Just Like Nothing (else) on Earth: Saint Louis, Loudoun County

By Tim Jon 

The traffic along the main drag just keeps barreling through; I doubt that many of these drivers even pause long enough to appreciate the views of Mount Weather out on the Blue Ridge from this lower vantage point. 

I turned off onto a side tangent, to get a better (and safer) perspective of the higher ground to the west; a stand of mature pines in the foreground lent a sense of scale to the whole panorama – with the Virginia Department of Transportation lot reminding me that these parts can be awfully forbidding in the cold weather months (you don’t want to be caught out in some isolated spot in three feet of snow – even if you have your cell phone handy; the plows may not be able to get to you). 

I found the density and pace of vehicular activity here rather heavy, in comparison to the much more peaceful spot I’d visited earlier that morning – just a few miles to the north; I took this as yet another local reminder: Loudoun County, Virginia is well known for many features: cars, trucks, buses and the like (and their busy operators) among them. 

Now, granted – it had been several years since I’d paid a visit to the small, isolated community known as Saint Louis – situated along the Road by the same name, northwest of Middleburg, but quite a long distance from anywhere in particular. 

And more than just State Highway 611 serves as a dividing line for the Village: the old and the new, the well-to-do and the less heavily larded, the manicured lawns and meticulously-kept homes versus the decrepit – and I’m sure the casual visitor could envision additional contrasts. And constantly, the movement along the highway kept my attention diverted from any momentous discoveries – at least until I’d driven out of range of its influence on my day’s momentum of personal energy and sensibilities.  

I did manage to find a couple of interesting diversions, once I’d wrested free of the seemingly eternal (and hypnotic) stream of morning traffic; the first appeared in the form of what formerly could have been described as a cozy little home. 

The effects of time, weather and neglect had combined to deprive the structure of its ability to shelter much of anything, except perhaps a few families of mice or other less desirable creatures. But despite the arguably unsavory nature of the small, blue rambler-style building, I felt the familiar attraction to the site; I’ve always been fascinated by abandoned structures – objective, historic interest, the various possible stories of decline, and the more subjective: a curious juxtaposition of human dreams and creation – sustaining loss and eventually suffering overall destruction and a “No Trespassing” sign. 

Once, love, care and togetherness thrived here; perhaps it just moved on to more prosperous surroundings: at any rate, Nature’s own creativity has been running riot in the absence of human occupation and control. 

And, from degeneration – or maybe RE-generation – we go to sublimity – at least in my opinion. In exploring other tangents off the main stem of Saint Louis Road, I came upon as well-preserved a piece of the past as one could hope to find outside a museum. 

Just a little to the east of my original stopping point – this time along Route 744 – Snake Hill Road (you gotta love these local place names), I found what felt like an oasis in time: the Mount Zion Baptist Church – recently repainted in cream with black trim, sparkling as if newly created earlier that morning. The proud inscription on the matching brick columns told me otherwise: the Year 1885 clearly stood out for the edification of all passersby. The neatly mown lawn and carefully trimmed shrubbery around the place of worship completed a picture of love, devotion and service. 

My few minutes of quiet exploration about the grounds took away any stress built up by my participation in the highway traffic from earlier that morning. The few hundred yards driven from Rt. 611 could have been two hundred miles, considering the contrast in distractions from the monotonous whoosh of two-way vehicular motion. This was certainly a place to pause and reflect, at least to my finding. 

And I would return, given a similar opportunity. And, so I will, most likely from similar conditions along Saint Louis Road. They’re probably still just barreling through.