09/15/2026
A heartfelt story from the riders of our Appalachian Backroads (ABR) ...
A few weeks ago, Jason and I had one of those motorcycle rides that ends up meaning a whole lot more than you expected.
We rode over to St. Paul, (ABR route Roadrunner) found a wonderful little restaurant called Mamaw’s Place that we absolutely will be visiting again, finally tried The Coffee Station, and then headed toward Dante.
Dante holds so many memories for me.
I learned to ride a bicycle in Straight Holler. I rode dirt bikes all over Dante with my uncle…dirt paths, main roads, wherever we wanted to go, I was along for the ride! It was the 80s, so naturally I was wearing t-shirt, shorts, and no helmet. 😂 I did earn myself a pretty impressive tailpipe burn when I was about five, so apparently we weren't completely immune to consequences.
I remember going to that little store with my Momaw and riding with her to the post office to check the mail. I can still remember how the Dante post office smelled. I remember having supper with the Catholic Sisters who lived in Straight Holler. Christmas in Dante was special, too, with Santa giving away treat bags at what is now the Dante Museum and the Santa Train coming through with goodies! When I was a teenager, my aunt and uncle owned a little store in Sun, and I spent so much time there during the summers. They had hand-dipped ice cream, including this incredibly creamy vanilla called Superman that was swirled blue, red, and yellow. I can still picture it…and taste it!
Driving, or now riding, through there, I don't just see buildings and roads. I see all the lives I've lived there.
So much has changed. Buildings that were full of life when I was a little girl are empty now. The post office has flooded and isn't being used, although that beautiful old woodwork is still there. The Dante I rode through with Jason isn't quite the Dante I remember, but somehow, I can still see both.
But one thing hasn't changed: Dante's story reaches far beyond those mountains. So many families who once called that little coal town home have moved on, but they took pieces of Dante with them. Generations of families carry with them the work ethic, stories, traditions, opportunities and sacrifices of the people who built their lives there.
I'm part of what Dante produced, too.
We stopped at the Dante Coal Miners Memorial, where my Popaw's name is carved in stone.
That one got me.
My Popaw worked hard in those mountains. Eventually, complications from black lung would take his life. But that work also provided for his family, and generations after him.
Years ago, he and Momaw gave Jason and me the land where we live today. The land where we've made our home. The land where we're raising our boys.
Standing there looking at his name, I couldn't help but think about what that really means. In a very real way, that land was bought by a man going back into a mountain and mining coal, work that ultimately cost him his health and, eventually, his life.
I don't take that sacrifice lightly. We are all built, in one way or another, on the generations that came before us. My Popaw and Momaw gave us something to build from, and I hope Jason and I can do the same for our boys, give them a strong place to start, so they can build something even greater for the generations that come after them.
I hope Popaw and Momaw would be proud of the life we've built and the way we're raising our boys.
There was something especially meaningful about riding back into Dante on a motorcycle with my husband, too. All those years ago, I was a little girl riding dirt bikes through those same mountains with my uncle. Now I'm riding through them with Jason, stopping at the places that helped make me who I am and remembering the people who made the life I have possible.
I think that's what struck me most about riding through Dante that day. So much of it has changed, but every few minutes I would see something and suddenly I was right back there. I could remember exactly what a building used to be, who lived somewhere, something that happened on a particular road, or a person I loved who isn't here anymore.
It's funny how a place can change so much and still hold so much of your life.
And sometimes a name carved into a piece of stone reminds you just how much of your story began there. ❤️
One little detail about where we took these that I thought you might appreciate, the spot is where Hazel Mountain and Trammel meet. My Momaw was born on Hazel Mountain, and my Popaw was born in Trammel (Wetzel’s Circle where the old road used to run). We didn’t really plan it that way, but it felt like the perfect place to take the photo for this story.
About our contributor. Tara, and Jason reside in Russell County VA. Dedicated parents, active in their community, rooted in their faith, and entrepreneurs in the region. When they are not on their land spoken of, enjoying family time, you may see them on their BMW touring motorcycles on ABR routes in the Heart of Appalachia!
