So I beach the canoe on a well-worn landing, and with photographer Ian Martin, hoist the boat onto our Volvo. Then we head up a rutted dirt drive through chest-high grass to town. What greets us is, alas, something less than an oasis. We drive a block uphill, away from the James, but see no one outside, no signs of life. Needing a phone, we try the firehouse.
Nobody answers our knocks.
Just across the street stands the Eagle Rock Funeral Home, its front door open, a car parked outside. Simmons is sitting behind the busiest desk I've ever seen. The walls, too, are crowded, and as Ian uses the phone, I wander the office and the foyer, looking at pictures. They show a busy little city crowded on a hillside. Houses, lots of them, march up the hill, along with churches, a fine-looking school.