I spent some time Saturday in Virginia at the Maple Syrup Festival, an annual fund-raiser for the Mount Rogers Volunteer Fire Department.

Maple syrup holds a special place in my heart, well, at least in my mouth. Since syrup can only be produced in higher elevations or in cold climates, the nearby Virginia festival is the farthest south that maple syrup is thought to be made in the United States.

The area there is secluded and numerous streams that are stocked with trout criss-cross the roadways. As I went up there, I saw the stocking truck putting fish in the stream and as I left I saw the fishermen working to take them out. It made me feel a little jealous, since our season doesn't officially begin until Saturday. I really wanted to be in the stream fishing like the guys I was seeing along the road, but I was comforted in knowing that I'll be able to put my lifetime fishing license to use regularly in the very near future.

As I have said many times before, fishing and gardening are two of my favorite things about spring. The third favorite, the time change, hasn't been as kind to me this year. I've been having trouble getting up in the mornings and trouble falling asleep at night. Since it's technically an hour later than it used to be, that second part hasn't made much sense to me. I'm sure I'll get back in sync soon, probably just in time for the clocks to fall back to the other time.

I first went to the maple festival in the early 1990s and that is where I first discovered the joys of real maple syrup. As a youngster, we always bought the imitation syrup, probably because it was cheaper or maybe just because that was all my parents had ever eaten. However, once I first tasted the real thing, I've never again eaten the fake stuff. In fact, I'd just about rather have no syrup at all than to eat another kind.

Maple syrup is like ground chuck to the fake stuff's soy burger. Both are edible, but there's not really much of a choice. However, unlike that earlier analogy, the real syrup is an all-natural alternative to the man-made corn syrup solution that so many people still pour unknowingly on their waffles and pancakes.

But it's not my job to extol the virtues of maple syrup. It's my job to eat it. In fact, I usually do quite a bit of that in the weeks right after the festival. Maybe I'll make some right now, I decided as I was writing this.

While real syrup from Vermont or some other far away place can be bought in stores, the only ‘local' supply of the stuff is found in the nearby Virginia mountains. The roads wind around, up and down quite a bit along the way, but the trip is worthwhile.

Indeed, the festival at Whitetop is one of the only annual things that I try not to miss. It's held in the Mount Rogers Combined School, which is basically the same kind of school most people over 50 probably attended here in this county. All the grades are in one building, and a small building at that. Not only is the school the host site, the combination gymnasium and cafeteria is the site of the traditional maple syrup breakfast, while the classrooms and hallways host various vendors.

Offered is a meal of pancakes, sausage, applesauce, coffee, and, of course, maple syrup. The pancakes can be had in regular or buckwheat and I always choose the latter. I don't always like buckwheat pancakes, especially if they're too strong on the buckwheat. But these are mixed just right, with enough flavor to taste good but not be overpowering.

Since those who buy a plate get to eat all the pancakes and applesauce they want, it's impossible to leave the event hungry. The pancake festival has one thing in common with the fiddler's convention, the other event I try not to miss every year. It always seems to rain.

For the past several years, every time I've gone it has rained. Well, it actually snowed three years ago, but I suppose that still counts. I did miss the one year before last due to a conflict with the schedule.

If it ever did stay clear and reasonably warm, I'd like to take the family on the tapping tour, which shows how they tap the trees and connect them with PVC pipes to collecting tanks that gather the juice.

We did go through the cooking house last year, where the syrup is cooked down from a very watery form as it comes from the trees to the much thicker form that I use to drown my pancakes.

I'd also like to take a hike around the state park up there sometime, since wild horses live there and are supposed to be a beautiful site to behold.

I asked my mother to attend the festival with me this year and I think she enjoyed herself. Once we got there, she told me, "I thought they just sold pancakes." However, there is also a craft fair held there that sometimes includes folks from Alleghany, but I didn't see any this time. Everything was being offered for sale during the event from brooms, slingshots, toys and walking canes to stained glass, gemstones, jewelry, African art and photographs.

Since my better half was gone on another outing, it was officially my day to do whatever I wanted. Well, so long as I didn't lose the kids. It's always a little different when just Dad goes somewhere, since that means the answer to almost everything is "Yes." It's sort of like this: The children say, "I want," and I respond with, "How much." If the ‘how much' isn't more than the ‘I have,' then they get it.

It works out well for everyone, so long as I don't take too much money with me. Oh well, I'd better go before my pancakes burn. There's nothing worse than burned pancakes, unless it's burned pancakes with no syrup.
 

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