Ah, the wild grape! Food for turkey, grouse, many other birds and wildlife, the wild grape in West Virginia consists of eight species, any combination of them found statewide. Most of the time, all we see is the lower vine. The foliage and fruit are out of sight in the forest canopy. I know of one vine that is easily 24 inches in diameter at the base. This vine winds and twists among at least one hundred trees or more. This grapevine is just one of the dozens of botanical marvels around our mountains that have graced themselves to all of us.
Grapevines also have another use. This use has a long history. Some of this history might come from the readers themselves. Who hasn't cut a grapevine and done some grapevine swangin'?
The use of grapevines as recreation usually starts with swinging on flat ground. In the primitive stages, running hard, swangin' aloft in a short arc for fifteen feet or so and yelling like Tarzan was enough. When our voices changed, so did the swangin' stakes. We discovered we could swing over creeks. We had our fair share of soakings. Sometimes the grip on the vine was not right or sometimes the vine would give out. Give outs usually happened mid-stream. The resulting fall, arms and legs flapping, was only funny to the one on the bank. Slow, smooth slide-ins were funny, too. They always provided a shower of branches of odd and every sort of weight.
As the years went on, vines became more of a science as we figured out ways to overcome give outs over water. We even had names for some of them. The knee tuck, the kicker and hand over hand scramble we basic moves. When air borne over the water began to tire, we moved on to height and distance. That meant moving from the creek to the mountainside. You had to find the choice vine and the steeper the mountainside, the better. There are two reasons for that. On really steep slopes, trees can be sparse. Still a forest, but thin. Even better, on the steeper hills you could run down the hill, swing out and be fifty to sixty feet above the ground at apogee. Re-entry was often times sloppy, but most of the time you could lead with your feet to come home safely. Give outs were not much of a problem. You just landed somewhere downhill.
There were some dream vines. One on Pheasant Mountain and one above a brookie creek.Everything was right about those two vines-- steep hill, open forest, long vine. Pheasant Mountain was just a one day affair, but the brookie vine lasted for several months before giving out. I'd be lying if I could really tell you how high off the ground those vines' rides were.Oh, the things we did for fun.
In desperate times, one must draw upon experience. When we left our camp and drove to another stream for a day trip, we knew it was going to rain. We just didn't know how much. Hobbs and I got a few hours of holler fishin' in before the skies opened up. By the time we go to the truck, the creek came up a good foot, it was still raining and we were soaked. The heat blasted in the truck and windshield wipers flapped on the way back to camp. There was no conversation.
Getting back to camp would not be easy. We pulled into the wide spot in the road along our creek. It was flying-- bank to bank. Our camp was secure, with plenty of dry wood under cover. We were sure of that. The problem was we were on the wrong side of the creek. On the other side of the stream was a rock face that ran about a quarter mile upstream, kissing the stream the whole way. On our side of the stream, the old railroad grade ran along the right bank and crossed the creek, so to speak, just after the rock face petered out on the other bank. We were camped just above the old crossing and just upstream from the rock face.
Hobbs scratched his head, "Well, let's go up and have a look."
"It is very nice in here, Besides it is still raining."
So we waited a while and the rain let up enough for my taste. We changed into dry clothes and headed back to camp, if possible. We left the rods in the truck, but took the wading gear. We also knew what we would see before we left the truck. Over yonder was our food, warm sleeping bags, cooler and other important things. Between yonder and here was a raging mountain torrent, unfishable, looking very sinister, and not wadeable. For several long minutes,it might have been the Blackwater Canyon.
Chelsea ran upstream on the high bank for several hundred yards, jumped into the flood and reached shore as close to camp as a surveyor. As the sun broke through, she shook off, sending thousands of sparkling diamonds into the forest. Then she sat down and waited for her cook and driver. The ol' girl looked like she had done it all before.
"Looks like we have to cross now."
"That's some dog you have there! She showed up the way to cross! You first."
"She beats everything,' Hobbs said as he leaned against a hemlock tree. A grapevine tapped the bill of his hat. Hobbs spun around, holding the vine like a big pepperoni and shouted, "HERE is the other side!"
The creek still looked like the Canyon, but it was the only choice short of a long, cold swim or a drowning. While we skillfully measured our cut, pulled on the vine, put both of our weights on it and otherwise tested our transportation, Chelsea had fallen asleep on my sleeping bag. Our tests looked good. Tests in the lab do not always match the results in the field. But, being veterans of many a swangin', we were confident of our results.
"I'll go first", Hobbs volunteered.
" She's your dog, but..."
In a mighty run, Hobbs took off screaming, "You're the cooooookkkkk!"
For a split second, his swing looked good. I couldn't see, but I'll bet his eyes were, at least, as big as mine. Ten feet into his swing, the vine gave out about four feet. Hobbs performed a perfect knee tuck. In fact, it might have been the first full all body tuck in swangin' history. His feet were high in the air. It was a wonder to watch. As graceful as his move was, for about six feet, just about one inch of his butt grazed the water. Not only was he on the other side, but he had a witness.
I elected the downstream leg kick move, since the vine had already given out. Instead of swinging straight across, I ran downstream and hoped for a wide arc on the now longer vine. All that worked well until near the end of the swing when I was horizontal and looking down on the stream. When the vine gave out , I only remember hearing foliage crashing, feeling what felt like iron rods hitting me everywhere, seeing green, but still holding on to Hobbs' pepperoni.
As he came running up wild-eyed and wet-assed, he shouted,"Oh, man! That's the best size nine crotch entry into a rhododendron move I've ever seen! Up there about six feet! Good job! See you in camp when you get outta there. What's for dinner?"
Grapevines also have another use. This use has a long history. Some of this history might come from the readers themselves. Who hasn't cut a grapevine and done some grapevine swangin'?
The use of grapevines as recreation usually starts with swinging on flat ground. In the primitive stages, running hard, swangin' aloft in a short arc for fifteen feet or so and yelling like Tarzan was enough. When our voices changed, so did the swangin' stakes. We discovered we could swing over creeks. We had our fair share of soakings. Sometimes the grip on the vine was not right or sometimes the vine would give out. Give outs usually happened mid-stream. The resulting fall, arms and legs flapping, was only funny to the one on the bank. Slow, smooth slide-ins were funny, too. They always provided a shower of branches of odd and every sort of weight.
As the years went on, vines became more of a science as we figured out ways to overcome give outs over water. We even had names for some of them. The knee tuck, the kicker and hand over hand scramble we basic moves. When air borne over the water began to tire, we moved on to height and distance. That meant moving from the creek to the mountainside. You had to find the choice vine and the steeper the mountainside, the better. There are two reasons for that. On really steep slopes, trees can be sparse. Still a forest, but thin. Even better, on the steeper hills you could run down the hill, swing out and be fifty to sixty feet above the ground at apogee. Re-entry was often times sloppy, but most of the time you could lead with your feet to come home safely. Give outs were not much of a problem. You just landed somewhere downhill.
There were some dream vines. One on Pheasant Mountain and one above a brookie creek.Everything was right about those two vines-- steep hill, open forest, long vine. Pheasant Mountain was just a one day affair, but the brookie vine lasted for several months before giving out. I'd be lying if I could really tell you how high off the ground those vines' rides were.Oh, the things we did for fun.
In desperate times, one must draw upon experience. When we left our camp and drove to another stream for a day trip, we knew it was going to rain. We just didn't know how much. Hobbs and I got a few hours of holler fishin' in before the skies opened up. By the time we go to the truck, the creek came up a good foot, it was still raining and we were soaked. The heat blasted in the truck and windshield wipers flapped on the way back to camp. There was no conversation.
Getting back to camp would not be easy. We pulled into the wide spot in the road along our creek. It was flying-- bank to bank. Our camp was secure, with plenty of dry wood under cover. We were sure of that. The problem was we were on the wrong side of the creek. On the other side of the stream was a rock face that ran about a quarter mile upstream, kissing the stream the whole way. On our side of the stream, the old railroad grade ran along the right bank and crossed the creek, so to speak, just after the rock face petered out on the other bank. We were camped just above the old crossing and just upstream from the rock face.
Hobbs scratched his head, "Well, let's go up and have a look."
"It is very nice in here, Besides it is still raining."
So we waited a while and the rain let up enough for my taste. We changed into dry clothes and headed back to camp, if possible. We left the rods in the truck, but took the wading gear. We also knew what we would see before we left the truck. Over yonder was our food, warm sleeping bags, cooler and other important things. Between yonder and here was a raging mountain torrent, unfishable, looking very sinister, and not wadeable. For several long minutes,it might have been the Blackwater Canyon.
Chelsea ran upstream on the high bank for several hundred yards, jumped into the flood and reached shore as close to camp as a surveyor. As the sun broke through, she shook off, sending thousands of sparkling diamonds into the forest. Then she sat down and waited for her cook and driver. The ol' girl looked like she had done it all before.
"Looks like we have to cross now."
"That's some dog you have there! She showed up the way to cross! You first."
"She beats everything,' Hobbs said as he leaned against a hemlock tree. A grapevine tapped the bill of his hat. Hobbs spun around, holding the vine like a big pepperoni and shouted, "HERE is the other side!"
The creek still looked like the Canyon, but it was the only choice short of a long, cold swim or a drowning. While we skillfully measured our cut, pulled on the vine, put both of our weights on it and otherwise tested our transportation, Chelsea had fallen asleep on my sleeping bag. Our tests looked good. Tests in the lab do not always match the results in the field. But, being veterans of many a swangin', we were confident of our results.
"I'll go first", Hobbs volunteered.
" She's your dog, but..."
In a mighty run, Hobbs took off screaming, "You're the cooooookkkkk!"
For a split second, his swing looked good. I couldn't see, but I'll bet his eyes were, at least, as big as mine. Ten feet into his swing, the vine gave out about four feet. Hobbs performed a perfect knee tuck. In fact, it might have been the first full all body tuck in swangin' history. His feet were high in the air. It was a wonder to watch. As graceful as his move was, for about six feet, just about one inch of his butt grazed the water. Not only was he on the other side, but he had a witness.
I elected the downstream leg kick move, since the vine had already given out. Instead of swinging straight across, I ran downstream and hoped for a wide arc on the now longer vine. All that worked well until near the end of the swing when I was horizontal and looking down on the stream. When the vine gave out , I only remember hearing foliage crashing, feeling what felt like iron rods hitting me everywhere, seeing green, but still holding on to Hobbs' pepperoni.
As he came running up wild-eyed and wet-assed, he shouted,"Oh, man! That's the best size nine crotch entry into a rhododendron move I've ever seen! Up there about six feet! Good job! See you in camp when you get outta there. What's for dinner?"
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