Echoes of Appalachia

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  • The Battle for the Soul of Appalachia

    The Battle for the Soul of Appalachia

    The Mountain South Confronts Hard Truths in a World That Often Ignores It

    Appalachia is not a postcard. It’s not all wildflowers and misty ridgelines, though there’s plenty of that. It’s a place where contradictions sit heavy. Where people love their neighbors but may not trust the government. Where the past is always just below the surface. Where coal dust lingers, not just in the air, but in memory.

    When people outside the region talk about fixing Appalachia, they rarely listen to the ones living there. They treat the mountains like a museum or a charity case. But folks here have opinions, fight their own battles, and carry their own sins. This ain’t a region frozen in time—it’s alive, complex, and in many ways, under siege. Let’s talk about the issues hitting hardest.

    You may ask “why are you writing all these controversial stories? The answer is simple. It needs to be told. It needs a light shined on it. I will never stop writing or fighting for the area that raised me, where my roots have been for nearly 10 generations. My question to you is why are you not mad and fighting?

    Economic Development: Jobs vs. Dignity

    There’s not a soul here who doesn’t want work. Real work. But “economic development” in these parts often means outsiders coming in with short-term jobs, strip-mining the land, and then disappearing. Meanwhile, local folks are told to smile and be grateful.

    Big box stores wiped out small businesses. Tech jobs never came. And when a few new industries do show up—usually warehouses or prison jobs—they don’t come with promises. They come with NDAs and low wages. People want opportunity, not charity. They want a future that doesn’t require abandoning their hometowns to get it.

    Voting Rights: The Silent Struggle

    In many Appalachian counties, getting to a polling place can mean driving 30 miles on roads that flood every spring. For some, there’s no public transit. For others, it’s about intimidation—coded language, poll watchers, and questions that feel more like accusations.

    Voting rights aren’t just about IDs and hours. They’re about trust. And that trust has been torn down, brick by brick, by both parties and their games. There’s suspicion—earned and old—that votes don’t matter. That the cities pick the winners, and the mountains get stuck with the consequences. And that fuels silence at the polls, or worse, retreat into apathy.

    Healthcare: A Long Drive and a Short Life

    Emergency rooms have shut down. Maternity wards closed up. Pharmacies turned into Dollar Generals. Folks are dying younger here—not because they don’t care about their health, but because the nearest doctor is two counties over and the bill will break them.

    Addiction is still a quiet epidemic. Mental health services are almost nonexistent. People are hurting and coping the only ways they know how—sometimes with pills, sometimes with prayer. But there’s a deep well of shame around asking for help. And a deeper anger when help never comes.

    Folkways: The Culture That Won’t Die Quietly

    If you want to understand Appalachia, you better understand the old ways. Herbalists, shape-note singers, porch preachers, coal miners with union songs in their blood, and women who know what roots to dig up for a cough.

    But the outside world calls that superstition, backwardness, or worse—hillbilly nonsense. There’s a fight happening to preserve what makes this place different, even as it gets paved over by Dollar Stores and Netflix.

    The truth is, the folkways are how people have survived here for centuries. They aren’t quaint—they’re powerful. But they’re under attack. Not with fire and brimstone, but with mockery and neglect.

    Education: The System is Failing, but the Kids Aren’t

    Teachers in the rural areas are underpaid, overworked, and sometimes driving the school bus on top of everything else. Broadband is spotty at best. And yet—kids still show up. Some hungry. Some tired. But they show up.

    Education is supposed to be the way out. But what if kids don’t want out? What if they just want a decent school and a fair shot right where they live? What if they’re tired of being told their future has to be somewhere else?

    Criminal Justice: Justice, or Just Us?

    There’s a prison economy in Appalachia, and it’s booming. But while the guards get jobs, the people behind bars are usually from somewhere else—and disproportionately Black or Brown. Meanwhile, locals get tangled in a system that moves fast when you’re poor and slow when you’re rich.

    Meth charges carry harsher sentences than white-collar crimes. Court-appointed lawyers are overburdened. Bail means staying in jail because you’re broke. And rehabilitation? That’s a fantasy in a jailhouse with mold on the walls and no programs.

    Immigration: The New Neighbors Some Folks Don’t Want

    There’s a slow demographic shift happening. Immigrant families are moving into places where the mines have shut down and the fields sit empty. Some bring businesses. Others bring kids to revive dwindling schools.

    But not everyone is welcoming. Fear turns into rumors. Language barriers become targets. Yet, at the same time, many immigrants share something with Appalachians: hard work, faith, and survival instincts. There’s potential for solidarity—but only if both sides are willing to reach across fear.

    This Place is Complicated, and That’s the Point

    Appalachia isn’t one thing. It’s not just banjos or poverty porn. It’s full of contradictions—radical kindness and stubborn hate, hard work and hard times, pride and pain.

    The problems here are real. But so is the fight. The region doesn’t need saving—it needs listening. It needs truth, not tropes. And it needs people willing to dig deeper than the clichés and see the soul that still burns in these mountains.

    Because it does burn. Quiet, steady, and unyielding.

    -Tim Carmichael

  • The Betrayal of Appalachian People

    The Betrayal of Appalachian People

    In Appalachia, folks don’t ask for much. A roof over their heads, enough food on the table, and maybe a few extra dollars at the end of the month to keep the heat on when winter bites down hard. These are the same people who lined up at small-town polling places, many of them casting their ballots for Donald Trump not just once, but twice. They believed him when he said he’d look out for the forgotten men and women of America. They believed him when he promised to bring back coal, fix the economy, and take care of those left behind. But now, with each passing day, that belief is starting to crumble.

    You don’t have to look far to see why. Talk to the older folks in these parts—people who worked forty, fifty years in sawmills, coal mines, textile factories. They lean on Social Security to survive. Their healthcare comes through Medicare. And a good number of families in the region—especially since the jobs left—depend on SNAP benefits just to feed their kids. These programs aren’t luxuries here. They’re lifelines. And now, they’re under threat.

    Trump recently floated the idea of cutting Social Security and Medicare as a way to “save the economy.” Cuts that would leave many of his own supporters with nothing but worry and empty pockets. For years he said he’d never touch Social Security. That it was safe with him. But talk is cheap, especially when the cameras are off.

    Then there’s Medicaid. For thousands in the region, especially in rural counties where doctors are scarce and hospitals are closing, Medicaid is the only way they can afford a doctor’s visit or life-saving medication. During the pandemic, Trump bragged about expanding access to care. But now, he’s backing policies that gut Medicaid under the guise of “fiscal responsibility.” If that’s not betrayal, I don’t know what is.

    Let’s talk about Hurricane Helene. When the floodwaters came roaring through places like Madison County, North Carolina, and small towns in East Tennessee, it didn’t matter who you voted for. People were trapped, homes were swept away, roads were destroyed. Churches opened their doors. Neighbors fed neighbors. But when it came to federal help, many were left waiting.

    Trump stood at a podium, promising aid and relief, saying the government would stand by the victims. But now, reports show he’s cutting FEMA funding. The very agency tasked with helping communities recover from disasters like Helene is being asked to do more with less. Where is the help now, when people are still living in campers or with relatives because their homes are uninhabitable? Where’s the follow-through on all those promises?

    It’s not just about funding. It’s about trust. When you tell a community you’ve got their back, and then you turn your back on them, that’s more than political betrayal. That’s personal.

    And still, many folks defend him. They say, “He’s better than the alternative,” or “At least he talks to us.” But talking ain’t doing. And for every promise he made—better healthcare, jobs returning, small towns thriving again—there’s a growing list of promises broken.

    Remember when he said coal was coming back? He stood in front of miners and said, “You’re going to be working your asses off.” But the mines didn’t reopen. The ones that were still running kept laying off. And the towns built around them kept dying. Automation, market changes, and energy shifts didn’t slow down just because Trump said they would. And the people here, who’ve already been kicked in the teeth for decades, were left with little more than a red hat and a fading hope.

    The opioid crisis? He said he’d fight it. That he’d pour resources into treatment and prevention. But overdose deaths continued to climb, and funding for rural treatment programs was inconsistent at best or cut. Appalachia, which once prided itself on strong families and self-reliance, is now fighting to save its next generation from addiction. And they’re doing it with fewer resources than they need.

    Now, folks are starting to whisper things they wouldn’t have said aloud four years ago. They’re scared. Not just of losing benefits, but of realizing they were sold a dream that was never meant to come true. Of waking up and seeing the man they thought was on their side is siding with corporations, billionaires, and political cronies instead.

    At the corner diner, in gas stations, and on church steps, you’ll hear it: “I don’t know anymore.” It’s the sound of doubt creeping in, slow and uncomfortable. It’s not loud yet, but it’s there. A shift. A hesitation.

    What will it take for folks to open their eyes?

    Maybe it’ll be when their medicine isn’t covered anymore. When a parent with diabetes is forced to ration insulin because Medicare no longer foots the bill. Maybe it’ll be when FEMA trucks don’t roll into town after the next flood, or when food stamps get slashed and a single mother can’t feed her babies. Maybe it’ll be when the promises finally stop altogether, and all that’s left is the damage.

    But how much hurt does it take before people admit they were wrong?

    That’s the question echoing through the mountains now. It’s a hard one, because admitting you were wrong means you trusted someone who didn’t deserve it. It means facing the shame of being fooled. And for proud people, that’s a tough pill to swallow.

    But pride won’t keep the lights on. And loyalty won’t fill a pantry. At some point, reality knocks harder than the lie.

    We need leaders who don’t just fly in for photo ops, who don’t toss paper towels into crowds or hand out platitudes. We need folks in office who understand the daily grind of rural life, who know that Appalachia isn’t a backdrop for political theater—it’s home to millions of people who work hard, love deep, and deserve better than empty promises.

    So, what now? Do we keep waiting? Do we keep hoping someone in Washington will remember the people who fed this country, who mined its coal, built its railroads, and fought in its wars? Or do we start asking harder questions of those we’ve put our faith in?

    Because here’s the truth: if you voted for Trump thinking he’d save your town, your job, your family—then it’s time to take a long look at what’s really changed. Not the words. The actions.

    This isn’t about left or right anymore. It’s about right and wrong. And somewhere along the way, a line got crossed.

    The folks of Appalachia are some of the most loyal, forgiving, and determined people you’ll ever meet. But even they have their limits.

    And maybe, just maybe, that limit is finally in sight.

    -Tim Carmichael

  • The Complicated Love of Living in Appalachia a Place That Doesn’t Always Love You Back

    The Complicated Love of Living in Appalachia a Place That Doesn’t Always Love You Back

    By someone who calls these mountains home

    When most folks outside the mountains think about Appalachia, they picture something narrow. White. Straight. Conservative. Probably barefoot. Maybe a little backwards. They picture a place where everyone looks and thinks the same. But that version? That’s not the whole story. And for a long time, it wasn’t even close to the truth.

    Appalachia is more than just one thing. It always has been.

    Before there were state lines and voting maps, before highways carved up the hills and outsiders came in looking to “fix” us, this region was a patchwork of people trying to survive. Scots-Irish, Black freedmen and women, Native folks who managed to stay, immigrants from Eastern Europe and Latin America. Some Jewish families made their way here. Mexicans came and worked the tobacco fields. Black coal miners dug right alongside white ones. Appalachian culture wasn’t built by one kind of person—it was built by all kinds.

    They were poor, most of them. That’s what they had in common. They might’ve been treated differently by the law or the town preacher, but when the crops failed or the mine caved in, color didn’t matter so much. You helped who needed helping. Beans didn’t taste different depending on who cooked them. If your barn burned down, your neighbors showed up—didn’t matter if they looked like you or loved like you or worshipped like you.

    That kind of grit—the shared struggle—that’s the real heart of Appalachia.

    But something’s changing. And not for the better.

    People are moving here in droves now. Folks from places with money. Folks who buy up land and slap “no trespassing” signs on old trails. Folks who bring their politics with them—loud, angry, performative. They plant big flags and build gates and act like this land was made just for them. They don’t understand it. They don’t want to understand it. They just want to shape it into something that feels comfortable for them. And comfort, for them, means control.

    That’s where the hate creeps in.

    You can feel it, can’t you? How it’s shifted? You used to be able to walk into a diner and maybe you’d get a side-eye or two, but people still fed you. Now folks mutter under their breath. Now they size you up, quick, like they’re scanning for who you voted for before they decide whether to speak. Now people act like there’s only one way to be Appalachian—and that’s the lie they’re selling.

    They want to erase the truth. They want to scrub away the Black coal miners and the Jewish shop owners. They don’t want to hear about the Latino families who picked apples up in Henderson County or the Cherokee elders who still know the names of these mountains before they were renamed by colonizers. They want it simple, clean, whitewashed. But real Appalachia ain’t ever been simple.

    You ever talk to someone’s granny who remembers the Klan burning a cross down the road but still shares recipes she learned from her Black neighbor? You ever hear an old man say something ignorant about Mexicans and then tell you about how his family wouldn’t have survived the ’60s if it weren’t for the migrant workers who showed up and helped bring in the harvest?

    That’s the contradiction of this place. It can be ugly and beautiful in the same breath.

    Yes, it’s hard to be gay here. Yes, it’s hard to be Black here. Or Brown. Or Muslim. Or an immigrant. But it wasn’t always this hard. Hate isn’t native to these hills—it’s been imported. Brought in like an invasive weed. Fed by media and preachers who forgot about love. Amplified by politicians who’ve never stepped foot in a holler.

    This land didn’t teach that kind of hate. It taught hard work and shared struggle. It taught minding your own business and helping when someone needed help. You didn’t have to like someone to show up when their roof was leaking or their cow got out. You just did it because that’s what folks around here did.

    Now, it feels like there’s a line drawn down the middle of every town. Like there’s only room for one kind of story.

    But we can’t let them have the last word.

    Because Appalachia still belongs to all of us. To the queer kid who writes songs on the porch. To the Black farmer growing tomatoes on land his granddaddy cleared by hand. To the mixed-race family that drives an hour just to feel safe at church. To the immigrant mom who speaks with an accent but cooks the best cornbread in the county. To the outcasts, the different ones, the ones who don’t fit tidy labels.

    This region isn’t theirs to gatekeep. It’s ours to protect.

    And loving it—really loving it—means telling the truth, even when it’s uncomfortable. It means saying, “Hey, you’re wrong about this place. You’re wrong about who belongs here.” It means pushing back against the narrative that Appalachian equals white, straight, and angry.

    It means remembering the past—not just the parts that make folks feel proud, but the hard parts, too. The racism that’s always lingered. The fear of the “other.” The churches that turned away single mothers or trans folks or interracial couples. The schools that taught one version of history and ignored the rest. We can’t heal if we don’t face it.

    But we can also tell the stories that got buried. The stories of people who made it anyway. Who carved out joy. Who survived and built and grew gardens and families and friendships despite the odds. We can carry those stories forward.

    And we can fight for this place—not the version they want to sell on postcards, but the real version. The complicated, contradictory, beautiful version. The one where people of every background shaped the land. The one where culture was mixed, where food and music and language weren’t separated by fences or fear.

    So if you feel like Appalachia isn’t for you anymore—don’t give up on it yet.

    These mountains may not always feel like home, but they remember who you are. They’ve seen every kind of footstep. They’ve held every kind of story. And they’re bigger than the hate some people bring with them.

    You belong here. We all do.

    And it’s time to reclaim what’s ours.

    -Tim Carmichael

  • Appalachia’s Changing Landscape: Who Can Still Afford to Call It Home?

    Appalachia’s Changing Landscape: Who Can Still Afford to Call It Home?

    Appalachia has long been a refuge for those seeking a quieter, more affordable life. But in recent years, a surge of newcomers—retirees, remote workers, and families fleeing high-cost cities—has transformed the region’s economic and cultural fabric. While the influx brings growth, it also raises pressing questions about affordability and the displacement of lifelong residents.​

    A Region in Transition

    Between 2010 and 2022, Appalachia’s population grew by 3.4%, adding nearly 873,000 residents. However, this growth was uneven. Southern Appalachia, encompassing parts of Georgia, South Carolina, North Carolina, and Tennessee, experienced a notable 11.8% increase, with some counties in Appalachian Georgia seeing gains averaging 18.3% .​Appalachian Regional Commission

    In Tennessee, the Nashville metropolitan area exemplifies this trend. From 2020 to 2024, the region’s population increased by over 136,000—a 6.4% rise—with 72,000 individuals relocating from other U.S. states and nearly 38,000 from abroad.​

    The Housing Market Surge

    The growing demand has led to a dramatic rise in housing costs. In Appalachia region of Virginia, for instance, the median home sale price soared to $155,000 in December 2024, marking a 94% increase from the previous year. The price per square foot also jumped by 66.7% to $100 .​Redfin

    Such spikes are not isolated. Across the region, property values are climbing, making it increasingly difficult for locals to afford homes in their own communities.​

    The Impact on Longtime Residents

    For many native Appalachians, these changes are bittersweet. While economic growth and revitalization are welcome, the rising cost of living threatens to displace those who have called the region home for generations. As property taxes and housing prices escalate, some residents find themselves priced out of their neighborhoods, forced to relocate or sell family land.​

    This phenomenon echoes the historical “Hillbilly Highway” migration, where economic pressures compelled many Appalachians to seek opportunities elsewhere. Today, the cycle seems to be repeating, but in reverse, as outsiders move in and locals move out.​

    Looking Ahead

    Appalachia stands at a crossroads. Balancing growth with the preservation of community and culture is a complex challenge. Policymakers and community leaders must consider strategies to ensure that development benefits all residents, not just newcomers. Without thoughtful planning, the region risks losing the very essence that makes it unique.

  • Healthcare in Appalachia: When Survival Replaces Wellness

    Healthcare in Appalachia: When Survival Replaces Wellness

    In a lot of places across Appalachia, healthcare isn’t a right—it’s a gamble. You weigh your options carefully: Can I afford to see the doctor this month, or do I just hope this chest pain goes away on its own? Should I fill my prescription, or should I buy groceries and heating oil instead? For a region that’s given so much—coal, timber, labor, and culture—it sure gets the short end of the stick when it comes to healthcare.

    The Politics of Neglect

    Healthcare in this region has always been political. Whether it’s Medicaid expansion, the price of insulin, or the closure of rural clinics, nearly every healthcare issue in Appalachia is tied to a vote someone cast in a distant capital. And most of the time, that vote doesn’t benefit the people in the hollers, on the mountain ridges, or in the forgotten backroads of these counties.

    Several Appalachian states refused to expand Medicaid, even though it would’ve given thousands of people access to basic care. That decision alone has had deadly consequences. Folks who would’ve qualified for coverage under expansion now go without it. Some are just over the income limit for assistance but nowhere near able to afford private insurance. Others work jobs that don’t offer benefits at all.

    In places where the nearest clinic is an hour’s drive and the nearest hospital even further, people don’t just suffer—they’re ignored. Politicians promise change during campaign season, but once elected, they focus their attention on cities and swing votes. Appalachia rarely gets a seat at the table. And when money does show up, it’s often too little, too late—or gets eaten up by administrative costs and red tape.

    Medicine You Can’t Afford

    One of the most heartbreaking realities here is how many seniors are forced to ration their medications. Social Security barely covers the bills, let alone a $400-a-month prescription. So they cut their pills in half, skip days, or go without entirely.

    You hear it all the time: “Doc said take one every day, but I make it last longer that way.” It’s not a choice anyone wants to make—it’s the only one they’ve got.

    It’s not just the elderly, either. Working-age folks with diabetes, high blood pressure, COPD, or other chronic conditions are doing the same thing. When you’re uninsured or underinsured, even a basic prescription can put you in the red. And forget about specialty care—seeing a heart doctor or endocrinologist might mean driving 100 miles and paying hundreds of dollars out of pocket.

    Food Deserts and Obesity

    Obesity is a crisis in Appalachia. But it’s not because folks here are lazy or don’t care—it’s because fresh, healthy food is hard to come by. Many rural areas are food deserts. The nearest full grocery store might be miles away, and even then, the prices are steep. Gas stations and dollar stores are often the only nearby options, and they’re not selling kale and salmon. They’re selling boxed meals, sodas, and processed snacks.

    When your budget is tight, you don’t pick the healthiest food—you pick what fills the most bellies for the least money. And when that cycle continues for years, it leads to serious health issues: diabetes, heart disease, joint problems, and more.

    And even if someone wants to eat better or exercise, they’re often working two jobs or caring for grandkids. Add in the lack of sidewalks, parks, and gyms, and the odds are stacked even higher.

    Closing Hospitals, Opening Wounds

    Rural hospitals are closing at an alarming rate. In some counties, the only emergency room shut down years ago. That means if someone has a heart attack, stroke, or serious injury, they may not survive the drive to the next closest facility.

    That’s not an exaggeration—it’s reality. People are dying not because their conditions are untreatable, but because help was too far away. And when a hospital closes, it doesn’t just take away emergency care. It takes away jobs, maternity care, specialists, physical therapy, mental health support, and a safety net for the entire community.

    Mental Health: A Silent Emergency

    Mental health struggles are everywhere in Appalachia. Depression, addiction, and anxiety are often untreated, either because of stigma or lack of access. There are counties with no therapists, no inpatient care, and no one to call when the walls start closing in. The opioid crisis hit this region hard, and the scars are still fresh. But while the media moves on, families here live with the fallout every day.

    A System That Doesn’t Work for Us

    Appalachians are used to making do. They’ve been patching holes in the roof, in their boots, and in their health for generations. But it shouldn’t be this way. No one should have to decide between taking their medicine or keeping the lights on. No one should have to suffer in silence because there’s no doctor within 50 miles who takes their insurance—or any insurance at all.

    It’s easy for people outside the region to make assumptions or throw around phrases like “personal responsibility.” But when the system is broken from the top down, when resources are stripped away, and when leaders ignore the people they’re supposed to serve, the blame doesn’t belong to the folks struggling to survive.

    It belongs to the ones who could fix it and choose not to.

  • Ramps Rise Again: 2025 Appalachian Ramp Festivals Celebrate Mountain Heritage

    Ramps Rise Again: 2025 Appalachian Ramp Festivals Celebrate Mountain Heritage

    Springtime in Appalachia means one thing: it’s ramp season. These wild, pungent onions—beloved and notorious for their strong flavor—are popping up across the mountains, and with them come the annual festivals that honor the tradition, flavor, and folklore of this Appalachian delicacy.

    Whether you’re a lifelong ramp eater or curious to try your first bite, the last weekend in April offers three standout events in the region that promise music, crafts, mountain culture, and of course, ramps cooked every which way.

    67th Annual Polk County Ramp Tramp Festival – Reliance, Tennessee

    Dates: April 25–26, 2025
    Location: Camp McCroy 4-H Camp, Reliance, TN

    The Polk County Ramp Tramp Festival, now in its 67th year, is a deep-rooted community tradition that draws families and friends from across the region. The festivities begin Friday evening with a Bluegrass and Beans meal, where folks gather around bowls of beans, slices of cornbread, and a healthy helping of ramps while enjoying live bluegrass music.

    Saturday kicks off with a hike through the woods to harvest fresh ramps—a tradition that gave the event its “Tramp” name. Afterward, visitors can enjoy the outdoor crafts festival featuring local artisans, and the highly anticipated traditional ramp meal, served up hot with potatoes, eggs, and bacon.

    Ballplay-Tellico Ruritan Club Ramp Festival – Tellico Plains, Tennessee

    Date: Saturday, April 26, 2025
    Time: 10:00 AM – 4:00 PM
    Location: Tellico Plains Community Center

    Down in Tellico Plains, the Ballplay-Tellico Ruritan Club hosts its own annual Ramp Festival—a day filled with community pride, mountain music, and heaping plates of food. This family-friendly event features live entertainment, local crafts, and vendors, with all proceeds going toward community projects.

    The ramp meal is the heart of the day, where you’ll find ramps paired with staples like potatoes, cornbread, and fatback—served with stories, laughter, and the occasional warning: don’t eat them before a first date.

    Elkins Ramps & Rails Festival – Elkins, West Virginia

    Date: Saturday, April 26, 2025
    Train Departure Times: 11:00 AM & 1:00 PM
    Train Type: Diesel
    Duration: 1 Hour
    Tickets: $29 (Ages 4+), Free for ages 3 and under (ticket required)

    If you want ramps with a side of scenic rail travel, head north to West Virginia for the Elkins Ramps & Rails Festival. This one-of-a-kind experience combines the Appalachian love of ramps with a heritage train ride through the mountains.

    Held at the Elkins Depot, the festival features vendors, live entertainment, and plenty of ramp-inspired foods available for purchase (lunch is not included with your train ticket). It’s a great way to soak in the sights, sounds, and smells of spring in the mountains.

    A Note on Ramps

    For the uninitiated, ramps are wild leeks with a garlicky-onion flavor that grow in the rich forest soil of the Appalachian Mountains. Traditionally foraged and cooked with simple ingredients like eggs and potatoes, they’ve also found their way into everything from pesto to pickles. But be warned: their flavor lingers long after the meal is over.

    Whether you’re looking to tramp through the woods, hop on a scenic train, or just enjoy a plate of Appalachian soul food, these festivals are a springtime celebration of heritage, hard work, and homegrown flavor. Bring your appetite—and maybe a breath mint.

    -Tim Carmichael

  • FEMA Scales Back Aid as Appalachian People in North Carolina Struggle to Rebuild

    FEMA Scales Back Aid as Appalachian People in North Carolina Struggle to Rebuild

    Six months after Hurricane Helene, federal support is drying up while the need remains high

    FEMA has denied North Carolina’s request to continue covering 100% of the costs tied to Hurricane Helene recovery—leaving Appalachian communities to carry a heavier load just as a new hurricane season approaches.

    In a letter sent Friday to Governor Josh Stein, acting FEMA Administrator Cameron Hamilton said the agency no longer sees full federal support as necessary.

    But folks in the mountains of North Carolina are still living with the storm’s destruction—roads remain washed out, homes are gutted, and piles of debris have yet to be cleared.

    “The need in western North Carolina remains immense — people need debris removed, homes rebuilt, and roads restored,” Gov. Stein said. “I’m extremely disappointed and urge the President to reverse FEMA’s bad decision, even for just 90 more days. Six months on, the people of Appalachian North Carolina are doing everything they can to rebuild their lives. FEMA should be standing with them, not backing away.”

    FEMA has not responded to requests for comment.

    After Hurricane Helene hit in late September, the Biden administration initially approved a 100% federal reimbursement for essential emergency expenses like debris removal and protective services. That helped the state move quickly on urgent needs in hard-hit areas. In December, FEMA reduced the reimbursement rate for most categories to 90%, but extended the full coverage for debris cleanup through the six-month mark.

    Now that window has closed, and the federal government has ended that added support—despite repeated appeals from state and local leaders to extend it. The decision, which comes as political debates swirl around the future of FEMA itself, has left many feeling abandoned.

    This is politics being played with people’s lives, these aren’t just numbers on a spreadsheet—these are families trying to dig out of the mud, fix their roofs, and find some sense of normal.

    With hurricane season looming once again, the timing of FEMA’s decision has raised alarm. Communities that haven’t even finished cleaning up from the last storm now face the threat of another, all with less federal help.

    U.S. Rep. Chuck Edwards, who represents a large portion of western North Carolina, told the Asheville Citizen-Times that a further extension of 100% support would have been highly unusual.

    “Edwards said “Instead of pushing for something unprecedented, I’m focused on other ways to make a difference,” “That includes helping individual survivors navigate FEMA and working with the administration to find additional sources of relief.”

    The state has 30 days to formally appeal the decision. For now, the people of North Carolina are left to push forward—carrying both the physical and financial weight of recovery on their own.

    -Tim Carmichael

  • The Trump Administration’s Push to Log National Forests: A Threat to Appalachia’s Mountains and Environment

    The Trump Administration’s Push to Log National Forests: A Threat to Appalachia’s Mountains and Environment

    The Trump administration is pushing hard to open up national forests to more logging, and Appalachia’s mountains are squarely in the crosshairs. They claim it’s about jobs and fire prevention, but anyone who knows these woods understands the real cost. These forests aren’t just a resource to be exploited—they’re the backbone of the region, holding together the land, the water, and the way of life for countless communities. If we don’t start speaking up now, we’ll wake up one day to mountains stripped bare, with nothing left but erosion, polluted streams, and broken promises. All of the dark areas on the map below is where they will start logging.

    For centuries, these mountains have given us clean water, wild game, and quiet places where the rush of the modern world fades away. The trees here aren’t like the fast-growing pines of industrial tree farms—they’re hardwoods that have stood for generations, their roots gripping the steep slopes, keeping the earth from sliding into the valleys below. But when the bulldozers and chainsaws move in, that fragile balance is shattered. We’ve seen it happen before—after heavy rains, mudslides tear through hollows, burying roads and choking creeks with silt. Wells go bad, fishing spots disappear, and the wildlife that people depend on scatters or starves.

    It’s not just the land that suffers. Appalachia’s culture is tied to these woods. Hunters track deer through the same ridges their grandfathers did. Families gather ramps and mushrooms in the same shady coves where they’ve always grown. Tourists come from all over to hike trails under the thick canopy of oaks and maples, spending money in local diners, gas stations, and gear shops. What happens when those trees are gone? When the hillsides are nothing but stumps and mud? A handful of logging jobs might last a few years, but once the timber’s hauled off, what’s left for the next generation?

    The worst part is, we’ve been here before. Coal companies told us mining would bring prosperity, then left behind poisoned water and flattened mountains. Timber companies promised sustainable cutting, then took the biggest trees and moved on. Now the government wants us to believe this time will be different—but we know better. If we don’t push back, if we don’t demand real protections for these forests, we’re just handing over our home to be picked apart by whoever offers the highest bid.

    It’s time to stop letting outsiders decide the fate of these mountains. We need to stand up—at town meetings, in letters to Congress, in protests if that’s what it takes—and make it clear that Appalachia’s forests aren’t for sale. These woods have sheltered us for generations. Now it’s our turn to shelter them.

    -Tim Carmichael

  • The True Story of Appalachia’s Deadly Ginseng Wars”

    The True Story of Appalachia’s Deadly Ginseng Wars”

    How a humble mountain root turned neighbor against neighbor—and sometimes, killer against killer

    Roy Combs never locked his doors. Not his truck, not his toolshed, certainly not the old cedar chest where he kept his dried ginseng roots wrapped in newspaper. In the holler where he’d lived all his 58 years, everyone knew Roy. And everyone knew better than to touch another man’s sang.

    That changed the fall the outsiders came.

    They arrived in late September 2012—three men in a dented Ford pickup with Tennessee plates. At first, they just asked around Pineville, Kentucky about good digging spots. Polite enough. But by October, whispers spread through the county: they’d been seen on protected land in the Daniel Boone National Forest. Then private property. Then Roy’s family tract up on Big Double Creek.

    Roy confronted them near the old mining road on October 11. His brother Asa would later tell investigators Roy came home shaking, not with fear but with cold anger. “They showed me a pistol,” Roy said. “Told me these hills don’t belong to nobody no more.”

    The next morning, Roy went out digging alone.

    The Bloody Harvest

    They found his body at dusk, just as the autumn light was fading. Fifty yards from his favorite sang patch, Roy lay sprawled face-down in the leaf litter, the back of his skull crushed by what the coroner would later determine was a rock or maybe a shovel. His burlap sack, usually full this time of year, held just seven roots.

    In most places, this would be a straightforward murder investigation. But in Appalachian Kentucky, where ginseng digging follows its own unwritten rules, Sheriff’s deputies faced a wall of silence.

    “People here have been digging sang since before this was America,” explained retired game warden Carl Ledford. “There’s codes. You don’t take small roots. You replant the berries. And you sure as hell don’t steal another man’s patch.”

    The Tennessee men disappeared the day after Roy’s body was found. Their abandoned truck turned up near the Virginia border, the bed loaded with nearly 40 pounds of freshly dug ginseng—enough to fetch $20,000 in the right markets. The keys were still in the ignition.

    A Root Worth More Than Gold

    Ginseng has fueled Appalachian economies since the 1700s, when traders first discovered Chinese merchants would pay a fortune for the gnarly, human-shaped roots. Today, with wild American ginseng selling for 500−500−1,000 per dried pound in Asian markets, the pressure on remaining patches has turned deadly.

    “These aren’t just plants,” said University of Kentucky ethnobotanist Dr. Marybeth Collins. “For many families, this is the difference between keeping the lights on or not. When outsiders come in and strip an area clean, they’re not just taking roots—they’re stealing someone’s winter heat money.”

    The violence isn’t new. Court records show ginseng-related assaults dating back to the 1920s. But the recent boom has brought a new brutality. In 2014, a Clay County man was beaten unconscious over a disputed patch. Two years later, wildlife officers in West Virginia found a poacher’s camp with a handwritten sign: “Trespassers will be buried with the sang.”

    The Land Settles Its Own Debts

    Back in Pineville, Roy’s case remains officially unsolved. The Tennessee men never resurfaced. Some say they got smart and left the state. Others tell darker stories—of deep-woods justice, of how the mountains have always dealt with thieves.

    Asa Combs still digs ginseng on the family land. He’s added a new ritual: every autumn, when he finds the first mature plant, he presses a single silver dollar into the soil beneath it.

    “Payment for what we take,” he says. “And reminder of what we owe.”

    At the head of the holler, where the spring runs clear, a simple wooden cross stands between two young poplars. There’s no name, just three words carved into the wood:

    Ginseng don’t forget.

    About This Story:
    This account is based on true events documented in Kentucky court records, interviews with law enforcement, and Appalachian oral histories.

    -Tim Carmichael

  • Pretty Polly: Ralph Stanley’s Haunting Ballad of Betrayal and Ghostly Justice

    Pretty Polly: Ralph Stanley’s Haunting Ballad of Betrayal and Ghostly Justice

    Bluegrass icon Ralph Stanley’s bluegrass standard “Pretty Polly” is an eerie murder ballad of love, betrayal, and supernatural revenge. Based on an older English folk song called The Gosport Tragedy, the ballad tells the tale of a young woman who meets the worst end at the hands of her lover, only to have revenge visit her in supernatural and ghostly proportions.

    The Ballad: A Promise Fatal

    The ballad recounts the sinister tale of John Billson, a ship carpenter, who makes Pretty Polly pregnant after seducing her and then takes her into the woods to murder her so that he will not have to take responsibility for his sin. Billson sets sail on the ship MMS Bedford after committing the crime, believing that he has left his transgression behind him on English shores. Fate—and perhaps something more sinister—has other plans.

    The Haunting: A Ghostly Apparition at Sea.

    As the ship departs, there is a haunting incident. A seaman named Charles Stewart is visited by Pretty Polly’s ghost in the gloomy hold of the ship, carrying a baby in her arms. The ghostly encounter sends shivers among the sailors, which means that Billson’s transgression will not go unpunished. The paranormal encounter sets off a series of events that ultimately lead to a chilling confession.

    The Confession and Death of John Billson

    Captain Edmund Hook, upon discovering the ghostly vision, faces Billson. Brimming with remorse and fear, the carpenter goes down on his knees and confesses to the act. Soon, he dies aboard ship—some say due to scurvy, others divine justice. Pretty Polly’s ghost therefore ensures justice, even after death.

    Origins: The Evolution of a Murder Ballad

    The earliest documented printed version of The Gosport Tragedy was printed around 1727. Peggy’s Gone Over Sea, the song to which it was originally sung, carried the tragic story through the centuries. The ballad evolved through the years, being adapted by American folk artists as Pretty Polly, a bare-bones and crueller version of the original tale.

    Ralph Stanley’s Lasting Legacy

    Ralph Stanley’s spooky rendition of Pretty Polly cemented its place in American bluegrass history. His raw, high-lonesome singing and clawhammer banjo style gave the song a creepy, otherworldly tone, as though it were a murder song that defied the genre. His version also emphasized the dark and violent side of the story, ensuring that Pretty Polly would be bluegrass and folk music’s most memorable cautionary tale.

    No matter if heard as a cautionary legend of treachery, an ethereal ghost tale, or just a little folk history, Pretty Polly still intrigues listeners, reminding them of the times when music was as much entertainment as it was a frightening moral in itself.

    -Tim Carmichael