My valley.

Not an acre do I own, but this lush land near the Potomac's headwaters has long held my spirit fast. And I fear for its future.

Every valley needs a mountain to shelter and define it as it goes. North Fork Mountain does that for the North and South forks of the South Branch Valley in West Virginia. A goodly portion of the Great Potomac River is born here in a thousands rivulets that pick up volume and speed as they cascade down the rugge mountains of the Monongahela National Forest. Below Petersburg Gap, the waters slow and spread out through broad farmlands and orchards of this verdant valley They reach the Potomac near Green Spring, turn turbulent again as they join the Shenandoah River at Harpers Ferry, and eventually flow passively through our nation's capital and on to Chesapeake Bay.

I was born in Morgantown, West Virginia, 100 miles from the South Branch Valley and its headwaters, and not an acre do I own. Yet my claim to her farmlands, rivers, forests, and peaks is as valid as if the deed were titled to me by birthright.

You might call it "squatter's rights," for I have camped here in tent and bedroll since 1928, before I was old enough to walk. On my first visit, during one of my family's annual vacations to this lovely land, I was cradled in my mother's arms. Even today, as I drive Route 28 along the North Fork of the Sout Branch River, the grandeur grabs hold of me and I get chills at the thought of once again "coming home."

The main stem of the South Branch heads up in Virginia and enters West Virginia near Franklin. From there it travels 118 miles before joining the North Branch to form the main Potomac. It is only 40 feet wide at Franklin but widens to 150 feet in the Smoke Hole, where pools get large and deep and hold monster trout and bass that have caused me sometimes to act irrationally in their pursuit.

I never missed a bass-season opening day there until I left for the Army at age 18. And after my service, my visits continued. I was there when the land was parched from too much sun and too little rain, and I was there in 1949 when the worst flood on record until then slammed into Petersburg, Moorefield, and dozen of farm villages. I watched the mountains fall off into muddy torrents so swift and powerful that a bulldozer was being tumbled in the swirling waters. For three days thereafter, I observed trapped fish swimming in the parking lot belo Site's Hotel in Petersburg, where I waited on the second floor for the waters t recede.

During World War II I joined the 11th Airborne and, after hitting the ground to hard, found that I was destined to wear a steel brace for the rest of my life or, as the doctors told me, "Until you can no longer walk." That prognosis was hard to take at 19, and as I pondered what the rest of my life would be like, m thoughts turned to my valley.

Against the protests of family and friends, bass season in 1947 found me campin all by myself beneath the towering pinnacles of the Smoke Hole country. A steel harness from neck to tailbone inhibited me, but it permitted me to walk, and I was grateful. Camping here had always inspired me. The air's freshness, the roa of the river, the song of the whippoorwill all came together to refresh my spirit. Before long, new life began to circulate within.

Not much had changed. The country store still operated near the bridge, frogs croaked along the rocky shore, and Lum, the baitman, still sold minnows and soft-shelled crayfish from his shed across the road.

After a wonderful first night's sleep, I stuck my head out of the tent at first light and reveled in the sight that greeted me. Ringlets of fog encircled the jagged peaks above. Some say the Smoke Hole was named for the white plumes coming from the cave where Indians smoked meat. That may be so, but gaze from a tent some early morning and watch the clouds garland the towering rocks, and tell me what you think. After all, the Indians are gone but the "smoke" remains

During that summer of 1947, what started out as a week-long respite from the Army evolved into an unforgettable 17-day camping trip. Breakfast was a hasty bacon sandwich and a cup of black coffee--the whitewater called. A favorite fishing place was Poor House Run, a cold, spring-fed tributary of the North Fork. Native brook trout lived there, and though the icy waters made my legs ache even with wading boots, the challenge of the gemlike "natives" made it tolerable.

My favorite baits were hellgrammites (the larva of the Dobsonfly) for trout and soft-shelled crayfish for bass. Lum, a quiet man with a grayish beard and skin like leather, shared his secrets for collecting them in return for my help. At dusk we would flood the rushing stream with our headlamps, and the waters would come alive with minnows, crayfish, and water snakes. An occasional large rainbo trout would glide by, and insects swarmed. The bluish "peelers," crayfish that lay by their recently shed skins, were sluggish and easily caught by hand. We seined up minnows and hellgrammites and used a dip net to land prized "mad Tom" catfish minnows, a wonderful bait for smallmouth bass.

I loved doing this with Lum, not so much for bait as for the fascination of seeing how these creatures lived. Dr. Earl Core, a nationally known botanist, was my adviser at West Virginia University from 1947 to 1950, when I graduated in forestry, and this great man instilled in me a love of living things and a desire to identify and appreciate every one.

On that "reentry" visit in 1947 and for many years after that, whenever fishing was slow I would hike the trails, photograph wildflowers, and admire the rugged terrain, ever mindful of the rattlesnakes and copperheads that live here in abundance. Formidable rock formations hover majestically over the waters of the South Branch. Named by spelunkers, travelers, Indian fighters, and historians, they include Seneca Rocks, Caudy's Castle, Smoke Hole Cave, and Cave Mountain. memorable trail from Big Bend camping area follows the South Branch for miles past Shook Gap, Peacock Cave, and Blue Rocks.

Among these ancient rock formations, and hardly noticed by even the most ardent outdoorsman, is the rare limestone-loving fern and, rarer still, the southern crested coralroot orchid, known in West Virginia only in Smoke Hole.

You don't have to fish to love my valley. Kayakers and canoeists race joyfully down the North Fork. Hunters are drawn here in season by the abundant deer, ruffed grouse, and other game species.

And there's some oddball sport, too. During the 1950s and '60s, when I worked for the West Virginia Department of Natural Resources, Conservation Officer Harrison Shobe introduced me to "ice stomping." I had fished through the ice on Michigan lakes, but this was much livelier. A group of "stompers" strike the ic with ball bats as they cross a frozen pool, moving toward the fishermen, who li belly down, peering through holes cut in the ice and holding long poles with wire snares. The prey, white suckers, are driven under the holes and lassoed by the snarers. I've eaten my share of this excellent food fish from these clean waters.

The farmers in the South Branch Valley must not have viewed me as a threat, for in all my years of camping there I wasn't run off once. I often wondered upon whose property I was staying. In earlier days I just didn't ask permission to trespass, and I guess as long as I behaved myself, I was welcome. In fact, one of my nicest memories is of a farmer who traveled a mile one morning just to bring me a quart of milk. "Just milked," he told me, "and figured you might lik some for breakfast."

The miracle of fishing and camping in this magnificent valley was that the longer I was there, the less I was in a hurry. When you fish by yourself, there is no pushing. If I wanted to rest or fish or just listen to the frogs, that wa okay. That was pretty special to me.

Not once did I miss the noise and lights of the city. Moonlight dancing on riffles and the soft glow of the Milky Way and a million other stars were light enough.

The South Branch Valley became a vital part of who I am as a person. It gripped my soul and held me fast. Each time I was to leave, the urge to stay was something to be reckoned with.

But on November 5, 1985, my valley was changed almost irrevocably. Fueled by a 10-inch rain far up the hollows, the flood came with little warning. Confined i narrow valleys, the waters raged with such force that they twisted rails and scoured farmland until mostly rocks remained. Forty-seven people died along wit thousands of animals. More than 1,500 homes and 181 businesses were gone, and 4 bridges were destroyed in 29 counties.

The 1985 torrent broke all records and left its mark indelibly imprinted on the South Branch Valley.

High waters swept the streams clean of shade-giving trees, filled pools with silt, and eliminated channels where trout lurked in hot weather. Destruction wa so complete on the North Fork that trout stocking was stopped and fishermen ignored this once-lovely river. The state's Division of Natural Resources, U.S. Forest Service, and U.S. Soil Conservation Service struggled to breathe new lif into the streams. Channels were deepened, boulders placed in pools for trout cover, trees planted for shade, and many miles of farmland riverbanks planted t prevent further erosion. Gradually the rivers have begun to show evidence that they are coming back.

However, my concerns for my valley today are deep and many. Though wounds from the floods gradually heal, another type of wound may not. In the name of jobs, four-lane highway, Corridor H, is under plan to cut a 2,000-foot-wide swath for 109 miles from Elkins, West Virginia, to Strasburg, Virginia--gouging the rugge mountains, filling the narrow ravines, silting in the pristine river and valley

People turned out in great numbers for public meetings held from late 1992 to early '94--some to approve, others to plead that the road wasn't needed. Already, opponents pointed out, I-68 runs east and west 40 miles to the north and I-64 runs east and west 50 miles south of Corridor H. But the meetings and the visits to Washington really didn't matter. The die was cast before the firs meeting was held. The $800 million highway had congressional and statehouse support, and nothing was going to stop it.

Why must people strive for more scenic highways and developmental roads? To quote Aldo Leopold: "To build a road is so much simpler than to think of what the country really needs."

The futility of opposing the road soon became obvious, so the pragmatic defenders of the headwaters of the Potomac and the South Branch Valley urged a rerouting away from Seneca Rocks, North Mountain, Cabins, and Petersburg. This would prevent the bulldozers from scraping the thin shales from the steep slope to fill the narrow ravines, which would destroy landmarks and sensitive areas, disrupt springs, fill wells, cover rare plants, and silt in the North Fork. The rerouting, they argued, would spare the character of this unique land and preserve its wildness.

Surprisingly, somebody in a position of influence heard these cries, and the highway recently has been rerouted--even though six miles of four-lane had already been built east of Elkins. Probably beginning in 1994, construction wil begin again. But now the road will go north and east from Elkins, bypassing North Mountain, Seneca Rocks, North Fork of the South Branch of the Potomac, Cabins, and Petersburg, and will not touch my valley until it reaches Moorefield.

My Sunday-school teacher's mother used to tell him: "It is always too late to quit." Just when many of us began to think everything was lost, this compromise on routing seemed a major victory, and much of my precious valley will be spared.

Yet it saddens me that so many people do not understand why I care. I am certai I could never explain why I will grieve when the last wolf in Alaska is killed, or the last 3,000-year-old redwood is felled, or the salmon disappear from the Columbia River.

As a graduate forester, I see the need for logging and believe that it is necessary and justifiable so long as it is done with care. But some things just rise above economics.

As I grow older, my love for the South Branch Valley grows more profound, as does my concern for mountains I will never see and rivers I will never fish. I wonder why we shouldn't save for posterity frontiers that have survived thus far, so that our children might stand where we have stood, feel what we have felt, and have their souls lifted by the serenity that comes from towering cliffs and quiet valleys.

Perhaps Theodore Roosevelt, speaking of the Grand Canyon under threat, describe my feelings best: "We should leave it alone. We cannot improve it. The ages hav been at work on it, and man can only mar it."

West Virginian Bob Bowers, a lifelong outdoorsman now retired, has edited and written for Virginia Wildlife and West Virginia Conservation magazines, was Wes Virginia's first travel development director, and worked in public affairs for the American Petroleum Institute. Among his credits is an American Motors award as one of the Top 10 Conservationists in America (1958).