At milepost 272 on the Blue Ridge Parkway the Church cabin enjoys red Fall glory under a maple tree.  When I worked as a rnger on the Parkway, I was assigned the delightful duty of learning more of its history.  One story told me by a descendant of the original owners has always stood out.  Her grandfather buried his potatoes in a hole in the ground, a common practice here in the past.  She remembers him lying prostrate in the snow on the ground in winter, his arm digging away the soil above the potatoes, then finding the potatoes.  How cold that must have been?