One family's 60-year effort to save special wilderness

By Anne Adams • Staff Writer

A 40-foot American chestnut tree stands high on Allegheny Mountain where Ches (left) and Pen Goodall manage the natural wilderness area their father helped to establish. Chestnuts have been virtually obliterated by blight in the U.S., and rarely grow above a few feet, but this one has thrived, sprouting bushels of nuts, in a habitat where special ecosystems abound. (Recorder photo by Anne Adams)

LAUREL FORK — They call home a place they've never lived.

"Do you think I need to change my shoes?"

Mrs. Wayne Goodall, 81, debated the suitability of her footwear on a crisp, summer day. She wore light dockers without socks, her southern Virginia drawl revealing inner grace.

"No, Mom. You'll be fine," one of her sons replied.

The forest was damp with morning dew despite weeks without much rain. The rich aroma of wood and earth wafted through the trees as

her boys," as she fondly calls them, set a brisk pace ahead of her.

Mrs. Goodall grabbed a branch. "Well, a good walking stick really does the trick," she said, as her small frame forged steadily down a pathless, steep mountainside carpeted in soft moss and ferns.

The Goodalls enjoy time at their camp on Allegheny Mountain. From left, Pendleton Goodall and his brother, McChesney "Ches" Goodall III, reminisce with their mother, Wayne, about growing up on Rifle Ridge Farm, and the lessons their father taught them about respecting the natural environment. (Recorder photo by Anne Adams)

McChesney "Ches" Goodall III and his brother, Pendleton "Pen," reached the head of a spring that bubbled up from nowhere at the base of a tree. A plain, white enamel coffee cup hung out-of-place on a branch above.

Ches grabbed it, scooped up fresh water, and gulped — a family ritual. Generations of Goodalls and their friends have hiked this land for decades. And, yet, visitors feel like the first to set foot here. Little trace of human existence exists, save for a few narrow logging roads and an open area where the Goodalls have a small house and a one-room cabin listing gently forward.

The area is so remote, getting there from Monterey requires traveling some 20 miles of pavement, six miles of severely rutted hardscrabble, and another couple of miles of barely navigable mud. "Just follow the most well-defined road," visitors are instructed. Easier said than done. And easier done on foot.

Pen Goodall sips fresh spring water with an enamel coffee cup, where countless family and friends have done before. There's little fear of tainted water here, as nothing exists higher than these tributaries that carry mountain water all the way to the Chesapeake Bay. (Recorder photo by Anne Adams)

There are no signs, mail boxes, power lines, or stone pillars marking an entrance. Just a simple, worn wooden fence with a rusted chain. But that's the way the family has kept this 1,683-acre tract of Allegheny Mountain for nearly 60 years — virtually untouched. Deer, bear, turkey, grouse, snowshoe hares, tiny rare salamanders, protected and endangered flora and fauna — all find the area pretty much as it has been for centuries, a safe haven from human encroachment nestled among ancient red spruce trees. It's one of the last wilderness areas in Virginia where some of these habitats exist.

Wayne Goodall, 81, walks the bed of Laurel Fork as she has done seasonally for nearly 60 years. Her husband, Dr. McChesney Goodall, purchased this land in 1949, which includes two miles of one of the most well-protected streams in Virginia. (Recorder photo by Anne Adams0

The late Dr. McChesney Goodall Jr. would be delighted. The patriarch of the family happened upon this section of Highland County in the 1940s. An environmentalist before the term was culturally defined as we know it, Dr. Goodall was enchanted, some say obsessed, with the land and its pristine condition. He spent 30 years of his life trying to save it — and share it — for future generations.

In 1949, Dr. Goodall purchased 683 acres. Two years later, he bought another 900 or so adjoining the first tract. For the rest of his life, the rugged ridges and deep coves were his passion, and a touchstone for the family. He swore as long as he was alive, it would not be developed or desecrated.

Dr. McChesney Goodall Jr. spent years planting thousands of spruce trees on the farm he longed to protect from development. He was an environmentalist, expert marksman, and devoted father and husband. (Photo courtesy the Goodall family)

"That was your father's dream," Mrs. Goodall told her sons.

The good doctor was a restless sort. An M.D., a researcher with a Ph.D. in physiology, he found it impossible to stay in one place for more than a few years. His wife, Wayne (a family name), became accustomed to settling somewhere — Stockholm, Texas, Virginia, Tennessee, North Carolina — only to pack up her household and move again and again with their five children, two daughters and three sons, over the course of their marriage.

But every summer, no matter where their regular lives had landed, Dr. Goodall brought the family back to here to Rifle Ridge Farm. Situated on Allegheny Mountain, in the westernmost reaches of Highland County on the West Virginia line, this became their only real home, though they never took up permanent residence.

The Goodalls have always shared their farm with friends and family through the years, cooking on an open fire pit at the end of a day in the woods. (Photo courtesy Pen Goodall)

"Our lives have been informed by this place," Ches says.

But preserving it became far more challenging than any of them imagined.

"He that planteth a tree is a servant of God, he provideth a kindness for many generations, and faces that he hath not seen shall bless him." ~ Henry Van Dyke

 

The family befriended a childless couple, Rowan and Cary Selman, to help manage the farm. Rowan had worked for logging camps in the Laurel Fork area, and knew the land intimately.

"Cary was always so proud she'd graduated from the third grade," Mrs. Goodall reflected. A one-room schoolhouse there hosted a teacher a few months of the year. "And she was born in a log cabin right over there," she added, pointing to a spot nearby. "I don't think she'd ever even been to Staunton. But they sure taught us the ways of the mountain."

The Selmans became caretakers, a role they played for 17 years. "Rowan was really was the one who taught my husband," Wayne said. "They were really part of our family."

"And Cary knew every way to do anything on the land," Ches recalls. "They were real mountain people."

Dr. Goodall was a terrific marksman, bird hunter, explorer, and adventurer. But what intrigued him at Rifle Ridge were the stands of red spruce trees sprinkled over what was mostly farmland in the 1950s. Much of the red spruce had been cut in 1908 when coal-fired trains with tough crews came through the steep valleys to extract the valuable lumber. He decided to put it all back. "It was like he wanted to recreate the primeval forest," Ches said, grinning.

But in Dr. Goodall's day, red spruce seedlings were not to be found; so he tapped a university expert who told him Norway spruce would work just as well. And with that, he spent years planting tens of thousands of Norways among the remaining red spruce, all over the property. Some red spruce had regenerated naturally from the logging expeditions and are now 100 years old; those he planted are pushing 60.

The children hiked with their father, explored on their own, and became equally enchanted with the outdoors. "They'd head out in the morning and sometimes I wouldn't see them all day, unless they came back for lunch," Wayne recalls.

Dr. Goodall obtained long-forgotten log cabins and built a modest house where they would stay, always without phone or electricity. They invited other families to join them for adventures. "A lot of people know this place," said Pen.

"Even when I was in college, I would always bring my college friends here," his brother added.

The Goodalls spent Thanksgivings and Christmases cooking over an open fire pit by the cabin. Rowan taught them to use chestnut logs, which gave their meals a special flavor.

Wayne says her husband wasn't much of a drinker, but did enjoy emerging from the forest at the end of a day, taking a shower, and perching beside the fire with a toddy and sturdy set of binoculars. "He would spend hours just looking and looking," she said, laughing.

The experience of those years left the children with an unparalleled respect for wildlife and the natural environment. They grew up with all the normal trials and tribulations, until the day their father died and then, everything changed.

"It was the ice storm that killed him," Wayne said, as she reflected on the fact that she's now been a widow almost as long as she was married.

It was 1978. Dr. Goodall had been here inspecting the trees. A powerful storm had rocked the area, and he was worried about the damage. He was already suffering with chronic leukemia, the result, the family believes, of using radioactive tracers in his research. When a branch broke and fell, fracturing his back, his condition worsened, and he never recovered. He died that winter, on Jan. 12, 1979.

"We abuse land because we regard it as a commodity belonging to us. When we see land as a community to which we belong, we may begin to use it with love and

respect." ~ Aldo Leopold, A Sand County Almanac

"We all just kind of exploded," Ches said, gesturing outwardly with his hands.

The children, barely adults at the time, began to drift. The sudden responsibility for Rifle Ridge Farm was overwhelming, at first. "We just lost our bearings," Ches said. "This place had been such a source of strength for us, and when Daddy died, and I guess it's because I was the oldest son and named after him, I just felt this enormous weight on my shoulders, this weight about what to do next," Ches said.

He was 23 years old at the time. "You know, when your father dies when you're that young, you just kind of put him on a pedestal," he said.

The place they loved divided them briefly, before the children banded together again to set things right. "We just had to focus on how do we do it," Ches said.

Dr. Goodall left a death-bed will, one Wayne believes was more of a working draft than a completed document. In his attempt to make sure the farm was never divided or developed, the will mentioned that some kind of protection be afforded the land. "Basically, my father spoke to many organizations over the years about the property to discuss ways of protecting it from future division," Ches explained. "He was afraid one of us would not care about the land when we got older, and might sell out and divide the property later. He wanted more than anything else to preserve it as a single, indivisible tract."

The way that document was interpreted by the Commonwealth of Virginia, however, left Wayne and her children in a series of legal battles that has lasted 20 years. The Department of Game and Inland Fisheries "swooped in like vultures," Ches said, to get control of the property. The Goodalls had ownership of the land, but after five years of fighting the state, were forced to reach an agreement in 1984 in which DGIF was allowed to open part of the property to the public, particularly for hunters and fishermen.

It was an uneasy reckoning.

Not all the kids agreed on the right course of action during this time. The boys — Ches, Pen, and William "Nick" Goodall, now 52, 50, and 47, respectively — wanted to hang onto the farm. Their sisters, Ellison Goodall Bishop, now 53, and a half-sister, now deceased, also inherited interests in the land. With mounting legal bills to pay, the sons eventually sold about 400 acres to buy them out. But to follow their father's intentions, they chose to sell it to The Nature Conservancy. This became the first tract of land TNC owned in the Allegheny Highlands, an area it had already identified as worthy of conservation.

Pen was considering career options elsewhere, but when he learned not long after his father died that loggers were not taking proper care of the forests, he returned to help manage the farm. He bought about 100 acres next door, and learned how to log selectively to ensure the best protection for the trees — a responsibility he maintains to this day.

Ches forged ahead at Duke University, earning a B.A. in ecology and anthropology a year after his father's death, which he followed with a master's degree in forest management and forest ecology in 1984. His master's thesis was on managing the Goodall tract according to different silvicultural treatments and alternative logging methods. He lives now in Richmond with his wife, Anne Hill "Nancy," and son, Ches IV, making his living as a private consulting forester and director of the Albemarle County Acquisition of Conservation Easements Program.

Nick became a marine surveyor and CAD technician for an engineering firm in Wilmington, N.C., and though he's not as deeply involved, he shares his brothers' goals for Rifle Ridge.

Fulfilling their father's vision, however, became a nightmare battle of wills between the Goodalls and DGIF officials (see related story page 6).

The family wanted to develop education, conservation and research programs on the farm, as their father intended, but DGIF focused on providing hunting and fishing rights.

A couple of years ago, an attorney with The Nature Conservancy offered a solution, and a new plan evolved.

The family deeded a conservation easement on the entire property to TNC, recorded in December 2007, for which it paid $1 million. The 30-page document strictly controls the land — permanently. It allows the Goodalls to continue their management and selective logging practices on Rifle Ridge, but it can never be subdivided. It can never be clear-cut, developed, or otherwise altered from its natural state except under specific circumstances, and then only with detailed plans approved by both TNC and the family. Significant portions of the timberland can be managed as a "working forest" using sustainable management practices.

"We could have sold it all off for at least $5 million," Ches explained, "but that's not what Daddy would have wanted."

In fact, a few hundred acres old-growth timber was recently valued at $2 million alone. "The state foresters think we're crazy," Pen said, "but we've set it up so that these trees will never, ever be cut. When they die, we will let them fall to the ground and rot. These sections will never be touched."

In addition, the arrangement calls for 100-foot buffers on Laurel Fork and all its streams where land will remain undisturbed.

The income from the deed of easement plus about $600,000 in tax credits will be reinvested in the farm, and an endowment created to offset the costs of maintenance, charitable work, education and research programs. "We're hardly rich elitist people," Ches said. "This will give us just enough to make sure the property stays the way our father intended."

The Goodalls have no desire to make money off the property, only to pay for its upkeep. "It is this respect and reverence for the land, and a deep-seated desire to carry out the unfulfilled dreams of my father, that drives us, and From LEGACY, page 3 makes us feel as we do about protecting the property and wanting to give back to it … This is why we run the farm as a break-even, and have put an easement on it that sets aside 414 acres for old growth preserves and nearly 200 acres of stream buffer," he explained. The endowment will not only take care of the upkeep, but help pay for scholarships, charitable donations, and educational programs.

Finally protecting the land the way they believe their father wanted, Ches said, "we felt we had reached the mountaintop. I know my father would be very, very proud of what we did and, if I do nothing else in my life, I will almost be at peace for having had some part in fulfilling his, and our, greatest dreams."

"It is imperative to maintain portions of the wilderness untouched so that a tree will rot where it falls, a waterfall will pour its curve without generating electricity, a trumpeter swan may float on uncontaminated water — and moderns may at least see what their ancestors knew in their nerves and blood." ~ Bernand De Voto, Fortune, June 1947

 

Native trout, endangered Virginia ecosystems, abundant plant life, a spectacular range of living species, the pristine waters of Laurel Fork, and red spruce habitat — the biodiversity on Rifle Ridge Farm makes it a rare treat for environmentalists. "The place is really phenomenal," said Linda Crowe.

Crowe was instrumental in working out the easement on behalf of the Conservancy. "We're very, very pleased the Goodalls have chosen to make this happen. It really is a great gift to conservation, and it's been years in the making," she said. "They are an amazing family, and we have great mutual respect … They have managed the property very well, and they know the property extremely well. They have the ability to look at the natural communities, and they're trying to restore the red spruce … It truly is a unique area … the red spruce at high elevation is rare in our part of the world. You find it more in West Virginia and further north, but in Virginia, it's pretty special."

One of the best assets of the property is its two miles of Laurel Fork, she said. "That is an exemplary cold water stream," Crowe said. "These native brook trout streams are becoming increasingly rare."

She complimented the Goodalls on their selective timber management. "In this case, our role is easy: We're working with a family who has generations of good stewardship. Their management plans are in good shape, and our role will be to monitor those for the future."

James Adams of DGIF agrees the farm is unusual. "It is one of the most unique properties in the commonwealth," Adams said. "I walked it a couple of years ago; it's truly breathtaking. I was amazed."

He recalls flushing turkeys. "There was a hen on a nest; she had a clutch of 6-7 eggs," he said, the sight still vivid. "There's just no shortage of wildlife up there. Even the trout stream we walked … it's awesome. The property is just awesome."

The arrangement with DGIF for public access onto private property isn't common, Adams said. "I've got to say, Dr. Goodall was ahead of his time. He was breaking new ground. Conservation easements and conservation rights were not around then, and there was not a good format at the time for doing this … He had a vision that was quite commendable."

"Something will have gone out of us as a people if we ever let the remaining wilderness be destroyed; if we permit the last virgin forests to be turned into comic books and plastic cigarette cases; if we drive the few remaining members of the wild species into zoos or to extinction; if we pollute the last clear air and dirty the last clean streams and push our paved roads through the last of the silence, so that never again will Americans be free in their own country from the noise, the exhausts, the stinks of human and automotive waste." ~ Wallace Stegner, letter to David E. Pesonen of the Wildland Research Center, 1960

 

After decades of effort, as the family was starting to feel Rifle Ridge would serve the purpose Dr. Goodall had in mind, another man's dream emerged, one that threatens to negate those goals.

Henry T. "Mac" McBride and his family are taking a different approach on their large tract, Red Oak Ranch, which shares a three-mile border with the Goodalls.

McBride, of Harrisonburg, seeks to turn a profit from his 4,000 acres in order to save it for his own children and grandchildren. Over the years he has tried running livestock, drilling for natural gas, a guided hunting service and shooting range — not all of which have proven successful.

Now, he hopes to build Virginia's first industrial-size wind energy utility, consisting of 400-foot turbine towers that will be seen at the crest of 4,200-foot Allegheny Mountain, in full view of much of the Goodall land, and for miles beyond.

"It's devastating," Pen said, shaking his head. "It totally destroys everything we've worked for."

The Goodall brothers make no effort to hide their anger and overwhelming frustration. "He's usurping our property rights, directly impacting our personal property," Ches said.

Growing up, every trip to Rifle Ridge included another family ritual — Dr. Goodall would pull over at the top of the mountain so the family could take in the stunning vista, looking all the way down the waves of unspoiled mountain ridges that roll out the Allegheny Front.

"What I don't understand is why the state is letting him do this," Mrs. Goodall said. "It's not right. I deeply resent the state for wanting to sacrifice Highland County for its first wind turbines."

Power plants of this kind require tons of cement and steel, months of excavation and ground disturbance, enormous footers to anchor the towers, plus substations and power lines, some of which will be tunneled under Laurel Fork. The family worries about the noise and lights, habitat disturbance, soil erosion, and especially the impact to Laurel Fork and its tributaries. Protected bald and golden eagles, and endangered bat species, will be at great risk, according to state biologists.

The wildlife on the mountain does not pay attention to property lines, so whatever happens on McBride's place above the Goodalls' will affect Rifle Ridge in some way.

"Neighbors are supposed to care about each other," Ches said. "You're supposed to treat your neighbors with respect. This is just upsetting down to your soul."

The Goodalls have expressed their opposition to the utility both in public statements, and on the legal level, joining lawsuits against Highland County's decision to grant the project permit. One of those was fought all the way to the state Supreme Court where the county prevailed on a technicality; more lawsuits are expected to be filed against McBride and the county at some point.

In April 2004, Ches expressed his concerns to county supervisors. "This project is not about conservation, as Mr. McBride and his attorney would have us believe," he told them. "It is about one man wanting to line his pockets at the expense of his neighbors, the unspoiled natural beauty of the Allegheny Front, and a promising tourism industry. This project is about private property rights and one man's desire to trample the rights of his neighbors by creating a commercial complex of wind turbines that will deflate our property values, illuminate our night skies, disturb our quiet enjoyment and despoil a precious and remote landscape we all cherish."

"Pen has been the face of our opposition," his brother said. "He's taken the brunt of it."

Pen bought his adjacent farm more than 20 years ago. He and his wife, Leslie, have spent the better part of their lives there, raising a son, and logging selectively to make a living. But the stress of knowing their view could soon include towering poles of steel and spinning blades have taken a toll on the marriage.

"I'm separated now because of it," Pen said frankly.

McBride, he said, offered the couple $50,000 for their land, home, barns, and outbuildings. Leslie wanted to take it; Pen refused.

"I can't imagine a starker difference in how two adjacent landowners view their land," Ches said. "We see it as something sacred that we, as the current owners, are responsible for protecting as stewards of the land. Our land ethic is to protect the land — and its abundant and unique natural resources — for future generations and give back to the land and our community. Our neighbors, ironically, view land as something to exploit for their own personal benefit. From LEGACY, page 4 The environment, future generations and their neighbors are not a consideration. That is why they have clear-cut right up to our fence line, drilled one of the deepest wells in Virginia for gas, let cattle run wild in Laurel Fork, and put wind turbines on a beautiful ridgetop."

Though The Nature Conservancy was intimately involved when McBride's company applied for a permit to operate the utility, Crowe said the project did not influence TNC's decision to purchase the conservation easement on Rifle Ridge. "It was totally unrelated," she said. She doesn't think the Conservancy will become involved further, "but anytime something occurs that results in degrading property in which we have an interest, we'd take a look at that," she said. "To the extent it would affect our conservation values, yes, we would review it."

"It is not so much for its beauty that the forest makes a claim upon men's hearts, as for that subtle something, that quality of air that emanation from old trees, that so wonderfully changes and renews a weary spirit." ~ Robert Louis Stevenson

 

The Goodalls will not give up fighting for better management from DGIF, and they stand firm in their opposition of the wind plant, but much remains uncertain.

Hoping to convince DGIF to loosen its grip on fishing and hunting, the family gave the agency a new proposal to consider, one that grants public access on the entire 1,683 acres, but grants the family better control over hunting. Officials in Richmond, however, are apparently not interested in changing the status quo.

With the new TNC easement in place, the Goodalls hope to stimulate conservation and education activities. Ches plans to meet some TNC folks this month to consider a stream restoration project, and other programs and field trips will be in the works, though he awaits a response from DGIF before any projects are started.

Meanwhile, the wind utility is months away from construction. In part because of its proximity to the same ecologically sensitive areas of Allegheny Mountain and Laurel Fork, McBride's project is under close scrutiny by county residents and regional preservation groups. Thanks in large measure to The Nature Conservancy and citizens who strongly oppose the mountain site for this kind of development, the state attached stringent conditions to McBride's project which require protecting the habitats, endangered species, and water quality.

Whatever happens, the Goodalls can now be assured Rifle Ridge will remain undivided and undeveloped, as their father wished. Pen has one son, Miles, now 11 years old; Ches' son is 12. When Dr. Goodall's grandsons inherit the farm some day, they won't have to worry about the same struggles that have plagued their parents. Whether the grandsons sell the land or choose to keep it in the family, the TNC easement stays in place permanently, and prevents subdivision no matter who owns the farm.

The boys share their fathers' love for the property. "Miles knows all the trees by their bark," Pen said. "And the salamanders, and mushrooms. But we've taught the kids to leave things where they are." One can explore the place in any direction and easily find old railroad spikes, Native American arrowheads, clovis points, and other artifacts that reveal its rich history. But no one picks them up. "We just let everything alone. That's what we were taught, and that's what we've taught the boys," Pen said.

"Thousands of tired, nerve-shaken, over-civilized people are beginning to find out that going to the mountains is going home; that wildness is a necessity; and that mountain parks and reservations are useful not only as fountains of timber and irrigating rivers, but as fountains of life." ~ John Muir

 

Wayne Goodall follows her sons as they cross Laurel Fork a dozen times under the canopy of towering trees, picking her way deftly over the stream's exposed oval stones. The woods are mostly quiet. Pen and Ches poke around, following old railroad beds, until they come to a wider opening. "I'm pretty sure this was a logging camp," Ches explains, pointing to certain features of the ground. He's excited. The men look like boys, exploring the wonders around them.

"There it is!" Ches said. On a walk recently, he and his son discovered an old spring box, one that must have been constructed by the loggers at the turn of the century. He was anxious to show his brother and his mom. He brushes aside the ferns to uncover the neat square of hemlock boards containing a perfect pool of clear water. "That shows you how rot-resistant hemlock is," he said. "These boards are 100 years old but they've barely deteriorated, still holding up." He shook his head in wonder.

As they head back the way they came, Mrs. Goodall bends slowly, examining the undergrowth, and reciting the poetry of Emily Dickinson. The sunlight falls in chunks.

"The best way of describing our view of the property is that we revere and respect it," Ches explained. "As a result, we believe in taking care of the land and being good stewards of it. This comes very easily. This deep reverence is a product of both my father's own land ethic — the love of land, conservation, education that he imbued in us — and the uniqueness, ecological richness and unspoiled natural beauty of the land itself. It all seems so much bigger than us, which of course it is. In addition, our farm is the one place that has always been there for us during our constant moving around, something we have known since we were crawling around, and know better than anything else. It is an inspiration and a place that has influenced our view of the world. To this day, I am still awed by its beauty.

"As children, we dreamed of the summertime and our return to the mountains of Virginia. In a car packed with four children and two dogs, it was hard to contain our excitement as we drove through Hightown and up Allegheny Mountain, always stopping al the pull-out along Route 250 to admire the awesome beauty of Red Oak Knob, Bearcamp, and Sapling. From here, we could see the Laurel Fork drainage and our land in the distance. When we finally reached the front gate, we would scramble over it and race up the driveway to be the first to our house. For all of us, our farm and Highland are very special places that we never imagined would change."