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"  We&amp;#039;re deep in an Allegheny forest, miles from the nearest blacktop, when it occurs to me that we might be off track. Our GPS and topo map indicate a road, but we&amp;#039;re half-buried in a thicket of wildflowers, greenbrier and fallen timber. If a path lies beneath our tires, it&amp;#039;s a master of disguise. &amp;quot;We&amp;#039;re done\u2014time to turn around,&amp;quot; says Chad Hunt, my co-pilot and photographer on this foray into West Virginia&amp;#039;s mountain country. I climb out of the Jeep to get the lay of the land, as it were. Could the computer and our atlas be wrong? I would feel panicked if not for two things. One, our 2011 Grand Cherokee Overland is the ironman of SUVs, luxe but seemingly unstoppable; two, we&amp;#039;re facing the sort of quandary we hoped to encounter on this tour by gravel road, dirt road and no road at all. Chad lives in New York City, and I near the naval yards in Norfolk, Va., and we both need a dose of Lewis and Clark. We have five days in a sweet ride to explore the grandest and the grittiest of eastern West Virginia&amp;#039;s highlands. Judging from my research, they haven&amp;#039;t changed much since the 18th century, when Indians and Englishmen waged bloody war here\u2014but right now I&amp;#039;m a fatter target for tick bites than musket balls. I climb back into the Jeep&amp;#039;s plush cabin and shift into low gear, forging ahead in spite of Chad. Dangling vines snatch at the windshield. The underbrush sounds like surf beneath the skidplates. A limestone scarp rises through the trees on our left. Concerned that the driving situation has grown precarious, I stop and get out to do more scouting on foot. I soon see that we&amp;#039;ve run out of mountain, the ground ahead tipping into free-fall.  &amp;quot;Well,&amp;quot; Chad sighs, as unkindly as one can sigh the word. &amp;quot;Like I said.&amp;quot;  PRINTABLE MAP     Mobil 1 Freedom of the Road (PDF, requires Adobe Reader)  I turn the beast around\u2014not easy, what with all the trees. I curse and whine, and later, hang my head in shame. Our forebears faced tomahawks, mine cave-ins and black lung. We, on the other hand, are coddled in soft leather. The 506-watt stereo is thumping. With the onboard 3G router, we could even Skype\u2014to a search-and-rescue team, perhaps. To our moms. Our expedition starts in much cushier fashion, at the Greenbrier Resort in White Sulphur Springs, a five-star golf, hunting, fishing, equestrian and gambling retreat so vast that its main building requires 10 lobbies. The Grand Cherokee seems at home here. Under the hotel&amp;#039;s mammoth portico, the blackberry pearl-coat paint and chrome grille gleam in the sun. Getting around the place is an aerobic undertaking, given the 100-yard corridors, sweeping outdoor promenades and oceanic lawns. But there&amp;#039;s even more to the Greenbrier than meets the eye. A tour guide leads Chad and me past false walls and a steel blast door into a fallout shelter built for Congress during the Cold War, a top-secret refuge in which 1100 Washington insiders could have ducked a nuclear holocaust for six weeks or better, shrouded by reinforced concrete up to 5 feet thick. The U.S. Government Relocation Facility isn&amp;#039;t opulent\u2014we&amp;#039;re talking linoleum floors and bunk beds\u2014but its size is jaw-dropping, as is the fact that it remained on the q.t. until 1992, when the Washington Post blew its cover and the feds decommissioned the complex.  Even if it were closer to D.C., in a well-to-do neighborhood, I would have trouble wrapping my head around this den worthy of Dr. Strangelove. But here in hardscrabble West Virginia\u2014in the palace known as the Greenbrier\u2014the bunker seems downright surreal. After extricating ourselves from 300-thread-count sheets and downing omelets at the $26 breakfast buffet, Chad and I motor south, in search of terrain rugged enough to challenge the Jeep. We find it just outside the Greenbrier&amp;#039;s gates, on Kate&amp;#039;s Mountain Road, named for one Kate Carpenter. In 1756, after Indians killed her husband, she fled this way with her infant daughter, seeking refuge on the rocky hill that now bears her name. A half-mile up the road, blacktop gives way to wriggling gravel. As I steer through blind switchbacks, I ask Chad how he thinks we&amp;#039;d have fared against the Shawnee. &amp;quot;That depends on whether we would&amp;#039;ve had the Jeep,&amp;quot; he says with his usual even delivery. The Grand Cherokee (never mind the coincidence of the name) handles the loose road surface as if it were smooth asphalt, so we aim for something tougher\u2014and find it on a tractor path that dives off a ridge top into dense woods. The Jeep transitions from on- to off-road via its Selec-\u00ADTerrain system (at right). After I dial in &amp;quot;sand/mud,&amp;quot; the SUV rises up on its haunches and we thump downhill. Limbs of beech and oak crack beneath the tires. Tree trunks loom inches from the sides of the truck&amp;#039;s broad snout. For all its luxurious appointments, this vehicle isn&amp;#039;t afraid to get some dirt under its nails. We break trail on a GPS route between two of the state&amp;#039;s 17 covered bridges (the oldest dates to 1852). The Jeep is untaxed by all that we encounter, which makes for some oddly laid-back four-wheeling. Chad channel-surfs the stereo, and I, mesmerized by the scenery, feel as relaxed as I did while savoring that omelet at the Greenbrier. About 40 miles from the hotel, in Talcott, population 1160, we stop to pay our respects to John Henry. Tradition holds that here, at the abandoned Great Bend Tunnel, the mighty steel-driver beat a steam drill in an 1872 race to excavate rock. Today, the tunnel floor is filled with water, the mouth blocked by limestone slabs. A newer, bigger tunnel punches through the mountain nearby, and while we linger there, four trains rumble through, two pulling cars piled high with coal, two empty and bound for the mines. Coal has driven West Virginia&amp;#039;s economy for 150 years; the black gold lies beneath all but two of its 55 counties, directly employs 30,000 people and generates 99 percent of the state&amp;#039;s electricity. In fact, West Virginia produces more coal than any state except Wyoming. Back underway, Chad and I are bombarded with clues to the fuel&amp;#039;s importance here. On the courthouse lawn in tiny Webster Springs, we stop to photograph a coal nugget the size of a love seat; the plaque says it was mined in 1930. It&amp;#039;s a monument\u2014to coal. In Bluefield, we witness the industry in all its gritty glory. The town rises in terraced hillsides above a rail yard 20 tracks wide. Cars heaped with black nuggets wait in mile-long chains for the journey to the Atlantic. We stand on an ancient iron bridge over the tracks as locomotives rumble beneath us. It strikes me as both a scene from the past and a reminder that today, while the energy discussion encompasses wind, solar and much more, coal is still king in Appalachia.       Early the next morning, I immerse myself in another industry for which the state is renowned: I climb into an eight-person rubber raft to run the dam-fed Lower \u00ADGauley River, which churns hell-for-leather through an all-day white\u00ADwater roller coaster. Staying put is no easy task: The raft slides fast as a racehorse into huge standing waves, which it meets with explosions of spray; it dives into swirling holes of froth so deep that the river rises over our heads; it spins sideways against boulders, leaps through chutes, and tosses us every which way as it twists and banks through rapids that roar like the Superdome. Water sometimes slams me flat onto my back. One wave snatches up a paddle\u2014whether mine or a neighbor&amp;#039;s I can&amp;#039;t say\u2014that spears my thigh; I&amp;#039;m destined to limp for days. Still, I&amp;#039;m sorry the trip ends. That night, exhausted and bruised, I&amp;#039;m asleep before I turn out the light at the Hawks Nest State Park Lodge in Ansted. Only with morning do I discover the view from the lodge&amp;#039;s patio, which overhangs the New River Gorge from a rocky parapet 585 feet over the water: mountain on mountain, shrouded in a blue-gray haze, and hardly any sign of modern civilization. Fueled up on coffee, Chad and I strike out northeast on two-laners and dirt roads, with wooded slopes rising steeply around us and shrouding us in shadow for hours. Our destination: the Dolly Sods Wilderness, known for a subarctic landscape out of place by 1600 miles; its lichens and mosses, cranberry and red spruce are typically found in the Canadian high country. A cratered gravel road delivers us onto the eastern continental divide, where we marvel at the preserve&amp;#039;s weird jumble of sandstone boulders, its boggy heaths and 20-mile views.  We stop briefly in the town of Thomas, once a mining center, now popular with mountain bikers. Wandering the main drag, I come across a young, bearded local named John Bright on the porch of a hostel. &amp;quot;So, what do people do around here?&amp;quot; I ask.  &amp;quot;They drink beer and listen to music at the Purple Fiddle,&amp;quot; he replies, pointing to the tavern next door. &amp;quot;What do they do when they&amp;#039;re not doing that?&amp;quot; I ask. &amp;quot;Oh, that&amp;#039;s pretty much what they do,&amp;quot; he says. &amp;quot;Well, how do they make money to go to the Purple Fiddle?&amp;quot; I press. &amp;quot;The prices at the Purple Fiddle are very reasonable,&amp;quot; he replies. I ask how he makes his living. &amp;quot;I sit here,&amp;quot; Bright says, &amp;quot;and I run the Purple Fiddle.&amp;quot; Up and Down the Mountain State The terrain of one-quarter of West Virginia&amp;#039;s 15.4 million acres exceeds a grade of 40 percent, an angle that would earn a ski slope a black-diamond rating.  On the last day of our trip, we plot an exit strategy worthy of the journey\u2014and of the Jeep. Near Cass our topo map shows a thin trail called Buffalo Mountain Road, leading into Virginia, where we&amp;#039;ll pick up interstates back to our busy city lives. We lock in the trail on the GPS. This time, the device leads us past an open barn where a farmer is listening to talk radio, then across a sodden cow pasture. &amp;quot;I think it&amp;#039;s a safe rule,&amp;quot; Chad says as we scatter the herd, &amp;quot;that when you can reach out and actually touch a cow, you&amp;#039;re no longer on a road.&amp;quot;  Doubling back, we see the \u00ADfarmer churning toward us on a tractor, his face grim. I lower my window as we pull alongside, ready for an earful. First thing he says is, &amp;quot;GPS?&amp;quot; He helps us plot a new course via a narrow dirt road a few miles away. It turns out to be an ancient turnpike that climbs through a forgotten Civil War battlefield. We stop for a break and discover that we&amp;#039;ve unwittingly climbed onto an old Confederate gun emplacement. It is further evidence that in West Virginia, the past is always close by.  The same is true of the Jeep. \u00ADEarly in our tour, we spied a CJ-3A consumed by weeds in a \u00ADmeadow\u201460 years old, its paint sun-bleached and its interior ravaged by rust. Our swanky SUV seems to have as much in common with that abandoned old workhorse as the Greenbrier has with the rest of West Virginia. But that assessment is unfair\u2014in fact, it&amp;#039;s flat-out wrong. The Grand Cherokee has proved gutsy and can-do on all sorts of terrain. In creature comforts it might be a gentleman&amp;#039;s car, but in its bones it remains a Jeep. It, too, holds tight to the past.       Get There : West Virginia Driving through West Virginia, both on- and off-road, is a revelation. The state is packed with more action sports, fascinating history and rural hamlets than one can imagine. Here&amp;#039;s a quick look at ways to enjoy the natural beauty within the Mountain State&amp;#039;s borders. Explore the Underground Beckley King Coal dominates the region, so a mine tour is a must. The Beckley Exhibition Coal Mine Tour carries visitors down 1500 feet in an authentic coal-mining railcar. 304-256-1747; beckley.org Catch and Release Richwood The Cranberry and Williams rivers are tributaries of the Gauley, and both offer excellent trout-fishing opportunities. The streams are open to anglers year-round, but the best action is from March through May, when the swirling currents are restocked each week with rainbow, brook and brown trout\u2014and the elusive Centennial golden trout. 304-846-2596; richwoodwv.com/troutfish.html Glide in the Trees Lansing The TreeTops Canopy Tour in the New River Gorge strings together 10 ziplines and five suspension bridges to complete a mile-long treetop tour. Start to finish, the course takes about 3 hours, during which you&amp;#039;ll soar among old-growth hemlocks and hardwoods, reaching heights of 200 feet and speeds of 45 mph or more. 304-574-0704; newrivergorgecanopytour.com  Motor in the Woods Pineville Explore 80 miles of the Pinnacle Creek Trail System on your motorcycle, ATV or UTV. Like ski slopes, the routes are marked according to their difficulty level. They snake up the mountains to scenic lookouts. Don&amp;#039;t have a ride? Several local outfitters rent machines and gear. Also, there are half a dozen similar riding areas throughout the state. 800-592-2217; trailsheaven.com  Go up, Way Up Seneca Rocks Rising 900 feet above the valley floor, Seneca Rocks is one of the more diverse climbing spots in the East. There are routes among the jagged outcroppings to challenge expert climbers, as well as easier courses where novices can learn the ropes, so to speak. Seneca Rocks Mountain Guides; 304-567-2115; senecarocks.com  Gravity Feed Snowshoe Snowshoe Mountain peaks at nearly a mile above sea level and has 1500 vertical feet of the best skiing in the mid-Atlantic. There may be better slopes in the Rockies, but Snowshoe is a mere 4\u00BD-hour drive from Washington, D.C., and an average of 15 feet of snow falls on and around the mount every winter. When warmer temperatures arrive, in May, the resort offers top-tier downhill bike runs. 304-572-4636; snowshoemtn.com  Get Steamed Cass Hop aboard a steam locomotive and ride into a loggers&amp;#039; camp\u2014and even put up for the night in restored workers&amp;#039; housing in this once-grand lumber town.  304-456-4300; cassrailroad.com   Jeep&amp;#039;s Off-Road Gear The Grand Cherokee effortlessly slides between two seemingly opposing worlds\u2014the highbrow Greenbrier lifestyle and West Virginia&amp;#039;s mud and guts\u2014with a combination of mechanical hardware and electronic tech. Here&amp;#039;s how:  QUADRA-DRIVE II Jeep&amp;#039;s top-of-the-line 4x4 system uses electronically controlled center and rear differentials to direct engine torque to the wheels with the most traction. The system is aided by electronic traction control that individually brakes a spinning wheel, and hill-descent control, which automatically operates the brakes to control downhill speed. If all that&amp;#039;s not enough, QDII also features a 2.72:1 low-range crawling gear. QUADRA-LIFT AIR SUSPENSION Off-road, you want lots of ground clearance and generous approach and departure angles. But that height kills pavement handling and fuel economy. The Grand Cherokee features air springs at all four corners. A compressor mounted near the right front tire inflates the airbags to raise the ground clearance from 8.1 inches up to 10.7. When cruising on the highway, the system automatically lowers the vehicle 0.6 inches to decrease aero drag. There&amp;#039;s even a &amp;quot;park&amp;quot; mode that drops the SUV farther to make loading easier.  SELEC-TERRAIN Can&amp;#039;t decide how to operate all these systems? There&amp;#039;s a rotary knob on the center console for that. Simply select the type of terrain\u2014sand/mud, snow, rock, auto or even sport\u2014and the computer takes care of the rest, juggling throttle response, traction control and suspension height to get the most from the Jeep&amp;#039;s driveline. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
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