In the Hookworm Region 
A Vacation on Horseback and in Camp in the 
Mountains of Virginia 
By FLORENCE A. TASKER 
I N the rugged mountains of Southwest Vir¬ 
ginia we spent our two weeks’ vacation. It 
could not be Canada that year, for it is an 
aggravation to go up there for sport and just 
when you are comfortably settled down to some 
rare trout fishing or good hunting, break camp 
and come home. So for the short two weeks 
we planned another game. There were five of 
us in the party: a pretty girl and a bachelor— 
we the married pair—and our fox terrier, Pat. 
It all started out so promisingly and boded to 
be so full of interest. It was September, the 
nights just chill enough to warrant a big fire, 
and the days all bright and warm, but will you 
believe it, nothing ever came of it. I watched 
that pair faithfully all those fourteen days and 
never a tremor of an eyelash did I see in either 
of them. So I shall have to tell just the bare 
facts of the outing, and leave out all the romance 
that I hoped would add some color to my story. 
But we surely did have a good time. We left 
the railroad and on horseback plunged into a 
rough wilderness to our miner’s shack, a two- 
room affair, very rude but comfortable, in the 
heart of the mountains. It nestled so cosily in 
a clump of trees with a sparkling spring nearby, 
and an outside sheltered cooking shed, with the 
dearest little cook stove and well constructed 
table and benches. Screened from view of the 
camp by masses of laurel was a temporary stable 
for the accommodation of our four horses. 
Our food supply of chickens, ham and corn 
was brought to us each day by a farmer with 
whom we had previously made arrangements. 
He lived far away across the mountain, but he 
and his mule knew every little winding trail, and 
each day after he had been our guide on the 
long excursions on horseback he brought us back 
without any fuss to the little whitewashed shack. 
The horses we used were gentle beasts, with 
easy gaits and well trained to the rough climbs 
and descents. In some places it was so steep 
and treacherous that we found it necessary to 
cling to their manes to keep from sliding off the 
saddles, but this bit of excitement only lent its 
charm to the riding and was not in the least 
alarming; perhaps it was not even necessary. 
One very unfortunate circumstance was the 
fact that we two women did not wear divided 
skirts. We had made thin black cotton riding 
skirts to be buttoned quickly over the one-piece 
gingham dresses we wore around camp. They 
were comfortable and convenient, but not at all 
suited to such rough going. They clung and 
stuck and tore until in about two days their 
hems had turned to fringe. 
The girl and I quickly solved the problem of 
cooking; we both pitched in and the men looked 
after the fire. They made it appear, too, very 
laborious work when in fact the wood had al¬ 
ready been cut and stacked for our use. But 
I called myself quite tactful to rush off to the 
spring while I left Kitty frying potatoes and the 
bachelor prodding the fire, and would not you 
call it maddening to return—singing lustily—to 
find them still frying potatoes and prodding the 
fire ? 
On our second day in camp we unearthed a 
marvelous swimming pool cut into smooth rock 
and well screened from the horses and birds and 
rabbits—for no person ever came that way—by 
a natural heavy growth of evergreens. It was 
a rare treat after a long hot ride nearly all day 
through the sun to refresh ourselves in this dark, 
cool bath. And in that part of the world there 
were no unrighteous mosquitoes nor black flies 
to make those baths a torment. 
The game there is rather scarce, although a 
bear now and then is reported killed. There are 
pheasants and quail in season and a few streams 
that boast of bass. Besides these there are rac¬ 
coons, opossums and red and gray foxes which 
the natives hunt with mongrel hounds. The far¬ 
mers along the New River, which winds around 
the mountains, may pull out some famous cat¬ 
fish—both mud and blue varieties—of which they 
are very proud, and they really are very good. 
There are rattlesnakes in the mountains, but we 
saw none. The country itself is wild and beau¬ 
tiful and just the place for horsebacking and a 
little trip like ours. 
We were in an iron ore district and every day 
visited some mine or big deposit, or climbed 
slowly up and around a high mountain to eat 
our lunch and look off for miles and miles 
through the September haze across the tops of 
other mountains into another county. It looked 
as if we might step from top to top across the 
narrow valleys and pick our way out to level 
country. 
Here and there, away off from nowhere, we 
would come upon a bit of clearing where a 
squatter had his abode—a dilapidated cabin con¬ 
taining one room, one window and door and a 
large family. Poor and destitute they all were, 
but ever ready with their “Howdy, sir,” and 
“Howdy, ma’am.” It is the land of the hook¬ 
worm, and he thrives well in those parts. At 
every cabin the shiftlessness of the district was 
apparent. A broken down step at the threshold 
sounded a warning of what might be found 
within. Around this step wallowed and slept 
the family pig, or perhaps to a nearby stump a 
dejected cow was tied and fought the flies; a 
few scraggly chickens strutted in and out of 
the shanty at will, and as we rode on with few 
exceptions there would be a grand scramble of 
children, filthy and ragged, to hide behind their 
mother or the half closed door. The one win¬ 
dow—and rarely did we come upon a cabin 
with more than one—would contain one or two 
whole panes of glass, the other apertures stuffed 
grotesquely with canvas or articles of clothing. 
On old decrepit fences or stunted bushes we 
sometimes came upon the family wash, all of it 
looking only too ashamed that it was supposed 
to have been near a tub. 
This is the way the “white trash” live. 
Sometimes there is work at the mines, some¬ 
times there is none, but it makes no difference. 
There is never a sign of better times, never an 
absolutely new dress or suit upon the backs of 
the white trash waifs; nothing ever mended, 
rarely if ever a patch or darn; nothing ever new 
but a baby boy or girl. 
In one of the lonely valleys we rode up to a 
habitation more dismal than any other we had 
seen to ask for water. Now, in that community, 
it is something to be talked about to have a party 
on horseback—and city people, too, at that—ac¬ 
companied by a well-fed dog, pull up at your 
door and chat awhile. So the excitement with¬ 
in was great. There ensued a scuffling for the 
largest cracks between the logs and ferret-like 
eyes peered out at us. A half-subdued squeal 
we heard quickly silenced by a motherly slap, 
and she, poor soul, pinched and wan-looking, and 
no more than able to hold the tiny bundle of 
humanity that nestled in her arms, supported 
herself against the creaking door. Trying to 
appear perfectly at his ease, on the doorstep 
rested the lord of the manor, an indifferent in¬ 
dividual, and looking like he might not have 
real good reasoning powers. He managed to be¬ 
stir himself enough, however, to quench our 
thirst, and without invitation all of us alighted 
from the horses to give them and ourselves a 
bit of rest. 
Our guide, the farmer, knew these people by 
reputation and knew that neither parent could 
read or write. Coming up to where I stood he 
told me to get the mother in conversation and 
ask the children’s names. This I did, and in a 
lackadaisical way the half-fed creature answered 
