Mason Adams, Author at West Virginia Public Broadcasting

AppHarvest Was Touted As Appalachia’s Future. What Happened?

The start-up was built on the idea of using cutting-edge technology and local workers to produce vegetables on an industrial scale. And this was all set to happen in eastern Kentucky, where the company’s founder said this new version of agriculture could help replace the fading coal industry. AppHarvest got a lot of attention — from national media, politicians and investors. But then, last year, the company filed for bankruptcy.

This conversation originally aired in the Feb. 11, 2024 episode of Inside Appalachia.

When AppHarvest built its first greenhouse in 2020, it was touted as no less than the future of farming — and maybe Appalachia itself.

AppHarvest got a lot of attention — from national media, politicians and investors. But then, last year, the company filed for bankruptcy. Austyn Gaffney recently reported on AppHarvest’s downfall in a story for Grist and Louisville Public Media.

Inside Appalachia Host Mason Adams spoke with Gaffney to learn more.

The transcript below has been lightly edited for clarity.

Adams: AppHarvest has received a lot of media attention from the time it was founded. But for folks who haven’t heard of AppHarvest, can you tell us about the company?

Gaffney: AppHarvest was founded by a Kentuckian named Jonathan Webb in January of 2018, basically saying that, in order to revitalize the economy of central Appalachia, we needed to bring in more blue collar jobs. His vision for these blue collar jobs was a spattering of 12 giant greenhouses, which grew produce like tomatoes and berries and lettuce indoors. He built the first of those greenhouses in Morehead, Kentucky, in 2020, during the height of the COVID-19 pandemic, and then he added four more greenhouses over the next couple of years.

Jonathan Webb, founder and former CEO of AppHarvest.

*Credit: Jon Cherry/Grist*

Adams: AppHarvest checked off so many boxes that people talk about it when they talk about economic development and Appalachia. They touted decent paying blue collar jobs with benefits for locals, building out the local food system, diversifying the economy in a coal producing region — even leaning in on private investment, as opposed to just grants and public funding. Where did AppHarvest go wrong?

Gaffney: Based on my reporting, the biggest problem at AppHarvest seems to have was that it grew too big too fast. It went through 12 rounds of funding, raised over $800 million in seed and venture capital funding, along with loans from banks and national organizations like the USDA. That was before they built their first greenhouse. They also started planning on going public.

You mentioned private investment. They partnered with basically what is a blank-check company for the purpose of joining the stock market. So on top of lenders, they also now have stockholders to contend with, to pay back all this money on sort of a low value product, which was tomatoes, lettuce and berries. By the summer of 2021, before they’re open even a year, AppHarvest leadership admitted on an investor call that the company was staring down a $32 million net loss. That same day, stocks dropped 29 percent and in the following months, the company was facing five different lawsuits alleging securities fraud.

Basically, stockholders were saying that leadership had lied about the productivity in the greenhouses and the success of the company. So through these suits at AppHarvest, leadership was repeatedly cited as blaming employee training, turnover and “a poor work ethic” as the root causes of the company’s failures to achieve profitability. Basically, rather than working out the kinks in its first year of operation, AppHarvest built five greenhouses while selling a low value product and blamed its failures in some ways on the laborers that kept the company going.

Adams: AppHarvest isn’t the only indoor agriculture project in the U.S., or even here in Appalachia. Multiple companies have closed or filed for bankruptcy in the last few years. Why is this particular industry so challenging?

Gaffney: Traditional farming relies on labor but also sun, rain and soil. In controlled environment agriculture (CEA), this type of industry relies on a reproduction of at least one of those, which is largely energy. In the example of AppHarvest, the greenhouses rely on a hydroponic system, the reproduction of heat and light, and pulling in water from retention ponds.

In Kentucky, we rely on coal for nearly 70 percent of our electricity. So the production of this produce is also tied to increased greenhouse gas emissions. The cost of those lights and the robotics that power parts of these facilities, especially when tied to commodified fossil fuels, can make this industry prohibitively expensive.

Over the last decade, there’s been an influx of venture capital funding into this industry, and the CEA market is predicted to be worth $3 billion by next year. So while the high costs of these facilities have accumulated quickly, they’ve also led to a domino of bankruptcies and closures, especially over the last couple of years.

Adams: There’s a lot in the story about how AppHarvest tried to cut labor costs. What was that experience like for workers?

Gaffney: The biggest complaints I learned from employees were how the big promises that AppHarvest made in its initial couple years failed to match their actual working environment.

When people were hired, especially at the inaugural Morehead greenhouse, they were deeply excited to join this new company which had this big mission, which they felt like was contributing to a sustainable future. Some of the employees told me that they would skip down the aisles during their first couple of weeks or months of work because they were so excited to be there.

But in October 2020, workers said they were told they needed to work overtime, including weekends, and one employee said when she complained, her supervisor told her she needed to “learn to sacrifice.” By the spring and the summer, extreme heat descended into the greenhouse. Former workers reported heat indexes that could reach into the 140s and the 150s, and often hovered in the territory of what the National Weather Service calls “extreme danger,” which is anything above 126 degrees Fahrenheit. That’s what these employees called “a grueling hell on earth.” They complained of heat exhaustion, rashes, dehydration and also dangerous working conditions where glass panels could fall from the greenhouse ceiling or tomato wires could snap.

This kind of mismanagement or dissatisfaction also bled into the corporate office that was based in Lexington. Former workers told me the leadership team was disorganized, and the goals of their positions were not clearly stated. One corporate worker told me they felt like they’d been sold a beautiful pipe dream, something that felt sustainable and new, and that could make it in Kentucky. But they said it turned out just to be a nightmare.

AppHarvest was touted as no less than the future of farming, but they filed for bankruptcy last year.

*Credit: Jon Cherry/Grist*

Adams: The story goes over a lot of ways that AppHarvest got things wrong. Is there a different version of AppHarvest, and that business model, that could potentially work in Appalachia?

Gaffney: It’s sort of speculative, so obviously, I can’t say for certain. But I think like all climate solutions, there’s a space for a renewable grid-powered version of AppHarvest. That could be one piece in a puzzle of solutions for a future food economy. That also includes small scale family farm markets that are sustainable and take care of our soil. But in order to feed our growing world, solutions like controlled environment agriculture — where we produce a high yield in a smaller facility without continuing to infringe on our forests and biodiversity — I think there is a space for that.

But AppHarvest grew so quickly that they weren’t able to trial and error a new type of economy with a totally new workforce. Maybe if AppHarvest had, had one greenhouse over three years, or five years or 10 years, and developed that workforce pipeline over time, they could have been successful. Instead, they built five greenhouses in less than three years. At that scale, it’s not that the science of CEA is wrong, but basically, it’s expensive. Plants are finicky, especially in indoor agriculture. If a disease or a pathogen takes hold, it can spread like wildfire.

I think they needed more room to make mistakes in their first few years, and maybe have less money to pay back in their first few years than they were able to do.

News Investigation Reveals Missteps In Response To 2016 Smokies Fire

A newspaper investigation has revealed that National Park Service officials underestimated the severity of the 2016 Great Smoky Mountains National Park wildfire, and were slow to alert Tennessee officials about the danger. Tyler Whetstone is an investigative reporter at the Knoxville News Sentinel/Knox News. Inside Appalachia Host Mason Adams spoke with Whetstone to learn more.

This conversation was originally heard on the Feb. 4, 2024 episode of Inside Appalachia.

In November 2016, a wildfire escaped from the Great Smoky Mountains National Park into the nearby tourist towns of Gatlinburg and Pigeon Forge, Tennessee. At least 14 people were killed and 190 injured, and more than 14,000 residents and tourists had to be evacuated out of the area.

Now, a newspaper investigation has revealed that National Park Service officials underestimated the severity of the wildfire, and were slow to alert Tennessee officials about the danger.

Tyler Whetstone is an investigative reporter at the Knoxville News Sentinel/Knox News. Inside Appalachia Host Mason Adams spoke with Whetstone to learn more.

The transcript below has been edited for clarity and length. For more, listen to the full interview on Inside Appalachia or via the streaming widget above.

An aerial view shows the destruction at Westgate Smoky Mountain Resort and Spa the day after a wildfire hit Gatlinburg on Tuesday, Nov. 29, 2016, in Sevier County.

*Credit: Knox News*

Adams: Can you refresh our memory on that 2016 fire and what happened with it?

Whetstone: You have to remember, in 2016 there was an exceptional drought, one of the worst droughts in state [Tennessee] history. The region was in a pretty severe drought in the Carolinas, Virginia and Georgia. So it was peak fire season, more so than normal. This wildfire just happened to be in a perfect storm of sorts.

It began Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving, in November 2016. The park was severely understaffed because of the holiday. You had people who were new to management positions that didn’t want to tell people not to take off for the holiday. The fire was up high in Chimney Tops, which is a weird peak in the Smokies. I think when most people think of the Smokies, they think of rolling hills and tree-topped mountains. The Chimney Tops is pretty much the only peak in the park that’s rocky. The fire started way up top. It was in a spot that really couldn’t be taken care of or could be fought. So they let it burn out. That was the plan — except that it didn’t, obviously.

The day the fire blew out of the park into Gatlinburg had a number of things that went wrong outside of just park officials not letting Gatlinburg know what was going on. You have what’s called a “mountain wave,” which some people may be familiar with. It’s certain times of year, typically in late November in the Smokies, where you have phenomenal winds that will blow through. We had wind gusts well over 85, 90 mph. That Monday, it just blew the fire, that had been largely contained to the park, well outside of the park and through Gatlinburg. Other branches of it spotted fires up through Pigeon Forge, outside of Dollywood.

At the end of the day, 14 people died. Hundreds were injured and something like 2,000 buildings were destroyed.

Adams: You’ve been looking into the National Park Service’s initial response to this fire. What gave you the idea for this investigation, and how did you go about doing it?

Whetstone: I’d been writing about the wildfire. I was there the night that it happened, at least in Pigeon Forge. You couldn’t get into Gatlinburg. Emergency crews wouldn’t let you get into Gatlinburg, which was probably a good call. So, it’s something that I’ve been working on and off for seven years. In the last two years, I really kind of spearheaded our reporting on that and continue to follow a federal lawsuit against the park service the victims of the fire filed. I got a new set of documents — 1,500 pages of federal records that we hadn’t previously seen — from a source, and those records really spawned the effort.

Knox News investigative reporter Tyler Whetstone.

*Credit: Knox News*

Adams: Tell me a little bit about what y’all found in all those documents.

Whetstone: There’s really three findings. The first is, early on, the date that the fire broke out of the park, park officials were saying on the radio that the fire could leave the park and go as far as Ski Mountain. If you’re familiar with Gatlinburg, Ski Mountain is on the far end of town near the park, but it kind of winds its way around the city. It’s where a lot of residents live. It would have been another three or four hours before park officials let the city know that the fire could leave the park, but they never said “Ski Mountain.” City officials thought it would be in one place and were never given the heads-up that it could go to an entirely different place, and that’s where most of the deaths occurred, unfortunately.

The second story was, the man in charge of the fire — the fire management officer, the guy who’s in charge of the response, and in charge of how the fire is handled — his name is Greg Salansky. Greg texted another park official on Saturday, saying basically that the park should be prepared because “Monday might get exciting.” And Monday, of course, was not just exciting, it was awful and ended up being a lot worse than Greg was expecting. So it calls into question some of the decisions. The park service never had anyone watch the fire overnight, any of the five nights it burned, which experts in wildland fires will tell you is a no-no. You always want to have someone watching the fire just in case it blows out of the park, or grows, or just to get an idea of what’s going on.

Then lastly, we had obtained an audio recording of park superintendent Cassius Cash receiving a call early Sunday morning at 3 a.m. It’s a weird call because he answers the phone, and it’s a police dispatch telling him that the fire had grown. And Cash assumed that it hadn’t. But he didn’t check with anyone, he just downplayed it and said, it’s not a big deal to worry about it, it’s a small thing. But if you’re in charge of the park, and a fire is reported to have grown tenfold at least over a couple of hours, it’s something that you need to check out. That’s what wildland fire experts told me. It’s something that the park officials were not ready to do. They were not used to these types of events, not used to this type of fire certainly. And just one mistake after another unfortunately, led to a pretty awful, awful week.

Foxfire Book Showcases Appalachia Through Its Women

A recent Foxfire collection spotlights the lives of 21 Appalachian women, who capture the depth and breadth of life in the mountains. It collects oral histories from throughout Foxfire’s long history, beginning with early interview subjects in the ‘60s and ‘70s and continuing through today.

This story originally aired in the Jan. 7, 2024 episode of Inside Appalachia.

A recent Foxfire collection spotlights the lives of 21 Appalachian women, who capture the depth and breadth of life in the mountains.

The Foxfire Book of Appalachian Women: Stories of Landscape and Community in the Mountain South was published in 2023.

It collects oral histories from throughout Foxfire’s long history, beginning with early interview subjects in the ‘60s and ‘70s and continuing through today.

Inside Appalachia Host Mason Adams spoke with Kami Ahrens, the book’s editor.

The transcript below has been lightly edited for length and clarity.

Adams: One of the things I love about this book is its attention to negative space. In the curation around these oral histories, there’s a lot of attention paid to who’s here and who’s not here. And then even within interviews, you’re paying attention, not only to what’s said, but to what’s unsaid. And to me, as a reader, I find that really powerful. Why is that such an important part of curating oral histories like this?

Ahrens: That was an important thing that I was considering when writing the book, because oral history is inherently biased. I had someone recently ask me, “how do you go do an oral history and leave your bias at home?” And, you don’t, because we always come with our own experiences. And naturally, conversations are going to be influenced by what you’re asking, but also by what you’re not asking, and by what people want to share and what people don’t want to share. And even though these women in this book, and in the Foxfire archives, do often make themselves very vulnerable, there are experiences that they don’t share.

And it’s also important to remember when dealing with the material from Foxfire, that the interviews were conducted by students who didn’t have a research agenda. So these are high school students who are going out to write magazine articles. And when you’re going to an interview with that in mind, you’re going with a very different set of questions than if someone who is a seasoned academic was going out to collect specific stories.

So it was important to me to make sure that the reader understood the context with which these interviews were collected, and how they have been curated, interpreted over time. And also the demographics of the region have changed drastically. And, you know, I can’t attest to the fact that we’ve all kept up with those changing demographics. But it’s important to note that this book should serve as a beginning, as a foundation, for starting conversations of your own. So it’s not meant to be the only book of Appalachian women, but an inspiration for people to begin conversations in their own communities and to further, deeper explore what Appalachia is.

Adams: Although you mentioned the book’s just a beginning, it does offer just an explosion of narrative and stories. I mean, I connect with these women as human beings who are, you know, galaxies of stories among themselves. And then, with their stories positioned next to one another, this sort of larger narrative emerges about change over time. Is that something you thought about as well — sort of the bigger story you’re telling with these particular women’s stories?

Ahrens: Yeah, absolutely. So this project came about just from my initial research of Foxfire. When I first came to work at the museum, my supervisor told me to just read everything that I could. And as I was reading, you know if you’re familiar with Foxfire books, there are personal stories kind of sprinkled throughout these other articles — on how to make log cabins, how to cook over an open fire. And each time I encountered these women’s stories, I was just, like, stopped in my tracks because of how much they shared.

And as you mentioned, all of the themes that they pull out about changing Appalachia are experiences in Appalachia. And I just saw the need for them to be together to tell a larger story. And so when I was trying to put this book together, I spoke briefly with a researcher looking for some advice on how to organize it, and she said to let the women speak to each other. And as I started arranging these narratives next to each other, I could see that there were these conversations happening between the women’s stories. And they were really fitting in as puzzle pieces to tell this, again, larger story of change over time and Appalachia.

Adams: I’d like to talk about a few of the women who were featured in the Foxfire Book of Appalachian Women. And maybe we should start with the first one: Margaret Burrell Norton. I grew up around Foxfire books, so I can’t speak to whether I’ve run across Margaret Norton before many times, or if she’s just so reminiscent of mountain women that I’ve known. But she feels very familiar to me. Can you tell us more about her?

Ahrens: Absolutely. And I’m sure you’ve read an article by her. She was in so many articles, both in the Foxfire magazine and Foxfire books, most notably, the planting by the signs article. Margaret contributed a lot to that article, and it was in the first Foxfire book. Margaret is probably really typical of what people think of a mountain woman. She was born and raised on Betty’s Creek, and she talks about how she basically just moved up the road when she got married, so she never really lived anywhere else her entire life. She, like a lot of people in Appalachia, traces her ancestry back through the land for hundreds of years. She was a practitioner of a lot of folk traditions and folk knowledge. And she tried to share that with the Foxfire students.

She talks about planning by the signs, which is a practice of using the signs of the zodiac to tell you when to do things, whether it’s planting or cutting your hair. She also shared information about folk songs, especially when it came to butter churning, and she was a weaver and a quilter. So she kind of sets the stage for what we think of as the Appalachian woman. Then, we kind of take the narrative from there by branching out and looking at diverse stories that are coexisting with people like Margaret in Appalachia.

Adams: Margaret’s followed by Beulah Perry, who again reminds me of mountain women that I’ve known — but I realize in reading it how much I don’t know. Tell me more about Beulah Perry, and why she follows in that second chapter.

Ahrens: On a practical level, the book is organized by date of interview, but Beulah makes a great follow chapter to Margaret, because her story shares so many of the same themes, the same activities. But Beulah’s Black, so she comes from a different background than Margaret, but yet she still found her way into Rabun County, Georgia.

Beulah was raised the children of sharecroppers in the South Carolina Piedmont. She has these memories that were inherited from her by her grandfather that he shared with her and her siblings when they were children about his experiences during slavery. So she gives us a window into a much different lifestyle. She talks in many ways about racial experiences without necessarily sharing her personal opinions. This is a chapter where examining the negative space is really important, because there are a lot of things that Beulah says, but there are a lot of things that she doesn’t say.

She just offers a really great alternative perspective and a different background to what life in the mountains was like. We really value Beulah for opening up to the Foxfire students in the ‘70s, which would have been quite a different experience than it would be today.

The Foxfire office in Rabun County, Georgia.

*Credit: Lilly Knoepp*

Adams: And as the book continues, it just, you read through all these different women. One of the great delights for me was when I got closer to the end, and there were women who were younger than me, who I don’t always associate with oral histories. So there’s folks like Sandra Macias Glitchowski, who immigrated from Ecuador and is much younger than me. I loved reading her story.

Ahrens: Yeah, for many people Sandra was the unexpected one, but it was really important to me to make sure that there was the immigrant experience included in this book, because Rabun County, and many other areas in Appalachia, are seeing large numbers of Latino immigrants come into the region, specifically because of agricultural opportunities. Many of them are staying and building businesses, so it was important to include a Latino voice.

Sandra emigrated from Ecuador to Miami as a young child, and she basically raised herself. It wasn’t until she was married with children that she moved to Rabun County. She’s become a really important figure in our community, and especially among the Latino community. So she serves as kind of a contact for that community here, because they are in many ways a very closed community, both culturally and linguistically.

What was interesting when I sat down with Sandra was that her story echoes so many experiences and themes that come out. It’s really interesting to see those parallels so many decades apart, and certainly in different regions. There are shared experiences, no matter how diverse we think people are. And Sandra is young, she’s 35, 36? She really has a lot to share, and I think this goes to show that oral histories aren’t just sitting down with older people. While those certainly have value, we all have stories to share that can make a difference to people around us.

Adams: So then there’s Dakota Brown of the Eastern Band of Cherokee Indian Wolf Clan, who I found really compelling — not only because of her youth, but she also is so in touch with the history and sense of self on the landscape. Can you tell us about Dakota Brown?

Ahrens: Dakota is incredible. She’s employed at the Museum of the Cherokee Indian, and she’s working really hard to bring back traditional values in our community and to help change the way that people see and speak about indigenous people. I’m really excited for the work that she has been doing with her team over at the museum. Dakota personally has really traditional values when it comes to her heritage as a Cherokee woman, and she’s really proud of that heritage.

What’s interesting about Dakota’s conversation is how much she talks about the way that other people interpret and understand native peoples. I’ll never forget, she told me that it’s nearly impossible to change the way that people think about you when they think that you don’t exist anymore. People have a tendency to, you know, understand that native peoples are gone. And they’re not — they’re very much present in many places throughout our country today. We tend to lump native culture into one group, and we see Native peoples as one. And that’s not true. A lot of the things that she talks about that are part of the tourist industry in Cherokee, North Carolina, come from western tribes, plains tribes. So like powwows, and headdresses, all of that — that doesn’t belong to traditional Cherokee culture.

So, working through those stereotypes to represent to a broader public, what your culture is, but also to help your own people understand that is a massive task. But if anybody is up to it, it’s definitely Dakota.

Adams: Those are just a few of the 21 women featured in this book. But, after we hear from 20 of the others, we end with Kaye Carver Collins. How did you choose Kaye to end the book?

Ahrens: I wasn’t positive that I was going to end with Kaye, but as soon as I started doing her interview, I just knew that it was the right ending point. During her interview, she pulled together a lot of themes that had been running through the book, and kind of brought everything full circle. Kaye also has a really longstanding history with Foxfire. I felt like that, in and of itself, was worthy of ending the book on that note. She as a child remembers her father, Buck Carver, who was a notorious moonshiner, being interviewed by Foxfire students.

Then as a teenager herself, she joined the Foxfire program, her and her twin sister. After she graduated high school, she started working for Foxfire and spent a lot of time working with Foxfire, editing Foxfire books, supporting local students. Then in recent years, she’s served both as a community board member and a board member, and now is on an advisory committee for the museum. And she just kind of pulls it all together. I think the way she ends her interview is a really great way to end the book as well.

Adams: There are 21 women featured in this book. But really, there’s 22, because you as the curator are in each of these pages, whether we see you or not. What was your experience? What wisdom have you taken away from your work with this book?

Ahrens: There’s so much to take away from it. But I think at its core, I took away a sense of resiliency and understanding — a long-term view of what’s most important to us in our lives, and how we can use that to shape our daily experiences with others. There’s so many hardships that people go through, that most people don’t even know about until you take the time to sit down and ask somebody. I think that opening up of yourself as a researcher or as an interviewer to other people’s stories, to other people’s experiences, and leaving your own concerns behind — I think that can shape you if you allow it, and can help you grow if you’re open to it.

I would say that’s probably the biggest lesson I’ve taken away, is to sit and to listen, to be open to what other people’s experiences help shape how I understand myself and my place, and how I can react and respond to others better to make them feel important and valued in difficult times.

How Two Rival Football Teams Came Together In A School Consolidation

There’s nothing hotter than a high school sports rivalry. For Mason Adams, that meant the Alleghany Mountaineers versus the Covington Cougars. Adams was a Mountaineer, and beating the Cougars was a top priority in every sport — but especially in football.

This story originally aired in the Jan. 28, 2024 episode of Inside Appalachia.

There’s nothing hotter than a high school sports rivalry.

For me, that meant the Alleghany Mountaineers versus the Covington Cougars. I was a Mountaineer, and beating the Cougars was a top priority in every sport — but especially in football.

So, returning for Alleghany’s 2023 homecoming game feels weird. The fight song is different, the team is going by a different name, and the game is at Covington’s home field.

That’s because this game is part of the Alleghany Cougars’ inaugural season. Previously separate, the Alleghany and Covington school systems consolidated in the ‘23-‘24 academic year. Which meant this was the first homecoming game of the newly merged Alleghany Cougars.

A view from the home stands during Alleghany High School’s 2023 homecoming game.

*Credit: Mason Adams/West Virginia Public Broadcasting*

In truth, the merger has been a long time coming. Alleghany County sits on the Virginia/West Virginia border along Interstate 64. Its economy was built largely around a paper mill and the railroad. However, neither are the dominant employers they once were, and the county’s population has declined from its height in the mid-20th century.

School enrollment dropped, too. Covington High School mostly remained small but stable, while Alleghany High School lost about 1,000 students over the last 20 years. After decades of debate and years of planning, Alleghany and Covington agreed to merge.

But it was a tricky process. The schools are still making tweaks and adjustments, and probably will be for years to come. And a lot of people still have mixed feelings.

In fact, many people at the game are still wary about talking on the record about the consolidation. They seem nervous about saying the wrong thing, and getting people all fired up again.

The Alleghany High School band plays during the homecoming game.

*Credit: Mason Adams/West Virginia Public Broadcasting*

But there are also signs that people are coming together around the merger. Take the fight song, for instance. Writing the new song involved a lot of negotiation and compromise.

“We had to bring together all of the old fight songs and make something new for this group to hold on to,” says Alleghany Band Director Adam Eggleston. “We hired some composers we’d worked with before, some arrangers that we trusted, and so we let them piece it together very carefully.”

The same goes for choreography.

“The first count that we do in the fight song is from Alleghany, the first eight counts,” says Laura DeSilvey, Alleghany’s color guard instructor. “Then the next eight counts is actually the kick line from Covington. Then we made a whole new section for the last half. The kids actually got to come up with that.”

The color guard cheers during Alleghany High School’s homecoming game.

*Credit: Mason Adams/West Virginia Public Broadcasting*

The cheerleading team also developed chants and cheers that blended what the two high schools used previously.

But the main thing for a lot of students is that the consolidated football team is really good. They roll over Carroll County High School, who, like a lot of Alleghany’s opponents now, traveled from more than two hours away.

“Covington had a lot of athleticism, and Alleghany had a lot of strength and size,” says Nick Frye, a junior in the Cougar Maniacs student section. “So the merger is the two things you need in football put together: athleticism and size. It’s amazing.”

Olivia Bell and Nicole Frye show off their Alleghany Cougars face paint.

*Credit: Mason Adams/West Virginia Public Broadcasting*

There are plenty of other signs of how students are weathering the merger. Juniors Olivia Bell and Nicole Frye wear face paint featuring the team’s new color scheme. The transition is “not the best, but we’re getting through it,” Fry says. “We gotta have that Cougar spirit!”

They both appreciate that the newly combined school has retained elements from the separate schools. “It’s good not having a full change,” Bell says.

Other traditions continue unabated — like a group of students wearing “senior jeans.” Senior Kaidence Nicely says they picked up the tradition from seniors the previous year.

Alleghany students show off their “senior jeans” at Homecoming.

*Credit: Mason Adams/West Virginia Public Broadcasting*

“The way I would describe senior jeans, you put your grade on ’em, your school, what sports you play, your name, your initials, mascot — whatever you want to put on you can,” Nicely says. “I put pom-poms on mine, and I love them.”

Talking to students makes it easy to catch school spirit. There’s the band, the cheers, the game on the field, and especially, the student cheering section, led by the self-identified Cougar Maniacs.

“We’ve got the most spirit out of everyone,” says Ayden Roman, a senior. “We’re always chanting.”

“Just trying to make everybody have a good time, enjoy the game,” says Tanner Hoke, a junior.

The new merger, Hoke says, “was awkward at first. But as you can see, we’re all … all…”

“We’re all Cougars now,” says Roman, finishing the thought.

“It seems this merger just brought the whole community together instead of against each other,” Hoke says.

Players watch from the sidelines during Alleghany’s homecoming game.

*Credit: Mason Adams/West Virginia Public Broadcasting*

Alleghany defeated Carroll County, 47-0.

The Cougars’ season eventually concluded with a loss in the playoffs. The team finished with a record of 9 wins and 2 losses.

——

This story is part of the Inside Appalachia Folkways Reporting Project, a partnership with West Virginia Public Broadcasting’s Inside Appalachia and the Folklife Program of the West Virginia Humanities Council.

The Folkways Reporting Project is made possible in part with support from Margaret A. Cargill Philanthropies to the West Virginia Public Broadcasting Foundation. Subscribe to the podcast to hear more stories of Appalachian folklife, arts and culture.

Photographer Documents Roanoke, Virginia’s Burgeoning DIY Punk Scene

Roanoke photographer Chelse Warren is documenting Roanoke’s thriving hardcore scene under the name “Openhead Takes Photos.” The Virginia city’s burgeoning DIY music scene is growing, based around Flying Panther, a venue that doubles as a skate shop.

This story originally aired in the Dec. 10, 2023 episode of Inside Appalachia.

Roanoke photographer Chelse Warren is documenting Roanoke’s thriving hardcore scene under the name “Openhead Takes Photos.”

The Virginia city’s burgeoning DIY music scene is growing, based around Flying Panther, a venue that doubles as a skate shop. Its two-day festival called The Floor is Gone featured music, a local zine, an underground book distro, skateboarders and a local punk podcast. Warren was in the middle of it all, shooting photographs and dodging flying bodies in the mosh pit.

Inside Appalachia Host Mason Adams reached out to learn more.

Photographer Chelse Warren, a.k.a. Openhead Takes Photos.

*Photo by LaJoy Visuals*

The transcript below has been lightly edited for clarity.

Adams: Chelse Warren, thank you so much for coming on Inside Appalachia today.

Warren: Thank you for having me. I’m happy to be here.

Adams: For people who’ve never been, can you set the scene and describe a Flying Panther show?

Warren: Flying Panther is a warehouse and skate shop in northwest Roanoke. The owners, who are fantastic, decided to turn the warehouse area into a mini-ramp and a venue. It’s all ages, they allow anyone to come. I’ve never felt so safe before at a venue. You go there, [and] everyone’s there for the right reasons. It’s a sense of camaraderie, and it’s always a fun time.

It’s mostly punk and hardcore music, but they’ve had country artists, they’ve had bluegrass artists, they have a goth night every month. So you can pretty much guarantee a full spectrum of music at some point.

During the month at Flying Panther, there are a ton of different people from all walks of life that come to shows. They’re there every show. You have your alternative and your punk kids, but you also have what I would describe as normal people that you wouldn’t expect to see at these shows. It’s nice to all inhabit the same space for music.

Adams: When I first went to that show, there’s people jumping around, the singers jumping around and you’re right there in the middle of it shooting photos. What’s that like?

Warren: I’ve seen a trashcan thrown, I’ve seen chairs, I’ve seen a couch pushed in the pit, rolling chairs, pillows thrown — you name it, I’ve seen it. That’s something that I always have to take into account, is I’m constantly aware of my surroundings. I’m looking at my peripherals.

That is hard, because I have to focus a manual lens and plan my routes. I’m very, very lucky to have the vast majority of those people always looking out for me, and I find comfort in that. I’ve had a lot of close calls. On day two of The Floor Is Gone. I got tackled. I saw it, and it was just so fast happening that I couldn’t move. I came like an inch away from banging my head on the floor. But my camera went up, it’s fine, I’m fine. And I just got up and laughed it off. Because that’s just part of hardcore and punk. It’s just something to expect.

Dimension Six plays at Flying Panther.

*Photo by Openhead Takes Photos*

Adams: So what’s your strategy when you go into these shows, when you walk in and see the stage and crowd there? How do you approach that as a photographer? It seemed like you had a system.

Warren: Yes. I try my best to get there early, which doesn’t always work, because I’m usually late. I plan my route as best as I possibly can. Within reason, I try my best to do one side and then the other side. I’ve had to perfect taking a photo as I’m walking right across the stage. I’ve gotten some of my best photos just from doing that.

I mentioned the focusing thing — like, okay, I want to go there. Next I need to focus my lens to that point. So when I get there, it’s in focus, and I can get the photos. But because it is like punk and hardcore, you never know when someone’s going to jump or do something else bizarre that you want to document. I try really, really hard to always get jumps, because those are what the people in the band want. I try to listen to the music and try to map out, do I think they’re going to jump? I may be right once out of every five times that they might jump, but I still try my best to get it no matter what.

Gaol, playing at Flying Panther.

*Photo by Openhead Takes Photos*

Adams: How did you get into this culture?

Warren: My friend in probably sixth grade showed me a band on Napster, if that tells you my age. Which spiraled to another band, and then another band, and just kind of snowballed after that. I would say I was around like 15 when I started going to DIY shows that really helped broaden my spectrum and idea of heavy music. And it all just branched into like hardcore punk.

I suppose what really fed the fire and started it all in the early 2000s was my friends playing music. Watching them play music and doing what they love inspired me, who already loved taking photos, to start documenting shows. DIY is so, so important, and it’s important to document it so that it lasts longer than us, and people can look back and see a history on how things were.

Adams: What keeps you in this? You talked about getting tackled at a show, and that’s a deal breaker for a lot of people. What keeps you coming back? What keeps you so engaged?

Warren: It’s just exciting. It’s exhilarating. It pushes me and my art to new levels every time, because no situation, even if it’s at the same venue, is the same. Even if I’ve shot the same band five times. It’s been different every single time, and I just love the music, and I love our scene here, and it’s important to me to make sure that it’s documented.

Roanoke hardcore band Collective Action.

*Photo by Openhead Takes Photos*

Adams: You’ve been doing this for awhile and you’ve shot all these bands. What have you learned from all this?

Warren: It’s definitely pushed me past my limits of what I thought was possible. Several years ago, my goal was, I want to shoot bigger bands, bigger venues. I just took pictures of [bassist] Victor Wooten at the Jefferson Center this past weekend. That was amazing and incredible that I got the opportunity to do that, but it’s nothing like DIY music. I really think DIY seems like a critical part to communities. It offers a safe space for people who feel like they don’t fit in elsewhere, or feel like they have no friends like them, a space where they can feel loved, welcomed and accepted, and witness music that they love. It’s really important.

The Wild, Woolly World of Appalachian Zines

If you’ve been involved in the punk or art scenes, you might be familiar with zines. A zine, as in magazine, is a self-published pamphlet or brochure, or even a booklet. Some are very low-tech and rudimentary, and others are elaborately designed works of art. They’re all unique, and reflect the people who make them.

This story originally aired in the Nov. 26, 2023 episode of Inside Appalachia.

The Johnson City Zine Fest has become a gathering point for southern Appalachia’s arts community.

If you’ve been involved in the punk or art scenes, you might be familiar with zines. A zine, as in magazine, is a self-published pamphlet or brochure, or even a booklet. Some are very low-tech and rudimentary, and others are elaborately designed works of art. They’re all unique, and reflect the people who make them.

Back in September 2021, Inside Appalachia featured host Mason Adams’ interview with Suzie Kelly, a zinemaker and founder of the Johnson City Zine Fest. That year, the zine fest was making a comeback after the COVID-19 pandemic — but then it was canceled, too.

But in 2022, the Johnson City Zine Fest returned. In its second year back since the pandemic, the 2023 Johnson City Zine Fest brought together people from Asheville, North Carolina; Lexington, Kentucky; Abingdon, Virginia; Chattanooga, Knoxville and Johnson City, Tennessee; and beyond.

Adams attended the 2023 fest to talk with makers and learn more about zinemaking.

Adams: How’d you get into making zines?

David Wischer: Oh man, I made my first zines in high school in the ’90s. So I think my friend Craig heard about zines somewhere — I’m not sure how — so we just started making them with collage and writing in his dad’s office. We made Xerox copies and passed them around.

Cait Maltbie: I started making zines in undergrad. I like them because they’re more accessible. So you can make them. They’re very easy, usually a sheet of paper and not a lot of supplies.

A selection of Cait Malbie’s zines at the Johnson City Zine Fest.

*Credit: Suzie Kelly*

Patrick Thomas: Honestly, my whole life, I’ve loved comic books and horror movies and drawing monsters and stuff. So in my adult life, it just made sense to keep on doing that stuff, but to actually share it with people, instead of just having little notebooks folded up for myself, you know.

Elizabeth Kidder: I got into zines through collecting. Whenever I go to a convention or an event, if I see a little booklet I like, I have to get that for the collection. I’ve never actually made any zines until this month, when I reached out to Johnson City. And they said, “Oh, you’re interested in coming as a vendor?” I’m like, uh, uh. I panicked and said, “Sure.” And then I had a month to make some zines. And now I don’t just collect them, now I make them.

Richard Graves: I’m an Appalachian artist and a local artist here. And it seems like zines and the DIY self-publishing very much has, like, a grassroots feel to it. And I see that it’s very Appalachian. And something that I wanted to try my hand at.

Adams: So would you pick one and tell me about it?

Kidder: Yeah. So this zine is called Unknown Cryptids. It is a collection of ten different cryptids that you do not know, because I made them up. After coming up with that idea. I went through and I just said, if I wanted to see something walking through the woods, what would it be? So each page is kind of set up like a nature doc, where you have the name, a descriptor, a picture, when it’s active and the size ratio in comparison to a human being, so you can tell how much you should run if this thing comes after you.

Johnson City Zine Fest co-organizer Sage Perrott chats with attendees.

*Credit: Suzie Kelly*

Claire Thompson: Jayne Mansfield’s Head is my favorite zine I’ve ever made. She’s on the cover with her head severed. It’s about the sort of urban legend, pop culture myth that Jayne Mansfield who did die in a car accident, but it’s about the myth that she was completely decapitated.

Amanda Simons: It’s called Is This a Couch and Will I Ever Be Comfortable Again? So the zine’s about these Instagram advertisements and, over time, me trying to figure out what actually is a couch. Because I was getting advertised things like beanbags and dog beds and, like, floor pillows and all these things, because that’s what I was also searching. But I thought I was looking for a couch. But the internet thought it differently.

Maltbie: I have a variety of zines right now. The ones I have out, I have some about my childhood toys. I have some about my job, in which I had to do a lot of phone calls, cold calling. And then I have some about, like, loving trinkets. So a variety of things.

Brett Marcus Cook: I decided to make a zine about bodily autonomy, body liberation, body neutrality. Just Western society is so filled with weird ideas that are contradictory about the body. Like there are things that we need to be ashamed of about our functions or certain parts and things.

Carrie Kindle: It’s the soup season zine and it has 15 different soup recipes in it. So it’s kind of like a recipe anthology. A lot of these are my parents’ recipes. So I grew up eating a lot of these soups.

A zinemaker at the Johnson City Zine Fest.

*Credit: Suzie Kelly*

Jaclyn Lewis: So I have one called Ayako and Xochitl, and it’s a glimpse into the world of female wrestling. And it sort of tells the story of these two female wrestlers who are sisters, and one match that was very epic, they had to wrestle each other and it was very emotional.

Artie David: It’s called Peach Baby. And it’s a couple of different poems. But the last poem, the titular poem, is called “Peach Baby,” and it’s about my experiences, like, struggling with my mental health and emotional, physical health. And kind of looking at that through the lens of some chickens that I rescued, who were named Peach and Baby.

Kindle: If you’ve never made a zine before, definitely try it. You can literally print it on a piece of copy paper, and make a zine!

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