for its eggs and young, again, like trout, and like the riverine benthic invertebrates. Fine sediment suspended in the water fouls the gills of trout and suffocates them, like smoky air does to creatures with lungs.

Trout can ride out brief periods of muddy water if they can find less silty slack water to hide in, but a lot of runoff will kill trout quickly. Not much survived in the Tellico once the logging began. When it rained—and it rains a lot in the Smokies—the rivers turned from clear glass to chocolate milk, and the bodies of trout floated downstream, their gills full of suffocating mud, and their white bellies turned to face the sun. “Splash dams” made the flooding worse. To get the logs downstream more efficiently, loggers on the Tellico built temporary dams that could form deep holding ponds for logs.

A non-native rainbow trout Dickerson caught on the Tellico.

A non-native rainbow trout Dickerson caught on the Tellico.

As the dams filled, the stream below became a trickle, exposing natural cover. When the ponds were full, the dams were opened abruptly, sending a devastating wave of lumber and water that scoured the river and swept away everything in its path. This logging and flooding happened not just in the Tellico but throughout a great swath of the Smoky Mountains. Between roughly 1900 and 1935, many of the native brook trout populations of the southern Appalachians were completely destroyed by logging operations.

We humans may cause a lot of harm, but we also often recognize it when we have, and sometimes we try to make it right. Eventually, upstream calamities become evident downstream. And the people of Tellico Plains were not indifferent to the abuse of their watershed. In 1901 a newspaper editorial in Tellico Plains protested that “The general government ought to step in before it is too late. If the timber is all stripped from these hills the streams will dry up and the ultimate loss will be serious and widespread.”

That voice crying out in the wilderness was eventually heard. In 1911 the Weeks Act authorized purchase of forested or once-forested land in the watersheds of navigable rivers to preserve and restore these important waters. Thus began the acquisition of what was to become the Cherokee National Forest in 1920. Of course, sometimes our medicines can be worse than the disease, or they can have unwanted side effects.

Around the same time as the Weeks Act state fisheries officials found it easier to replace the lost native brook trout with rainbow trout imported from Western states, since rainbows are much easier to breed and stock. Even where the brook trout survived the logging, the rainbows outcompeted them, and the numbers of brook trout continued to decline as the rainbows migrated upstream throughout the watershed.21

The attempt to restore the fishery partly helped the beleaguered native brook trout by restoring its habitat. But when we re-built its house, we put a few gorillas in its living room, and then told it to sit down and make itself at home. It’s probably possible to share a house with apes, but don’t expect them to share your food with you. You’ll probably move out quickly, which is what the brook trout have done.

So we’ve come to the Tellico for two reasons. First, we’re still looking for native Southern brook trout. The most remote headwaters of the Tellico are said to still hold a small but significant population of the Southern strain of indigenous brook trout. Second, we’re looking for hope, and the lower Tellico offers us a picture of what a trout river can look like after it has been restored, even if it has become a rainbow trout river. The once ravaged mountains have been reforested and the river is now managed as an active fishery. We’d like to see what that looks like, and what we can learn from it.

Green Cove Motel in 2008.

Green Cove Motel in 2008.

After putting our bags in the cabin we’ve rented, Matthew and I drive back upstream to the village of Green Cove. We’ve been told that the woman who runs the store at the Green Cove Motel is a wealth of local fishing lore, and we’re eager to meet her. The building looks like it has been here a long time; it has that settled look, like the way boulders, deposited in the forest by glaciers or having rolled down a mountainside centuries ago, look both natural and a little bit alien. And like boulders, the cabins of the motel look like they’ve been worn and weathered by years of forest rain. Green Cove is a quiet, shady, restful place.

Just behind the store, the river slopes and chatters down the rocks. The store caters to forgetful anglers by supplying them with basic groceries and basic fishing gear. Marshmallows, chocolate, and graham crackers for campfire s’mores. Peanut butter and bread, and Twinkies. Nets that look far too big for use on a mountain stream. On the shelf beside the counter is a set of clear plastic drawers full of hand-tied flies. Yellow and black seem to be predominant colors in the dry flies.

We spend the next half hour talking with Catherine, the woman who has run the store since 1964. When we ask about trout, she smiles and her eyes shine. Without the trout, there might be no Green Cove. People come here to fish, and faded photos of happy anglers and their trout adorn the walls. She tells us the fishing is so good because the river is stocked every week. In fact, the stocking truck puts fish in right here, right behind the store. Matthew and I steal glances out the back window. It’s true—even from here, you can see them in the pools. One long trout rises gently to take something from the surface of the river.

The story takes a slightly melancholy turn when she tells us that the store is for sale. She tells us she’s in her eighties now. She just doesn’t have the energy to keep up with it, she says, though she seems full of life here beside this river. Folks around here and her regular visitors don’t want her to sell the store, because they don’t want the change. The Green Cove Motel is a tradition, an institution. It is a part of the Tellico, the place where many people from near and far away step into the river and experience its life. Her eyes, focused on something distant, gaze downstream.


Footnote 20: Horace Kephart, a logger from Michigan, in 1901 said this about the forests up the Tellico River.
Footnote 21: Cf. Kurt D. Fausch, “A paradox of trout invasions in North America,” Biological Invasions (2008), 10:685–701


Listen Here: Appalachian History Weekly podcast posts today

Posted by | August 24, 2014

We post a new episode of Appalachian History weekly podcast every Sunday. Check us out on the Stitcher network, available on mobile phones, in-car dashboards and tablets worldwide. Just click below to start listening:

We open today’s show with guest author John VanArsdall. His Canjoeco Restorations of Blountville, TN specializes in meticulous, historically correct restorations of antique late 18th & early 19th century log structures. “Each building,” he says, “has its unique nuances and complexities of difficulties to overcome. What I do requires a whole lot of adaptation in order to overcome these and involves, most of the time, a lot of patience and thought, but most of all, experience.”

We’ll pause in between things to catch up on a calendar of events in the region this week, with special attention paid to events that emphasize heritage and local color.

We’ll wrap things up with a look at the Textile Strike of 1934 in Huntsville, AL. “At the height of the Depression and in the midst of New Deal economic experimentation,” says guest author Taylor M. Polites, “more than 4,000 textile mill workers in Huntsville, AL, walked off their jobs, beginning a strike that eventually spread from Alabama to Maine. It was one of the largest national labor demonstrations in history—and the largest ever in the South.”

And thanks to the good folks at Smithsonian Folkways—from the 2002 album “Classic Mountain Songs from Smithsonian Folkways” — we’ll be able to enjoy some authentic Appalachian music from Marion Sumner in a 1996 recording of Lost Indian.

So call your old Plott hound up on the porch, fire up your corncob pipe, and settle in for a dose of Appalachian history.


Beyond Citizen Science: Natural History as a Cultural Bridge in Appalachia

Posted by | August 22, 2014

WSmith_headshotPlease welcome guest author Wally Smith. Smith is an Assistant Professor of Biology at the University of Virginia’s College at Wise. Originally from the north Georgia mountains, his work focuses on ways in which biodiversity science can be linked with ongoing efforts to develop economic opportunities in rural Appalachia, while preserving the region’s natural and cultural heritage.



When I first announced to colleagues that I was moving to the mountains of southwest Virginia several years ago to work as a biologist, I was met with skepticism about how I would take the move. “Are you sure?” a fellow graduate student asked. “That area is a little backwards, you know.”

As a lifelong Appalachian resident, I knew to take the question with a grain of salt. The perception of our region as uneducated, isolated, and hostile to new ideas is all too common in popular culture, and this trend often holds for the scientific community.

Students and faculty at UVa-Wise participating in a group hike to develop content for digital outdoor guides at the Sugar Hill Trail System, a local park in St. Paul, VA.

Students and faculty at UVa-Wise participating in a group hike to develop content for digital outdoor guides at the Sugar Hill Trail System, a local park in St. Paul, VA.

Many biologists like myself will spend entire careers at major research universities in urban centers far from the mountains, keeping rural portions of Appalachia seemingly foreign. Those of us who perform research in the region often visit only sporadically, with minimal interaction with residents, and few national science outreach initiatives venture into the mountains with educational programs.

Even those that do, like an innovative effort to bring science into rural classrooms by Durham, NC’s National Evolutionary Synthesis Center, are often summarized by media outlets as if they are conducting a trip to Mars. A 2011 writeup of this project in the Pacific Standard, for example, referred to the thought of taking outreach into rural communities as venturing “into the unknown.”

This historical gap between scientists and society in Appalachia has had a number of consequences for the mountains’ natural and cultural heritage. Appalachian schools, ignored by many outreach initiatives and constrained by tight budgets, often lag behind other parts of the nation in science achievement. This isn’t to say that Appalachian educators’ methods are not effective, of course – the region has some of the most dedicated and outstanding education programs I’ve known – but teaching science becomes exponentially more difficult when expensive technologies, culturally-relevant curricula, and knowledgeable experts are out of reach.

Further still, false perceptions of Appalachia as a hostile, isolated region have historically hindered our understanding of the mountains’ wildlife.

Little Stony Falls, a popular hiking destination in rural southwest Virginia, has been a focal point for the development of citizen science tools in the region.

Little Stony Falls, a popular hiking destination in rural southwest Virginia, has been a focal point for the development of citizen science tools in the region.

While ecosystems near major recreation areas and population centers have been heavily sampled by biologists, more isolated areas – many again overlooked by those uncomfortable or just unfamiliar with rural communities – are still mostly a glaring hole in our scientific understanding.

This leaves us with a laundry list of unanswered questions, ones that become all the more pressing when one considers that Appalachia is a hotspot of diversity for wildlife like salamanders, fishes, and freshwater mussels (among other groups). Where do these organisms live in Appalachia? What habitats do they prefer? How do they respond to human-driven change?

In the fall of 2012, a group of students in my laboratory at the University of Virginia’s College at Wise decided to aim for this “holy grail” of bettering our understanding of biodiversity in the mountains, while bridging the ever-present gap between scientists and the people who call our mountains home. These students were a mix of local residents of rural southwest Virginia and those from more suburban areas near eastern portions of the state, but the questions they addressed were the same. How, for example, can you link scientists and their research with residents who may live a day’s drive from the nearest major research lab or lecture hall?

Like any scientific question, we had to start with what we know. One of the first things our student group noticed was a body of research from the field of cultural cognition, a growing field in the social sciences that examines how individuals perceive and interpret scientific information. One of the most striking finds from this research in recent years was that rural residents, like many found across Appalachia, are best engaged with new scientific material when it is presented in a way that ties into an existing cultural background.

In other words, it might be best to teach ecology to Appalachian students using wildlife from their own backyards than it would be to do so using species from a tropical rainforest. Looking more locally, we had information from our own area that these examples of “big” scientific concepts were in high demand: a survey of southwest Virginia educators conducted in part through our lab found that over half of those surveyed strongly agreed that local case studies were greatly needed to improve science education.

QR codes linking to digital guides have been incorporated into trailhead signage and marketing materials for a number of regional trails, including this new preserve along the Clinch River in Wise County, VA.

QR codes linking to digital guides have been incorporated into trailhead signage and marketing materials for a number of regional trails, including this new preserve along the Clinch River in Wise County, VA.

After examining this research, the student group developed an idea. What if they crafted tools to introduce the topics that biologists research using local habitats and wildlife, all while encouraging Appalachian residents to become scientists and collect data of their own? The result was Southwest Virginia CSI (Citizen Science Initiative), a project designed to link Appalachian biodiversity with people across southwest Virginia and beyond.

The approach of Southwest Virginia CSI has been relatively simple. Appalachia is blessed with large amounts of public land that residents and visitors alike take advantage of for outdoor recreation, including hiking trails, lakes and rivers for paddling, and dispersed areas for hunting and fishing. The students first decided to harness these public lands as focal points for science education, developing digital interpretive guides to hiking trails that illustrate how local natural features relate to the scientific big picture.

For example, while a trailside wildflower may look beautiful and make for an excellent photograph, it also might form an outstanding example of relationships between plants and their pollinators, the delicate dance of co-evolution that drives the unique colors and structures we enjoy in the forest each spring and fall.

Since the project’s start in 2012, students have produced 13 of these digital guides to regional trails, all freely available through the Google Earth and EveryTrail smartphone applications. And since their inception, the guides have taken off. This set of guides alone has been viewed almost 70,000 times, bringing scientific research directly to rural residents through the lens of local wildlife. QR codes linking to the guides’ digital content have even been installed at a number of trailheads through partnerships with government agencies and local nonprofit groups.

That trailside wildflower mentioned above, though, may be more than just an educational tool. It might also be a sensitive or threatened species – one from a larger population that biologists don’t know exists. Our group has therefore partnered with iNaturalist, an online citizen science platform, to allow Appalachian residents and visitors to upload their photographs of regional wildlife to an online home that scientists worldwide can view and use.

The resulting group website, called Evolving Appalachia, allows users of our digital guides and others to contribute their own wildlife sightings that, if identified correctly and with enough information included, become real scientific data that are deposited alongside professional scientists’ collections worldwide.

The Green Salamander is one species that has benefited from citizen science collections in rural Appalachia. Observations by local citizens have led to the design of a formal study of the species by biologists; to date, this work has located nearly 30 previously-unknown populations of this amphibian.

The Green Salamander is one species that has benefited from citizen science collections in rural Appalachia. Observations by local citizens have led to the design of a formal study of the species by biologists; to date, this work has located nearly 30 previously-unknown populations of this amphibian.

For perhaps the first time, rural Appalachian residents can now learn about and contribute meaningfully to science without having to travel to a major university’s lecture hall or wait for scientists to come to them. In the two years since our project’s inception, over 3,000 observations have been recorded on iNaturalist through Evolving Appalachia, and many of the residents submitting observations have had the opportunity to network online with professional biologists to get feedback on how to identify a particularly confusing specimen. Out of these observations, several have actually led to publications in scientific journals, providing updates on species’ ranges, some found far from where they were thought to occur.

This year, our project continues to move forward. Our students have partnered with a local string band and Appalachian storyteller to produce narrated audio content for recreational paddlers through a local outfitter, and several communities have incorporated the students’ work into their tourism marketing packages. Just last month, we launched a new home for our content through a partnership with the Clinch River Valley Initiative, an award-winning effort to develop economic opportunities along southwest Virginia’s Clinch River – one of the most biodiverse rivers on the continent.

If anything, our iNaturalist project’s name, Evolving Appalachia, has had more meanings than one. Yes, we’re allowing citizens to contribute to the scientific understanding of how Appalachia has changed (and continues to change) biologically. But we’re also hopefully evolving perceptions of how science and scientists can interact with the region.

We have found overwhelming support and participation from local residents and none of the negative stereotypes that so often color the region, finding instead that Appalachia has a desire to learn about its natural heritage – and to share what we already know. In short, we’ve found an answer to that question I was asked so often when I first moved here: yes, we’re sure. Biologically speaking and otherwise, there’s no better place to call home.


Dams on the Upper Yough: What Almost Wasn’t

Posted by | August 21, 2014

chris preperatoPlease welcome guest author Chris Preperato. Preperato is a film-maker and historian who works for George Mason University. He’s also a kayaker, frequently spending his weekends between the West Virginia panhandles. His project, a History of the Upper Yough, combines those explorations of the history of the Youghiogheny River in western Maryland, and its impact on both the boating and local communities.


There was supposed to be a dam at Sang Run.

And another at Swallow Falls. A third major dam in Crellin for water storage would have completed the plan. The Youghiogheny flows free today from its origins above Silver Lake until it crosses the Pennsylvania border. But engineers, politicians, and power companies spent the first half of the twentieth century trying to reduce it to a series of lakes.

1944 Report on the Youghiogheny Basin

1944 Report on the Youghiogheny Basin

The most unique proposition came in 1910. The owner of the Youghiogheny Power and Light company proposed a centuries worth of cheap, renewable energy for Baltimore, MD. Stricken with an incurable disease at the age of 75, Mr H.P. Tasker decided he had a plan that would benefit society. With a ninety-nine year lease, and power offered at $3 per horsepower, all the city had to do was provide the transmission wires. More miraculously, he proposed doing so without building a single dam.

The rates he was proposing were “absurdly low,” and yet even under scrutiny of the city’s engineers, the plan held up. Even with the cost of transmission lines and property purchases for the right of way, the power paid for itself. And yet, like most hydro-electric plans in the Youghiogheny valley, nothing came of it. The same is true of a 1914 proposal that created the Youghiogheny Water and Power Company. A plan would come together, politicians would approve it, and the money would never materialize.

Construction on the Dam, 1924

Construction on the Dam, 1924

One of the marvels there is a tunnel which is being drilled straight through a mountain…The stupendous undertaking of this company is an engineer’s romance.
-The Baltimore Sun, July 10, 1924

In 1921, the Youghiogheny Hydro-Electric Company was given the right to build dams on Deep Creek and the Youghiogheny.

Wall Street Journal December 13, 1923

Wall Street Journal December 13, 1923

They were the third company to be given the rights. And like those previous companies, their surveyors found that building a series of dams (three on the Youghiogheny and one on Deep Creek) was the best course of action. But the demand for power had risen in the intervening years. They determined that building the dam on Deep Creek would be “economically self-sustaining.”

What followed was a month’s long process of buying up land titles and moving houses to higher ground. In total, 8,000 acres were purchased, including about 140 farms and 50 houses. They also had to relocate miles of highway and build new bridges across what would soon wider spans. Rail lines were extended to the dam, and temporary housing was built for the construction workers. A little over four years and $9 million later, the dam came online at 4:00pm on May 26th, 1925.

Ultimately, the Youghiogheny River in Maryland was saved by war.

In the midst of World War II, damming was no longer a private endeavor. The New Deal brought the federal government into the damming business, and the war made power a national security issue. Between the time Deep Creek Dam was built and the war began, power demand had risen 170% in Pittsburgh. Its growth during the 1940′s was exponential. With the steel foundation of the war machine being forged at the mouth of the Youghiogheny, the headwaters were called on once again to provide for those downstream.

1944 House Report on the Youghiogheny

1944 House Report on the Youghiogheny

The Yough River Reservoir was already under construction in Confluence; approved earlier by the Flood Control Act of 1936. In addition to adding power generators to that dam, the familiar dams at Swallow Falls, Sang Run, and Crellin were back. This time, they were joined by two smaller dams. The first was the Victoria Dam on the Middle Yough, and the second was a re-regulation dam located below Bruner Run.

Pittsburgh Press Nov 26, 1944

Pittsburgh Press Nov 26, 1944

At a cost of $38 million, they would provide 162,000 kilowatts of power. And with the federal government in charge, money was no longer an issue.
For those that had long viewed the Youghiogheny as “wasted water,” this plan was definitive and comprehensive.

The dam in Crellin would finally tame the river at its source, and the remaining dams would firmly regiment the river’s path to Pittsburgh. The Yough would tumble through twelve miles of tunnels, its downhill rush harnessed by turbines for power; free flowing water foiled by concrete walls.

But building dams, much like fighting a war, requires resources. The bombing of Pearl Harbor occurred just five days before the Youghiogheny report was sent to Washington. At a time when the Hoover and Grand Coulee dams towered above the river banks, and the TVA was littering the American South with dams, the government couldn’t spare the resources to build the Youghiogheny dams. The men and equipment to build those dams were instead sent to build ships and tanks. The power to build planes and the atomic bomb came from larger dams out west. In a final twist of irony, the biggest and best plan to dam the Youghiogheny was simply too small to matter.

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