West Virginia, astonishingly vertical, rises like a wall nearly everywhere but right in front of you. The highways cut like ribbons through the hills, while below grade, little communities huddle in the hollers. We got off the highway and followed a thin road to Matewan (that’s MATE-wan), a coal and railroad town. Now kind of run down, it has a dramatic hertage of violence and tragedy: as the regional headquarters of Devil Anse Hatfield, of the Hatfied-McCoy feud (He does kind of resemble Kevin Costner!); as the site of
labor conflicts in 
the 1920s, where cold-blooded shootings left unionists and goons dead in the street (I need to watch again the John Sayles movie); and after repeated
floodings of the benign-seeming Tug River, which flowed quietly during our visit, indolently separating us from Kentucky. The modest museum was highly informative. After lunch, we drove on, pausing at the site of the Battle of Middle River, KY, a January 1862 scrap in which the young James Garfield first distinguished himself, and put himself on the pathto the presidency. Not really much of a battle; 15 dead on both sides combined, which is about what you get at your average Bronx social club on a hot night Saturday night in August, but it helped keep Kentucky in the union. We spent the night a nice bed and breakfast in Glasgow, KY, where Abraham Lincoln once slept or had tea or something.
