Blackwater Falls & Dolly Sods

I woke at the overlook above Elkins. There was a truck on the other side of the parking lot with its engine running. He had been there for an hour with his window down. He never made eye contact as I walked to the overlook. The view was spectacular with with fog hanging in the valleys way off in the distance. I walked back to get my tripod for a few images.

The drive down the mountain was slow on the rough rocky road. At least I was on the mountain side driving down. There were about 5 cars coming up and we all slowed down to pass. The road was so narrow that the vehicle on the outside could go over the edge.

I drove to walmart because I had forgotten to pickup a few things yesterday at Kroger. I started to rain and the wind was picking up as I got back in the van. Instead of a Bike ride the plan was now to go for a hike in the afternoon. Sever storm warning on google suggested staying on the designated route.

Blackwater Falls

It was still pouring rain when I reached the Blackwater Falls campground. I tried to make a reservation online but was blocked—West Virginia doesn’t allow same-day bookings, even when most of the campground is empty. There were only four trailers in the park. A sign at the entrance said to call for reservations, so I did. The woman on the phone told me the park was closed because of a water-line break. With camping off the table, I headed to the falls for a short hike.

Blackwater Falls, located in the Allegheny Mountains of northern West Virginia, is one of the state’s most photographed natural landmarks. The falls drop about fifty-seven feet over a ledge of dark, amber-colored sandstone into the Blackwater River below. The water’s distinct tea-like color comes from tannins released by fallen hemlock and red spruce needles, which stain the river a deep, golden brown. The surrounding gorge, carved over thousands of years, forms the heart of Blackwater Falls State Park—a rugged landscape of forested slopes, rocky overlooks, and cascading tributaries that change character with each season, from frozen sheets of ice in winter to misty rainbows in summer.

Established in 1937, Blackwater Falls State Park was among the first scenic preserves in the West Virginia park system. It was developed in part by the Civilian Conservation Corps, whose trails, cabins, and stonework still shape the park today. Visitors can view the falls from a wooden boardwalk or explore more than twenty miles of trails leading to Lindy Point, Pendleton Point, and Elakala Falls. The area remains a year-round destination for photographers, hikers, and skiers drawn to its dramatic topography and timeless Appalachian beauty.

I lingered in the drizzle, watching the falls and the people. A couple in their eighties, both with walking sticks, made their way down the steps to the overlook. They stood quietly for a while, then started back up—slow but steady, never stopping the entire way back. I followed them, stopping to read the plaques along the way.

Before leaving, I stopped at the park store and restaurant to see what they offered, but nothing appealed to me. Back in the van, I made a turkey sandwich and looked over my plans. The weather was turning—wet, windy, and cold. I had planned to visit Dolly Sods the next day, but with daylight left and time to spare, I decided to drive there today.

Dolly Sods

As I approached the area, the road turned from pavement to dirt—or more accurately, from road to rocks. In many stretches it was pure washboard, with potholes scattered everywhere. I found myself weaving side to side to avoid the worst of it. To add to the fun, it was lightly raining, and the road was narrow, often with twenty- to thirty-foot drops and no guardrails. One truck flew past me at a speed that made no sense. The other two drivers were more considerate, pulling over and flashing their lights for me to pass.

Dolly Sods sits high on a plateau in the Allegheny Mountains, part of the Monongahela National Forest. The landscape here feels almost otherworldly—windswept, open, and stark, more like the tundra of Canada than anything you’d expect in West Virginia. The name comes from the Dahle family, early German settlers who grazed sheep and cattle in these high meadows, called sods, during the 1800s. The plateau itself rests on ancient sandstone and shale formed more than 300 million years ago, once part of a vast inland sea. During the last Ice Age, glaciers stopped just north of this region but left behind the cold, wet climate that still defines it.

I stopped several times to read plaques, check trail maps, and look for a place to camp. I’d driven about five miles at ten to twenty miles an hour when I came to a sign that read, All camping must be 300 feet from the road. It made me laugh because there’s nowhere along that stretch where you could actually do that—except one spot a few miles farther up. That one spot turned out to be a small national forest campground with fourteen primitive sites. There were two pit toilets, and each site had a picnic table, fire pit, and metal hooks to hang packs out of reach of bears. All the sites were empty except one, which had gear tucked under a table. The rate was $5.50 a night. It was 4:30 p.m., the temperature was dropping, and darkness wasn’t far off. I went for a short walk and then headed back to the van.

Even now, the area’s subalpine environment is harsh and unpredictable. The Dolly Sods plateau sits above 4,000 feet, and weather here changes in minutes—fog rolling in thick as smoke, then vanishing to reveal a sky of blinding blue. Summer can bring cool winds and sudden storms, while winter sees snow measured in feet, not inches. The constant wind scours the ridges, bending red spruce and stripping soil from the rock. Mosses cling to the ground, and sphagnum bogs fill the hollows below. It’s one of the few places in the mid-Atlantic where arctic plants like bog rosemary and cloudberry still grow. Dolly Sods is both a wilderness and a survivor—a rare highland ecosystem slowly reclaiming itself after the fires and logging of a century ago, wild and beautiful in its resilience.

I made dinner and turned the heat up two degrees. The wind was blowing hard, and I could feel it pulling warmth from the van. I checked the front divide and sealed it completely—it made a difference. Around 8 p.m., I heard my neighbors pull in. I tried to finish a blog page before calling it a night.