Call it the Amish Mystery Tour.

By day's end, a mere glance at a horse-drawn buggy will tell them whether its owners are the more conservative Old Order Amish (steel wheels, roll-up doors) or New Order (rubber tires, panel doors). They'll discern something about a home's occupants from what flutters on the clothesline. (New Order women wear solid-bodice dresses with elastic waists; the Old Order fasten their tops to the skirts with straight pins.) They'll know why a single county has 145 one-room schoolhouses. (They're within walking distance of the pupils, no more than 3 miles apart.)

And beyond the cultural insights, they'll be treated to gossipy tidbits, Scriptural verse and plenty of pie.

"I've been doing this for 14 years, and it's still fascinating to me," says LaVonne DeBois, who introduces "English" (what Amish call the non-Amish) visitors to their life through her Amish Culture Tours. "The Amish don't want the attention, but because they're Amish, they get it." (Video: Watch Amish tours in USA TODAY's video headlines)

Indeed. It's been two decades since the movie Witness, starring a hunky Harrison Ford and a beguiling Kelly McGillis, showed the world that the Amish are people, too. The success of the movie unleashed a flood of visitation to Lancaster County, Pa., where it was filmed. Now tourism officials there, banking that the 20th anniversary will rejuvenate interest, this month introduced a Witness tour.

But 380 miles west of Pennsylvania's heavily toured Amish enclave, the nation's largest concentration — about 40,000 — of the religious sect dwells in a five-county area of rural Ohio. Holmes County, the epicenter of Ohio Amish-ness, alone is home to 19,000 Amish.

The region feels out of place and out of time — and not just because of the horse-drawn buggies, either.

In the town of Kidron, the weekly livestock auction has drawn English and Amish alike since 1923. Men in manure-caked boots convene in the arena ("If you chew, don't spit on our floors, please!" reads a sign) to bid on dairy cows, hogs, goats and sheep. Outside, Schwarzentruber (the most austerely conservative of the Amish groups), their untrimmed beards hanging from their chins like rusty scouring pads, load the day's purchases into box wagons.

The major retail outlet in town, Lehman's Hardware, sells gas refrigerators, butter churns and other non-electric appliances. A few miles south in Holmes County, towns with names that would sound more precious in less sincere surroundings — Charm, Mt. Hope — cater to the Amish. Stores sell quilt fabric and work boots. There's reserved parking for horse-drawn vehicles.

Historic place

The region's first Amish settler, Jonas Stutzman, arrived in 1809 from Pennsylvania Dutch country. ("Dutch" was a mispronunciation of Deutsch, or German.) The Amish originally were an offshoot of the 17th-century Swiss Anabaptist movement, and their lifestyle is dictated by biblical interpretation and local tradition.

The area had long drawn outsiders to its scenic byways. And as the Amish population grew (in accordance with the Bible's "Be fruitful and multiply" edict), so did visitation. Still, a little more than a decade ago, says DeBois, she couldn't have made a living off the tour business. Instead, her mainstay was transporting the Amish.

But despite the growth in tourism, the region has maintained its rural character, even as the Amish increasingly are turning to pursuits other than farming.

Along the back roads amid massive red barns, freshly plowed fields of early spring and tidy white houses are hand-hewn signs announcing hickory rockers, quilts and gazebos for sale. As their numbers grow and the price of farmland rises (to about $11,000 an acre), more Amish are getting into commercial enterprises — namely furniture making and other direct-sale crafts businesses — which gives outsiders an opportunity to meet these once-elusive people.

In fact, furniture making now surpasses agriculture as the area's No. 1 enterprise. At Homestead Furniture in Mt. Hope, owner Ernest Hershberger declares, "It's really been kind of unbelievable." He estimates there are 450-plus Amish furniture operations in a 17-mile radius. That's up from one or two 20 or so years ago.

From the looks of his showroom, Hershberger's business is thriving, never mind that the store has no phone, electricity or computer.

"Until they come up with a computer we can run off of hydraulic air, we won't have a Web site," he says.

Nevertheless, he's shipping his solid-wood, custom-made pieces as far away as Australia.

And what does an Amish businessman do with his profits?

"Well, instead of buying a Porsche, you might buy a farm," he says with a laugh. "There's only so much you can do with a buggy."

Actually, there's more than one might expect. DeBois eases the van into the driveway at Hillside Buggy, a carriage factory laid out with the efficiency of a Detroit auto factory. The ash-frame buggies fetch about $2,500 for a single-seater and $4,000 for a two-seated surrey.

"They're a good, solid form, but when a car hits them, they're like pencils," says DeBois.

Even so, the most conservative Amish forgo any safety equipment on the vehicles. More progressive groups permit headlights, rearview mirrors and turn signals. Such rules are set by the bishop of each district (made up of about 25 families), which explains the lifestyle variations among the Amish. All New Order districts, for example, permit bikes and some allow cell phones. But no Amish attend school beyond the eighth grade.

At L&E Handmade Candles, another stop on the tour, Lester Hochstetler, 61, marvels at how "fast paced" life has become. "I never thought we'd see a Bobcat (earth-moving machinery) on an Amish farm," he says. "But it's the difference between a need and a want."

Food and friends

Between stops at various enterprises, DeBois has arranged for a progressive meal in three Amish homes. It begins with soup and salads at Jonas and Betty Yoder's farm, where 18-year-old David blushes crimson when asked whether he plans to engage in rumspringa (literally, "running around"), a period typically between ages 18 and 22 in which young Amish can try out "English" ways before formally joining the church. The process was highlighted on last year's reality show Amish in the City. Two Amish girls featured were from the area. One girl joined the church; the other did not and returned to the area to work for a time at Victoria's Secret at a mall in Canton.

At Jonas and Dora Schlabach's farm (80 acres, 35 cows, six kids), the table is laid with a feast of beef, chicken, potatoes, noodles and more. The matriarch makes Amish women's prayer coverings — about 1,000 a year in 23 sizes — and demonstrates the art as the group devours her delicious cooking.

And finally, at Ivan and Mary Miller's home, the table is spread with three kinds of pies and an Amish date pudding that is surely among the world's finest desserts. At dusk, Miller, an affable, chatty man, fires up the gaslights, then gathers six of his children and together they sing an Amish hymn, "They say I have nothing, but they are wrong."

Later, outside in the inky darkness, tour participant Tom Zawistowski of Kent, Ohio, shakes off his dessert-induced nirvana and reflects on his day among the Amish.

"In the end," he says, "it's all about whether you can lay your head on the pillow and say you've had a great day. And we've seen a lot of people who've had a great day, without all the trappings."

Lodging: The Inn at Honey Run (800-468-6639; www.innat
honeyrun.com) is a woodsy retreat near Millersburg. Summer rates: from $109.

Tours: Amish Culture Tours in Berlin (330-893-3248; offers full- and half-day tours, including progressive meal tours and custom-designed "Amish experiences." Schrock's Amish Farm & Village (330-893-3232; amish-r-us.com) near Berlin, conducts an "Off the Beaten Path" tour to home-based businesses. Country Coach Adventures (877-359-5282) provides personal tour guides and can make arrangements for meals in Amish homes.