Cass Railroad and Green Bank Observatory
I woke around seven, then went back to sleep for another two hours. Around 12:30, the sound of a truck woke me again. It was parked about a hundred feet off in front of me. This was a spot the police office told me was good for overnight stays. There were four guys—they looked like hunters heading back from a trip. One of them got out and started shining a flashlight into the truck bed, reaching in for something, then shouting. Another climbed out, and the noise only got louder. I watched for a few minutes, then went back to bed. In the morning, as I was pulling out, I noticed three cans about twenty feet from the van. I stopped to pick them up: a Bud Light, an orange soda, and a Red Bull can with a bullet hole through it—strange.
Last night the temperatures dropped into the 20s and I turned the outside water tank heater on. I have to make sure to remember to turn it on when it’s freezing and turn it off when the temperatures jump or the tank is empty.
I drove back to the Cranberry Glades, knowing the sun would finally be out. I made oatmeal for breakfast, then tossed the cans and some other trash I’d collected. It was 11 a.m. by the time I actually got on the road, headed for the Cass Scenic Railroad.
On my way to my first stop of the day, I passed a bakery in the middle of nowhere and couldn’t resist stopping. The case was filled with scones, oatmeal cookies, cinnamon rolls, and cakes. The interaction was a little odd. Two women were working in the back. I said hello, and one of them replied, but neither came over. I stood at the counter for a couple of minutes, then finally asked for help. One called out, “Give me a minute.” Eventually, she came over. At least they took credit cards.
Cass Scenic Railroad
Cass is a small mountain town with a long memory. The railroad was built in 1901 to haul hardwood from the high ridges down to the mill in town. Today it runs as a heritage line, carrying visitors instead of logs, but the place still feels like it belongs to another time. Even with the trains shut down for the season, there’s a hum of history in the air—rusted rails, the smell of creosote, and the slow quiet that settles over a town waiting for summer to return.
I stopped for lunch at the restaurant beside the station. The place had the feel of a family diner—no rush, no frills, just good food and friendly faces. I ordered broccoli cheddar soup, a grilled cheese sandwich, and a side salad that could’ve fed two people. From my window seat, I could see the tracks stretching past the depot, and for a moment, it felt like time had slowed to match the pace of the town.
After lunch, I wandered into the Cass Company Store. It took me straight back to the kind of general stores I remember from childhood—wide plank floors that creaked with every step, high ceilings, candy bins, a soda fountain, and deep wooden drawers stacked behind the counter. The air smelled faintly of wood and old paper, and everything inside seemed to have a story. It’s the kind of place that reminds you how simple things once were, and how nice that simplicity can feel.
Beyond the depot sits the skeletal remains of the old hardwood sawmill, once the heart of Cass’s logging industry. Built in the early 1900s by the West Virginia Spruce Lumber Company, it was later taken over by the West Virginia Pulp & Paper Company. The mill processed millions of board feet of red spruce and hardwood, feeding a booming paper and lumber trade. When operations ceased in 1960, the structures were left to rust and weather, and two later fires destroyed much of what remained. What’s left today—the rusted metal siding, twisted beams, and crumbling foundations—stands as a haunting reminder of the industry that built the railroad and the town itself.
From there I followed the tracks, camera in hand, to look at the old rail cars sitting in the yard. I knew the railroad was closed for the season, but then came that unmistakable sound—the slow, heavy rhythm of a steam engine, followed by the whistle echoing through the valley. An engine came around the bend, slowing as it switched tracks near the old mill. I moved in for a few low shots by the rails, maybe too close for their comfort. One of the crew jumped off to let me know they were in a hurry, getting ready for an event the next day. I apologized, knowing I’d been careful but understanding his point. I took a few last photos of the cars lined along the track before heading back to the van, glad for the unexpected bit of life in a town built on steam, sweat, and sawdust.
It was just before three when I left Cass. The next stop was only about twenty minutes away, and I was looking forward to it.
Green Bank Observatory
As I drove, I caught my first glimpse of the massive radio telescope in the distance, its white lattice frame rising from the valley, perfectly framed between two barns. It looked almost out of place, this machine of science sitting quietly among fields and farms. I had to stop for a photograph—it was too good to pass up.
Large GBT 100 Meter Radio Astronomy Telescope
The observatory was just up the road. I parked and walked into a building marked Tour Center. Inside, the gift shop was quiet except for the hum of fluorescent lights. A woman at the register greeted me with a cheerful “Welcome” in an English accent. She told me she would be our guide for the four o’clock tour and that we’d start with a short talk and video in the auditorium before heading out to the telescopes.
The Green Bank site was chosen in the late 1950s for a reason—it sits in one of the quietest radio zones in the country. The surrounding Allegheny Mountains block most outside signals, and the area falls within what’s now called the National Radio Quiet Zone, a 13,000-square-mile region where cell towers, Wi-Fi, and even microwave ovens are restricted. There’s no cell coverage here, and for scientists listening to faint whispers from deep space, that silence is golden. The absence of interference allows instruments to detect signals billions of times weaker than those bouncing around most cities.
The story of radio astronomy itself began decades before Green Bank existed. In the 1930s, an Illinois engineer named Grote Reber built his own parabolic radio telescope in his backyard, proving that the universe broadcasted on frequencies no human ear could hear. Around the same time, Australian physicist Ruby Payne-Scott and New Zealander Elisabeth Alexander were among the first to use radar technology to study solar radiation. Later, Harvard’s Harold Ewen and Edward Purcell detected the famous 21-centimeter hydrogen line, confirming that vast clouds of hydrogen filled interstellar space. These early discoveries opened a new window on the cosmos, one that Green Bank would soon help expand.
Construction here began in 1957 with federal funding through the National Science Foundation. Over time, the site filled with antennas of all shapes and sizes—each one built to push technology a little further. The first major telescope was the 85-foot Tatel, a workhorse that made some of the earliest measurements of galactic structure and quasars. Several other 85-foot dishes followed, all sharing the same control systems and used together as an interferometer—essentially combining their power to act like one much larger telescope.
But Green Bank’s most dramatic story came from the 300-foot telescope built in 1962. For nearly thirty years, it stood as one of the largest fully steerable dishes in the world, until the early morning of November 15, 1988, when it suddenly collapsed. The entire structure crumpled in seconds. A Swiss astronomer named Peter Voisard joked afterward that it must have been “the boldest act of extraterrestrial aggression in the history of the world,” claiming, tongue-in-cheek, that aliens destroyed it because “the Americans were learning too much about them.” In truth, the collapse was traced to a structural failure in a hidden weld—an engineering flaw that no one had detected.
That collapse ultimately led to something greater: the construction of the Robert C. Byrd Green Bank Telescope, the largest fully steerable radio telescope on Earth. Completed in 2000, it stands 485 feet tall, with a dish spanning 328 feet across. Its asymmetric design allows the surface panels to hold a perfect parabolic shape even as the telescope tilts and turns, and it can track celestial objects with remarkable precision.
The Byrd Telescope listens for signals that cross the full range of radio frequencies—from pulsars and hydrogen gas clouds to faint emissions from distant galaxies. It’s used for everything from mapping the structure of our Milky Way to tracking spacecraft deep in the solar system. Some of its time is devoted to SETI—the Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence—where scientists scan the skies for unnatural, repeating patterns that might hint at technology beyond Earth. Though no one has found aliens yet, the work continues quietly here, in a valley where even a stray cell signal is treated like pollution.
It was the off-season, so only eight of us joined the tour. Before we boarded the bus, our guide asked us to turn off all electronic devices unless they were medical. Phones went into a padded metal box, which she sealed shut to keep stray signals contained. Cameras weren’t allowed unless they were film with manual advance. The silence felt complete—no hum, no static, just the faint rustle of wind across the hills.
We rode through the complex, stopping to see each telescope still standing—the early 85-foot dishes, the smaller fixed arrays, and the experimental prototypes that never quite caught on. The site felt like a museum of listening devices, each one built to hear a slightly different part of the universe.
When we reached the Byrd Telescope, the bus parked about a hundred yards away. We stepped out into the crisp air, and the sheer size of the thing was stunning. It loomed like a ship’s hull turned skyward. As we stood there, it began to move—slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, then with deliberate power. The entire dish tilted and rotated toward the south, following a programmed path to a new target somewhere beyond human sight.
Standing there, it was hard not to feel a sense of awe. This place, hidden in a quiet West Virginia valley, connects to a network of observatories across the world. The data gathered here feeds research on black holes, star formation, and cosmic background radiation—the faint afterglow of the Big Bang. The telescope’s receivers are sensitive enough to detect energy from molecules drifting between stars, helping astronomers trace the origins of planets and, maybe someday, life itself.
At the end of th tour, our guide gave us the details for a video called Small Town Universe (https://www.vimeo.com/870051130). As I understand the
I didn’t leave with photographs this time—just memories and notes—but it didn’t matter. In a world full of noise, Green Bank is a place built for listening.
I found a dispersed campsite in the Monongahela National Forest. The road was barely wide enough for one vehicle, twisting along a ridge with a steep drop to my right. Campers were tucked in the woods periodically along the route. After about three miles, I came to a sign for “Campsite #4.” It was the nicest National Forest site I’ve found—quiet, picknic table, fire area, and deep under the trees, where even Starlink could barely reach.