By Clint Willis
Photography by W.G. Photography
It’s been a long 24 hours at The Homestead in Hot Springs, Virginia — involving shotguns, horses, waterfalls, a European facial, and an excellent steak — and it’s getting longer by the second. A Harris’ hawk just launched itself from a tree branch some 50 yards away, and is hurtling toward its next victim: a scrap of chicken dangling an inch or two over my head. Think of it this way: The hawk is William Tell with his bow and arrow; I’m the kid with the target apple sitting on top of my noggin. I hope this hawk knows what it’s doing.
The bird has entered a low, screaming dive that seems designed to culminate in a high-speed collision with my upturned face. I stare at the hawk’s form as it approaches, moving almost too quickly to track. I resist the impulse to turn my head, to blink — to protect myself. I am afraid of the hawk’s talons, but even more afraid to miss this once-in-a-lifetime sight: the swift approach of the creature, with its hooked beak and glittering, enormous eyes. I stand amazed and smitten by the powerful arch of its widespread wings as the hawk, now perhaps 15 feet away and moving toward me at frightening speed, slows and drops its talons. Its beautifully thatched feathers dip briefly into my line of vision, a blurred curtain of color — I can’t believe this — and actually brush my forehead.
I have received a surprisingly gentle message from somewhere, if only I knew how to read it.
I stand rigidly still, but there is no further need: The hawk is gone. So is the scrap of chicken.
**************
Like Phibbs (that’s the hawk’s name), our trip is moving very fast. We’re halfway through a long, marathon-like weekend at The Homestead. Jennifer (my better half) and I have already participated in five scheduled activities (not counting meals), and we have another five activities ahead of us. We’re starting to feel just a little tired, but we’re having fun, and, in any case, we are in no position to complain. This was all my idea — and it’s turning out to be one of my better ones.
My Homestead odyssey began back in 2003, when I made my first trip to the resort, as a student at the renowned Orvis Fly Fishing School. I had a good time, caught some beautiful trout on a lovely stream, greatly enhanced my fly-fishing skills, met lovely people among the staff and other guests, and couldn’t help noticing that The Homestead had even more to offer. Why not go back and sample some of it? Heck, why not all of it? And why not do it in a single long weekend?
It would be a challenge. The Homestead’s many charms could keep a person occupied for years. Active guests can play golf on any of the three historic championship golf courses, saddle up at the gorgeous equestrian center, catch trout in well-stocked Cascades Stream, hike or mountain bike on hundreds of miles of trails, or hone their shooting skills at the first-rate Shooting Club. That’s not to mention tennis, swimming, or visits to the bowling or fitness centers or the Spa, let alone canoeing or kayaking in nearby lakes and streams. Winter brings ice-skating and downhill skiing right on the grounds of the resort. There’s more, but you get the idea.
Just wandering the beautifully tailored grounds of The Homestead is enough to work up an appetite. And there are plenty of options for hungry visitors, ranging from the historic Sam Snead’s Tavern to the glories of the more formal Dining Room, where guests dine and dance to live music in the evenings. The Homestead also offers a full spa facility and services, including the spring waters at the wooden bathhouse at the nearby Jefferson Pools, where weary travelers have been taking the waters since 1761. And then there’s the wine cellar … but we’ll get to that later.
DAY ONE
We couldn’t do it all, but we could try. Jennifer and I arrived at Roanoke Regional Airport on a Friday at 11:44 a.m. We were reasonably fit; we were well rested; we were ready to go.
Here’s what ensued:
1:30 p.m. We arrive at The Homestead in the heart of the Allegheny Mountains after a gorgeous drive through the hills and forests of western Virginia. Our driver, one of 30 or so who ferry guests to and from the airports and between destinations at the resort, gives us a few details of the resort’s history. I already know that The Homestead, a National Historic Landmark, has accommodated presidents and princes, as well as ordinary citizens, since the founding some 241 years ago, in 1766.
Our room is in the Tower, which rises 11 stories from the main building. The room itself is an enormous chamber with a breakfast nook that overlooks a view of the grounds below. We gaze down at the old Casino, which stands at the foot of the first tee of the Old Course. We descend for a quick lunch on the lawn outside the Casino Club Restaurant. I have a trout sandwich, my first since the last time I was here. It’s as good as I remember. We are ready for action.
3 p.m. Jennifer repairs to the Spa for a European facial. I catch a shuttle (there is always at least one standing by at the main entrance) for the one-mile trip to the Shooting Club, a beautiful complex of forest paths and shooting fields. Club manager David Judah, who proves to be a superbly gifted instructor — the first of several I will meet at The Homestead this weekend — takes me in hand. I haven’t pulled a trigger in years, but he soon has me hitting more targets than I miss. We take a ride around the sporting clays course, a network of shooting stations where targets float or spin out of the woods in imitation of the flight of birds, posing more serious challenges for a shooter. David stands at my shoulder and mutters a few instructions. I try to follow his advice. I nail one target, and then another. The fragments of the second target explode in four directions; I have hit it dead center. I am amazed and delighted, and David seems pleased. I’d like to stay and blast away some more. I could do this all day, but I have another appointment to keep. …
6:10 p.m. I meet Jennifer in our room; her face, always a treat, positively glows. We jump a shuttle to the Equestrian Center (an easy walk if we weren’t pressed for time), and board a carriage for a private ride. There’s a full ice bucket at our feet; it holds a bottle of champagne. We sip the champagne as we rock along through the wooded trails near the Center, pulled by a handsome pair of horses named Molly and Maggie. We left home 12 hours ago; it seems longer.
7:30 p.m. Jennifer and I stroll to dinner at Sam Snead’s Tavern. Scores of photographs adorn the walls. Many of them are images of Mr. Sam himself, one of the great names in golf history, and an important local figure who was much attached to The Homestead. I’m a mere duffer, but I know Snead’s reputation as a great golfer and sportsman. We polish off an excellent meal (trout for Jennifer, a rib eye steak for me) and make our way back to the room. Tomorrow is another long day.
DAY TWO
7 a.m. We wake entirely refreshed. Jennifer notes that the climate control in our room is perfect. I agree. We head for breakfast in the main Dining Room, a huge, pillared space where morning light positively streams through a wall of windows. A series of groaning boards holds every sort of breakfast food imaginable (by me, anyway), from mangoes to grits. We do it justice.
9:30 a.m. We join a group of guests for a 1.8-mile nature walk along beautiful upper Cascades Stream, led by Jeff Kelley, who seems to know the name of every crawling, growing, flying, or swimming creature in the ecosystem. We encounter poison ivy (at a safe distance), white oak, hemlock, burdock, ironweed, poplar, and columbine, as well as trumpet snails, crayfish, and various other small beings. The stream is littered with evidence of beaver activity, and Jeff points out a spot where a bear tore up a nest of bees at the base of a tree. We glance around nervously for bears, or bees, for that matter. The group meanders past a series of gorgeous waterfalls. I fall into conversation with a fellow guest, and it turns out that we both attended Williams College. We both have family in New Orleans. Like my father, his father spent time as a naval officer. More evidence for the small world theory. …
12 p.m. The nature walk ends at the Cascades Course. The course consistently ranks among the top courses in the country, but today we’re here for the food. We make for the clubhouse and climb a flight of stairs to a balcony table at Rubino’s, where we order Cuban sandwiches and salads. The view is a symphony of greens: trees, fairways, and, well, greens (as in putting).
2 p.m. We shuttle back to the main lodge and change clothing; it’s time to meet the birds. The Homestead allows guests a close-up view of the ancient sport of falconry — hunting game with a trained bird of prey. The birds here include hawks and owls, as well as falcons, and instructor Nathaniel Kline introduces them all to us, even allowing us to hold hawks in our gloved hands. Nathaniel takes us out for a simulated hunt in the field near the hawking facility. Late in the session, Jennifer and I stand facing one another, our faces inches apart, while a hawk swoops between us to snap up his “prey” — a scrap of chicken. We leave the session as high as, well, hawks, and full of respectful admiration for these creatures.
4 p.m. Jennifer and I have had a few golf lessons over the years, but we are essentially beginners. We have this in mind as we head up to the driving range above the lodge, but Mark Fry, head golf professional and manager of the Cascades Club, teaches us his three-part mantra: grip, alignment, and stance. Soon we are lofting balls up and over the flag that stands as our target in the near distance. My heart lifts: Maybe it’s not too late to train for the Champions Tour. At any rate, I’ve learned more in this hourlong lesson than I’ve managed to pick up in three decades of dabbling. And Jennifer suddenly understands why her late grandmother loved the game so. The lesson over, we quit while we’re ahead, and toddle off to the pool for a quick dip. Not that we need the exercise.
7:30 p.m. We dine in semiformal style at the 1766 grill, where a pianist provides atmosphere for a well-earned dinner. Our waiting team is gracious and attentive, and we enjoy our meal. But when the time comes, we’re ready to retire. Truth is, we’re starting to feel just a wee bit … tired.
DAY THREE
7:30 a.m. We rise early and head for breakfast in the main Dining Room. Then, it’s back up to the Equestrian Center for a guided horseback ride. We’ve both spent considerable time in the saddle, so we’re looking forward to meeting our horses. They prove strapping specimens, spirited but well behaved. We choose to ride Western (English tack is also available), and our guide, Jake Thompson, leads us quickly up through wooded trails that seem to continue forever. The horses behave themselves, and we settle in to watch the world go by. We spot a buck and several doe in a thicket. They stand their ground as if they know they are safe, as indeed they are. We are unarmed, deer season has not begun, and, in any case, there is no hunting allowed on The Homestead grounds. Moreover, Jennifer is a vegetarian. Our ride ends, but we are consoled by the prospect of the hot stone massages that await us at the Spa.
11 a.m. The Spa has a wonderful feel to it; everything as it should be, with a whiff of tradition to temper the up-to-date lines of the restoration. Our massage therapists place heated stones along our spines to loosen the muscles, and then set to work to finish the job. We leave the Spa as limber as a pair of saplings. What’s next?
1 p.m. Jennifer takes a break while I head to Cascades Stream to catch trout under the excellent tutelage of guide James DeBoe. We move upstream to a lovely pool that looks perfect for our task. Jeff leads me slowly into the muck, where the two of us stand and cast until we’ve each landed a trout. They are lovely creatures. We are practicing catch-and-release fishing; it is a pleasure to restore the fish to the stream and watch them disappear, perhaps (who knows?) wiser for the encounter.
6 p.m. I join John Loeffler, manager of the main Dining Room, in The Homestead’s wine cellar, a glass-walled, climate-controlled room. We sample wines from Austria, New Mexico, and Argentina. Once again, I’m amazed at the level of instruction and the commitment to teaching that Jennifer and I have encountered at every turn here.
Dinner in the main Dining Room is a marvel, with couples dancing to music by a jazz quartet that sticks largely to standards, including a few of our favorites. Soft-shell crabs, more trout, and just a bit more wine put a capper on the day.
We make our way upstairs to pack, and my mind drifts. I’m pretty tired — we’ve done a lot — but the fact is we’ve fallen short of our ultimate goal. We didn’t do every activity. We didn’t bowl or canoe or mountain bike, or visit the hot springs, or ski or ice-skate. We didn’t play any of the golf courses, and we barely sampled the Spa and the Shooting Club.
Alas, there is no alternative. We must come back — and soon.
Clint Willis wrote about fly-fishing at The Homestead in the May/June 2004 issue of Private Clubs. His work has appeared in Money, Outside, Men’s Journal, and Travel & Leisure. His recent book, The Boys of Everest: Chris Bonington and the Tragedy of Climbing’s Greatest Generation, was a finalist for the 2006 Banff Mountain Literature Award.