Beckley Exhibition Coal Mine

I woke up at Twin Falls Resort State Park with a plan for the morning. The campground was quiet. After a warm shower, I gathered the trash and stopped at the dump station on my way out. A ranger waved me down and asked what site I’d been in. I explained that someone had taken my spot at site 4, so I moved to 14 where Starlink worked better. He thanked me for being accommodating and said he’d refund my fees. About an hour later, while I was on the road to the Beckley Exhibition Coal Mine, the lodge called to process the refund.

Beckley Exhibition Coal Mine

Yesterday, I had driven to the Beckley Mine for the tour and was told they were closed for the season. I guess I looked very dejected, because he said, we have a tour for some students tomorrow morning at 10 a.m. I told him I’d be back in the morning. I made it to the mine at 10, bought my ticket and they told me to head for the tour through the door. I chatted with the guide before the students arrived. He had retired from the federal government as a mine inspector. He had done that for 10 years. The energy quickly picked up as the 8th graders from a local middle school filed in. There would be four tours to accomodate all the students.

The Beckley mine, once known as the Phillips-Sprague Mine, began operation in 1906 and produced coal for nearly fifty years before closing in 1953. The City of Beckley later bought the property from the New River Company—about twenty-seven acres including the mine itself—and eventually converted it into the Beckley Exhibition Coal Mine. Before it opened for tours, the city had to make extensive changes underground: clearing passages, stabilizing the roof with new epoxy-anchored bolts, improving ventilation, and enlarging the entry so visitors could safely ride the rail cars inside.

Our guide explained that the original mine was only about four feet high. Miners worked on their knees or lying on their sides, swinging picks and shovels in cramped quarters. Over time, the tools and methods evolved—from hand picks and blasting powder to pneumatic drills, electric cutting machines, and conveyor belts. He walked us through that progression, describing how each step made the work faster but didn’t always make it safer. Methane gas, low oxygen levels, and falling “kettle bottoms”—petrified tree stumps embedded in the coal—were constant threats. Even small sulfur balls made drilling difficult and could slow production.

He talked about the rats that lived in the mines. As strange as it sounds, miners were glad to see them—a rat’s presence meant the air was safe. When the rats suddenly disappeared, miners knew to follow; they were better warning systems than any gauge. Our guide told us he used to keep a large rubber rat to demonstrate the point and would leave it sitting on the kettle bottoms. Earlier this year, a woman on the tour started screaming and swinging her purse at it. She later filed a complaint, so now they keep the rubber rat out of sight—and make sure to warn everyone before bringing it out.

The guide had spent forty-five years working underground and talked about putting three kids through college from his mining wages. All of them, he said, turned out just fine. His pride came through in every story. He explained the modern roof-bolting process—drilling deep holes into the ceiling, inserting epoxy tubes, then driving long steel bolts that clamp the rock layers together to prevent cave-ins.

The mine still holds its share of stories. On May 4, 2023, Brad Paisley (a country music singer) filmed part of a music video underground, joining a list of musicians who have done the same. Our guide appeared in all of them, his face now a familiar one in a place that once ran on sweat, coal dust, and dim light. The Beckley mine may no longer produce coal, but it still gives visitors an honest look at what life was like when it did.

Above ground, the recreated coal camp gives a glimpse of how miners and their families once lived. The Bachelor’s Shanty was barely large enough for one person—just a bed, small stove, and a few shelves holding the essentials. The family house felt modest but complete, with a combined kitchen and living area and a single bedroom shared by all. In contrast, the Superintendent’s House looked almost grand, well furnished and spacious, a reminder of the clear divide between management and miners. The simple one-room church stood nearby, heated by a coal furnace in winter and serving as both a place of worship and a gathering spot for the community.

Inside the visitor center, the Miners’ Museum tells the story of coal not just as an industry, but as a way of life. Displays show how equipment evolved—from hand tools and carbide lamps to the mechanized drills and continuous miners that eventually replaced them. Among the exhibits that stood out to me was one about baseball in the coal camps. It wasn’t just recreation; it was community. Nearly every mine had a team, and weekend games drew big crowds. The companies encouraged it, knowing it kept morale high and fostered loyalty. Skilled players were often rewarded with safer or lighter jobs underground, and the best were sometimes lured away to rival camps with promises of better pay—or better script.

The museum also captures the economic reality of those days. The mine owned the houses, the store, the church, and even the doctor’s office. Miners were paid in company script, which could be used only at the company store. Converting it to real dollars was nearly impossible, trapping many families in a cycle of debt and dependence. Leaving the mine meant leaving everything—home, job, and whatever savings existed (in script). The exhibits make that world tangible: the pride of the work, the deep sense of community, and the hard truth that the company controlled nearly every part of a miner’s life.

Time slipped away, and before I knew it, I’d been at the mine for nearly three hours. As the last group of students headed out, I climbed back into the van and drove a few minutes to a new Starbucks in Beckley. I ordered a coffee and a bagel for lunch and learned something new—if you drink your coffee in the store, refills are free and the coffee comes in a real cup. While I ate, I tried to map out my route along the Coal Heritage Trail Scenic Byway, which turned out to be more complicated than I expected. I’d also seen signs around town noting that one of my favorite singers in the day, Bill Withers, was born here, and I decided to stop by the park dedicated to him before moving on.

Bill Withers

The Bill Withers Memorial Park is a small but meaningful tribute to one of West Virginia’s most beloved musicians. The centerpiece is a life-size bronze statue of Withers holding his guitar, set against a backdrop of plaques that trace his journey from a Beckley-born coal miner’s son to a Grammy-winning artist known for songs like Lean on Me and Ain’t No Sunshine. The park sits on a quiet corner, surrounded by trees and benches where visitors can sit and listen to his music playing softly through outdoor speakers. It’s a simple space, but it captures the warmth, humility, and soul that defined both the man and his music.

Coal Heritage Trail Scenic Drive

I left Beckley and started out on the Coal Heritage Trail Scenic Drive. My GPS, however, had other plans. Instead of taking me to the first stop, it led me down a narrow gravel road that wound past a few mobile homes and into an increasingly remote area. The road ended at a hand-painted sign that read, “No Trespassing—Don’t even think of going further.” I didn’t. I turned around, pulled over to check my maps, and realized I was way off course.

Slab Fork Cemetery #2

Beside where I’d stopped was a small cemetery (Slab Fork #2), quiet and set to the side. A closer look revealed it was a historic Black coal miners’ graveyard. Most of the graves were marked only with simple wooden crosses, their paint faded and names long gone. Just three had stone markers. Standing there, it was easy to imagine the lives of the men buried on that hillside—miners who had labored underground in the same seams I’d just toured, their stories mostly forgotten except for these humble markers beneath the trees.

I finally made my way to Helen, West Virginia—once a bustling coal camp, now a quiet community tucked along the tracks. I pulled over at the miners’ memorial just as a train loaded with coal rumbled slowly past, a reminder that the industry still lingers here. The company houses nearby were strikingly small, each nearly identical to the next. Built almost a century ago, they stand as a living echo of the mining era—simple, functional, and close together, the kind of homes that once held entire families who lived their lives by the rhythm of the mine.

Next up was Mullens, a place I’d actually visited the day before. I came back to see the old Depot and the historic Rail Town core. The streets were very narrow, lined with old brick buildings that still hint at the town’s busy railroad past. Unfortunately, driving a full-size van through downtown proved tricky—most of the parking spots were far too small, and traffic left little room to maneuver. After about thirty minutes of circling and trying to find a safe place to park for photos, I finally gave up and decided to move on.

Itmann Company Store

By the time I reached Itmann, I was running low on energy from all the narrow-road driving and the frustration of not finding what I was looking for earlier in the day. The last stop turned out to be worth it. In the center of town stood the abandoned Itmann Company Store, a massive stone building that once served as the heart of the Pocahontas Fuel Company’s coal camp. Built in the 1920s and designed by architect Alex Mahood, it had once housed a general store, offices, and even a doctor’s quarters—everything a mining community needed, all run by the company.

The building was striking even in decay, its arched windows still holding a kind of dignity. I walked carefully inside, not entirely sure it was safe. In the middle of the structure, in an open area was a shallow pool of rainwater, and in the low afternoon light it turned into a perfect mirror, reflecting the walls, sky, and a wheelbarrow. I was mesmerized by the reflected image. After a long day of wrong turns and narrow streets, that quiet reflection made it all worthwhile.

I passed through another small town, but larger than most and found a local grocery store. I found a loaf of bread and was headed back to the Twin Falls Resort State Park. It was close, I knew there would be space and it was already dark. I took site 14, the same one I had the night before. I was surprised how many deer were out feeding around the park. As I pulled into the site, the moon was stunning behind the trees.