We didn't know it at the time, but this would be our last day of cycling. As we bumped along the dirt road, I was struck by a flashback. The charcoal sky was a spectacular backdrop to the scarlet barn on the ridge, still green from summer. A flock of sheep scampered chaotically, their bleats fading on the wind.
       For an instant my mind was back in New Zealand. Yet here I was in Randolph County, West Virginia, just hours by car from our home in Washington, DC. But for my husband, Bob, and me it had been a three-and-a-half-year bike ride from the nation's capital, taking the long way-around the world.
       We used to say that when we moved out of the city we'd move to West Virginia. Taking weekend biking trips to the mountain state helped us keep our sanity during six years of life in DC. We loved West Virginia's revitalizing mountain air, and we envied the folks who could mountain bike in their back yards.
       On one of the many Sunday evening commutes back to the city, still on a high from the superb trail ride, we realized that we wanted to travel more. In time, we sold our condo, put our goods in storage, and set off to see some of the places that famous authors had written about and famous painters had painted; places that graced the pages of grand old travel magazines; and some places whose charm lay in their intriguing names.
       After cycling on five continents and through some of the most exotic and beautiful locations I'd ever imagined, we wondered, "Was West Virginia really as idyllic a place as we remembered?"

Exploring the Greenbrier River Trail
       There was so much of the state that we had never seen, and there is a certain thrill in setting off to explore, not knowing where you will lay your head at the end of the day. But as we began our homeward journey through the mountain state, we wanted to relive old memories, to reconnect with our past. Like when you pull out the family photo album and pore over the pictures until you feel a part of your own history again.
       We had only cycled a short section of the 76-mile Greenbrier River Trail in the past, but we had seen enough to entice us to bike its entirety. This was a perfect time to do it. The leaves were turning colors, and the hard-packed gravel surface with a grade of less than one percent would make an enjoyable ride through Greenbrier and Pocahontas counties.
       Although it is possible to cycle the whole trail with little more than water and food, I am a fiend for maps and local knowledge. So the day before we hit the trailhead at Caldwell, we cycled the few miles from our campsite at the Greenbrier State Forest to the Monongahela National Forest District Ranger Office at White Sulphur Springs.
       The receptionist gave us various leaflets on the local flora, fauna and history, and the ranger on duty went over state and forest service maps with us, devising alternate routes for the section of the trail that had been washed out in the flood of 1995. She told us where we could find markets and good places to camp and what the grades and surfaces were like along the roads.
       The next morning I lay snugly in bed until the unzipping of the tent flap heralded my steaming cup of espresso. We'd been carrying our tiny three-cup Italian caffeterra around the world with us, and it was Bob's duty to make the morning brew. Mmmm. How invigorating a hot cup of "java" can be on a chilly autumn morning.
       I barely noticed the whoosh of the trucks as we raced to the trailhead. Exciting thoughts danced in my head, and I couldn't stop humming that famous song by John Denver. "Almost heaven, West Virginia...." I chuckled to myself as I remembered the incongruity of hearing that song the year before on a remote island in Indonesia.
       It was still misty as we carried our bikes over some washouts near the beginning of the trail. But by mid-morning it was burning off and leaving a glorious fall day. We rolled along, relishing every pedal stroke. The hillside was steep to the west of us and the river deep green along the east. There were still lots of wildflowers in bloom.
       A couple of hours after lunch we approached the Droop Mountain Tunnel. It was damp and dark and musty inside. We rode our bikes as far as the sunlight allowed. Then we hopped off and gingerly pressed our bikes forward, quite literally heading for the light at the end of the tunnel.
       Back in the sunshine again, we came upon a single campsite, one of many along the trail designed just for trail users. There was a picnic table, a level spot for the tent, and a fire ring. With the smoothness of three-and-a-half years of making camp together, Bob pitched the tent while I went in search of the spring that our map promised was nearby. By the time I got back to camp with the water bags filled, Bob was stoking a fire, the tent standing at attention behind him. Though he usually prepared meals on our tiny collapsible camp stove, tonight we'd have the smoky flavor of lentils cooked over an open fire.

Reminders of Europe
       The fog had dissipated by the time I emerged from the tent the next morning. Bob was already mashing bananas and crushing walnuts for pancakes, and there was a wildflower bouquet on the table. With our bellies full and our muscles rested, we packed and headed up the trail. A warm wind was blowing fallen leaves across my path like a wave washing up the beach, and shards of sunlight danced with the swaying branches. We cycled across old trestle bridges renewed for bikers; we pedaled beneath canopies of oaks and maples and redbuds and around rocky outcroppings carpeted with moss; we coasted beside old farmhouses and fields of corn. The last few miles of the day we paralleled Watoga State Park on the other side of the river.
       We crossed a bridge over the river and drifted into the park's campground. The individual sites were thoughtfully placed among huge trees, making it feel as though we'd pitched our tent in an outdoor cathedral.
       Bob was gone when I got back to the campsite from a hot shower, but he rode up with a cheshire grin as I was arranging kindling wood.

"What did you find?" I asked eagerly.

"A campfire isn't a campfire withooouuuut..." He reached down to his pannier, "s'mores!" he said, pulling chocolate bars, graham crackers and marshmallows from his bag. "And, Jen, I know how you feel about maps and guidebooks, and I found this."

"Where on earth did you find all this, Bob?"

"There's a shop just north of where we turned off the trail to come into the park. People can even rent bikes and canoes there."

The Road to Stony Bottom
       Another day of picture-perfect riding along the trail brought us to Marlinton where we restocked our panniers at the supermarket. From here we would be on roads, because of a a badly washed out section of trail between Marlinton and Cass.
       We headed north on US 219, but turned eastward after only a mile. Aaahhhh. Almost no traffic now, but, boy, was there a hill to climb. We pumped up hill then had about seven or so miles of gentle ups and downs around rural homesteads. At the end, we turned north onto Back Mountain Road, a slightly larger but still quiet road. The scenery was spectacular: vistas of variegated hillsides, far-off white farmhouses surrounded by green hills speckled with cattle. We stopped for lunch in Clover Lick, a hamlet as charming as its name, then ambled onwards. In late afternoon, a steep descent brought us abruptly to another quaint hamlet, Stony Bottom. It consisted of a half-dozen houses, one was the immaculate Moore's Motel. Owners Mr. and Mrs. Moore were just cleaning the pool for the winter, and we got to chatting.

"Have you all heard the weather report today?" I asked.

"Well, looks like we're going to get some rain," Mr. Moore said.

The Push to Bartow
       The next morning it was still raining intermittently, so we decided that we'd not camp at the end of the day, but aim toward Bartow where Mr. Moore said there was a motel. The scenery outweighed the adversity of biking in drizzle. The saturated clouds hung over the landscape, and all along the undulating road, rain dripped from the foliage.
       We stopped in Cass for a bag of hot popcorn from the general store and visited some of the shops. Heavy gray clouds were boiling in the sky, and Bob and I vacillated between stopping here or continuing on. We wanted to carry on--we'd had a nice rest yesterday, plus we were already packed and had only been out an hour. On the other hand, images of soggy shoes and vistas obscured by rain-streaked eyeglasses deterred us from booting our kickstands. We decided to dash over to take a look at a B&B that was just up the hill from the store.
       It looked inviting, but it was locked with a sign saying to call the owner as she was elsewhere and would be back later. Believing it to be an omen to carry on, we wasted no more time, but raced the old Cass Scenic train to the level crossing, a mile or so up the road. We waved at the passengers, and the conductor blew that wonderful whistle and huge clouds of black smoke billowed from the engine's stack.
       For the next few hours we coasted down and pumped up the rolling hills. We were alternately showered with rain then engulfed by mists. By the time we made it to Durbin, it was getting dark and a cold strong wind had come up. We wondered if we should get groceries as soon as we found a market and hurry on to the motel Mr. Moore had mentioned in Bartow.
       We headed east on Route 28, a much busier road than we had been on in a long time. We stayed close together, and the colder it got and the more headlights that flashed, the faster we rode. Another 20 minutes and we were racing through Bartow scanning the signs for the motel.
       What a sense of relief we felt as we pulled into the parking area. I jumped off my bike and rushed into the motel office to get a room. I was stunned when the woman told me they were full.
       Numbly, I walked outside and gave Bob the news. My vision of a hot shower was blown away with the next gust of icy wind, and I knew we had to think fast and get settled somewhere for the night. Soon we would have no light left.
       We turned the bikes around and headed a quarter mile back to where we had seen a forest service office. The door was locked when we got there, but we circled around back. A light was on, so we knocked on the door. We were hoping that we could pitch our tent behind the office.
       The rangers who were still in the office were incredibly sympathetic. They couldn't allow us to camp out back, but they made phone calls until they found us a hot shower and a warm bed. The next morning, like the folks at the White Sulphur Springs office, they went over our map with us, recommending beautiful forest service roads that would take us north.
       It was two days later that we found ourselves on that beautiful ridge, so redolent of New Zealand. As I eased my foot out of the toe clip and turned to look back, I reflected on the trip that was so close to being over. We were not just cycling through West Virginia on our way home from the adventure of a lifetime, we were discovering the adventure in our own "backyard"---a state that surely is one of the finest places in the world to bike.

Jennifer Carpenter-Peak is an adventure travel writer. She lives in Berkeley Springs with her husband, photographer Robert Peak, their infant son, Dakota, and their crested chocolate husky, Bali.