Sarah Nigbor

When I was young, my mother and grandmother took me on many road trips: The House on the Rock, the Amana Colonies in Iowa, St. Louis and the boyhood home of Jesse James, most of the Laura Ingalls Wilder historic sites, Dodge City and Wichita in Kansas. Later Mom and I went on trips alone to Yellowstone and Montana, the Black Hills and Mammoth Cave in Kentucky. She fostered my love of good old-fashioned road trips, creating cherished memories I’ll never forget. It was my turn to repay the favor.

Over spring break, I took Mom and my daughter on a road trip to the Tug River Valley of West Virginia/Kentucky where the famous Hatfield & McCoy feud erupted in the late 1800s. We drove south through Indianapolis, where we stopped for a night. We experienced our first thunderstorm of the season and became drenched in pouring rain on our way to dinner. It wasn’t so bad considering it was in the 70s. Even this grump who hates rain wasn’t too put out.

As we drove through Cincinnati the next day, I was pleasantly surprised by how beautiful it was. I always pictured it to be flat for some reason, but it’s far from it. “The City of Seven Hills” has more than 50 named hills (mountains really) and is often compared to San Francisco. While we didn’t stop on our way through, some day I’d like to explore it more.

As the terrain turned mountainous and the roads became narrower, my mom became more excited. I thought she was going to burst when she realized we were traveling along the Tug Fork River, the famed stream that divided Hatfield and McCoy territory. Appalachia is truly a different world.

As we headed toward our Vrbo in the mountains near Willamson, WV, we noticed many abandoned homes and buildings, piles of trash and debris along the roadsides and bent, sickly trees along the riverbanks. Trash, old couches and moldy clothes lined driveways and porches. We were witnessing the aftermath of a devastating flood that rocked the area in February 2025. Many people are still cleaning up or gave up when help and hope dwindled.

The people we encountered throughout southern West Virginia and Kentucky were among the kindest, warmest people I’ve ever met. I’ve never been called “honey, darlin’ or baby” so much in my life. And boy, do they love to talk. We made friends with a museum director in Pikeville, Ken., who volunteered to help trace my daughter’s connection to the Hatfields. He also let us hold bullets excavated from the McCoy homestead, likely left there during a gunfight with the Hatfields. My mom was on Cloud 9.

At the site of the Randolph McCoy home and well on Blackberry Creek, the property owner treated us to stories galore of little-known facts about the families, ones gleaned from his friendships with the descendants. We stood in his driveway and talked to him for close to an hour. He hauled out photo albums and newspaper clippings from the past and then I was the one on Cloud 9. What a treasure trove of information. For those of you who are fans of the Kevin Costner rendition of the story, about 60% of it is correct, according to Neil the well owner.

My mother, ever the adventurer, was dead set on getting a jug of real moonshine. We struck out at a distillery in Pikeville, so I found another one in Gilbert, WV. On the road to get there, I was convinced we were either going to die or end up like a scene in the movie “Deliverance.” We zigzagged up the mountain on one-lane, bumpy roads with nary a guardrail in sight. When I met a truck, it kindly backed up to a driveway to let me pass.

The owner of the distillery is the son-in-law of Devil Anse Hatfield’s oldest living direct descendant. The moonshine recipe came from her, passed down through the generations. He gave us a sample of apple pie moonshine which could probably take the finish off a chrome bumper. The sip I had nearly took my breath away; my mom was sold and plans to share it with her friends.

As I looked over at my mom in the passenger seat, she looked more overjoyed with each stop we made. I’d say it was well worth the trip.