More Pics of the Rimrock Trail

It didn't begin with me, and it surely will not end with me.  I'm just a single tile on the roof.  I am overlapped and overlapping.  That's how a roof does its job.  Things have to overlap for the water to run off...and perhaps our lives are the same.

We think of our lives as whole and complete in themselves.  And yet, we die with so much left undone, so many projects we barely started, so many books we never read, so many places we never visited, so many relationships we never brought to their fullness.

Ah, and so many people we never loved...or barely loved...or loved far less than they (or we) deserved.

Is it possible that my life will never see its own neat conclusions, its own fruition?  Must the events working themselves out in me extend into the lives of my children, or those I've loved who survive me?  Do our human lives overlap like tiles on a roof. No single tile can do the whole job of shedding water on its own. It must pass the water down, hand it off to another tile... Is that how our lives work, with their issues, their dramas, their doubts, and joys, and nagging desires?  Do we just hand them off to another when we die?

They say--a little too frequently--that it's about the journey, not the destination.  The Rimrock Trail might tell you otherwise.  It's pleasant enough, but you'd never make this climb if not for the views at the top.  Westerners dismiss our Eastern trails as "tree tunnels," sightless, uneventful.  And while I like trees and welcome their shade, I have to admit that broad vistas are more exciting.

In places, the way is steep. What calls us forward if not the idea that our efforts will be rewarded...with a view, with a climax, with a resolution?  Are my parents' and grandparents' passions still playing themselves out in me?  Are your ancestors' sins and glories still resolving themselves in you?  "For nothing is secret that shall not be made manifest; neither is any thing hid that shall not come into the light."  Maybe it takes generations for our private stories to be told.

Fading Americana

Such a strange fall season. The nights are cool, but the days are still hot. The trees were already turning colors and shedding their leaves in early August due to the heat and aridity. This past Saturday, up north, I took a long walk down the gravel lanes near the house--in the furthest northeast corner of Venango County. Most of the buildings along those roads are old hunting camps, many of which are abandoned, like this one. It makes me sad. I think how I used to long for a little place in the woods, just like this. How can anyone leave it to collapse into its foundation?

Some of the hunting camps are disused farms, or else farms where someone still works the fields, but no one lives on site. This place is cursorily maintained, but it clearly hasn't been anyone's home in a very long time. I was curious about it--so scenic, with such a large farmhouse and barn. It must have been quite prosperous at one time. Of course, many of the farms up here did milk cows on the side, while leases with the oil companies brought in the real money.

Same homestead from a different angle. The world was so woefully dry that day, as if every green thing would crumble to dust and blow away.

I'm not sure I've ever seen such an ungainly farmhouse around here. The general rule--when they were building farmhouses in this region--was to make them as tall as they are wide, but this one never got the memo. The second photo from the top might make a decent painting--if the right artist undertook the task and got it from a slightly further distance, to include more of the surrounding countryside. 

Night Scenes, Morningside, Pittsburgh

This street runs right along the Allegheny River in the city of Pittsburgh.  See how the vines, and brush, and trees overtake these old rowhouses--which command a majestic view of the river?  Not much parking along these streets, and a trip to the grocery store will be followed by 25 steep steps up to your front door, so try to do it all in one trip.

Now, what do you think the story behind these tire tracks might be?  Someone spinning dozens of donuts in the middle of an intersection?  

Kinzua and Rimrock Overlook

I've become like a Londoner in some Evelyn Waugh novel who "weekends" in the country and returns to town every Sunday night in order to be back to the office on Monday.  Except that in my line of work, I flee the city after work on Thursday evening and return on Saturday evening, so that I can be back to work Sunday morning...which is decidedly not anything a character in an Evelyn Waugh novel would do.  (Also, if I have a wedding or a funeral on Saturday, I have to come home Friday night, giving me only 24 hours away.)  The point is that I take Fridays off and spend them up at my country house.  

This is Kinzua Dam, which locals pronounce "KIN-zoo."  This area was a reservation for the Seneca People until the US government rescinded its promises, evicted them from the land, built a dam for flood control, and put most of the reservation under water--at least the Pennsylvania portion; there's still some reservation land across the line in New York State.

You can see how desiccated and sunbaked the scene is.  I hate, hatE, haTE, hATE, HATE all the confounded sunlight!  And the heat.  I get reverse Seasonal Affective Disorder.  I need cloud-cover and the occasional rainfall.  It's been an unpleasant summer, and most of the things I planted this year have either died or failed to thrive--old heirloom forsythia varieties, mainly, which turn out to be neither deer-repellent nor very hardy, though they are said to be both.  (Don't speak to me of planting native species; that will be another post.)

But I'd waited years to do the uphill trail from Kinzua Beach to the summit on Rimrock cliffs.  It's a pleasant trek through late-summer woods to the broad views at the crest.  It gets rocky and steep as you get close to the top.  Look at these uneven stone steps.  

The views are worth it--some of the best in the Allegheny National Forest.

It's possible to drive to the top from the other side of the hill, so it's a little disappointing to get all the way up there and hear the raucous voices of strangers.  But I was here on a Friday morning in late August.  There weren't many folks up top.

I had this broad view all to myself for about half an hour.  It's not exactly breathtaking, but it is scenic.  Look out over this land where the redtail soars beneath you, where Chief Cornplanter once dwelled, where--long ago--the trees were all torn from the hillsides and carted off to New York and Philadelphia, where the forest was finally allowed to regrow.  This land has been stolen, and bought, and sold, and sold again so many times.  It's been pumped for oil and entirely denuded of hemlock and beech, and then left to return to something akin to its natural state--except this time in maple, and oak, and pine.  The story of America--and perhaps of most of the earth--is always one of stealing, and buying, and selling.  But still the land survives...and manages to be beautiful.

After hiking the 1.6 miles back downhill to the beach, where I started, I picked some elderberries and wild grapes.  Can you believe that the big fat grapes you buy in the grocery store descended from the small, flavorful, thick-skinned things you see here on my wrist?  I do like the flavor of wild grapes, though I hate the way their vines overtake the woods.  They're concentrated, and they almost burn your tongue.

And this?  This is Kinzua Beach, a public swimming beach in the Allegheny National Forest.

Oil Creek & a Link to Roaring Plains Wilderness

 Early summer was all flooding and constant rain. The later summer weeks have been desiccated and horribly hot, as the scorching sun sends its damned rays to wither leaves and spirits alike. I hate droughts. As much as the damage it does to the trees and plants, I HATE the endless light. A little cloud cover is a mercy. Here’s Oil Creek just as the drought was beginning. And HERE is a link to the Roaring Plains Wilderness in West Virginia, where I did 21 miles of backpacking last week. 

Strange Things in the Woods…and Elsewhere

Here is the new deck that we're building on the back of my camp up north. It looks off into the woods on the property--nearly 2 acres of it. The forest here is not old, probably 30 to 40 years' growth. It may have been a hayfield before the trees came up. One of the reasons we're building a deck on the back is to orient the house away from the road and toward the trees. We'll build two additional bedrooms where the current front porch is located and add a sliding glass door to the back of the house, so that the main entrance will be by way of the new deck.  The point is to look away from the road and toward the forest.

I've always felt the deep peace and beauty of the great North Woods, which seems to begin just behind the house. The forest stands like a silent sentinel over the whole place, casting its cool shade over the yard, the porch, the house, the entire property. The trees form a sort of collective presence, like a character in the drama. Deer are common visitors to the property...and pests. I know there are bear in the woods, too, and bobcats and coyotes and foxes. The numerous and varied kinds of birds are a delight. Some of my favorites are red-breasted grosbeaks, who winter in Costa Rica, as well as the handsome tufted titmice, who stay with us all year.  There are lots of animals you hear at night but never see...like fishers and raccoons and possums--all of which make their odd noises.  There are even a few unverified creatures that you hear ABOUT but never see, like bigfoot and dogman. I'm not a superstitious, fearful kind of person.  I sleep alone in the woods pretty often--exposed in a tent or a hammock, no firearms, no weapons, no dog. Solo backpacking is its own kind of joy. Your companion is a flickering fire. You sit quietly with a book and your thoughts, hoping to hear thrushes and owls as the peaceful gloaming deepens all around you. 

(By the way, this is just a hearse that some otherwise normal-looking guy in his 60s drove to Lowe's.)

The night before last, I was up at camp--top photo--delivering and assembling furniture for the new deck.  I rented a big Dodge Ram truck and squeezed it all in the back, then drove up and spent the whole day out on the deck, piecing together metal tables and chairs. That night, I sank into bed at about 9:00pm, tired and grateful for a few hours to rest before getting up at 4:00 to finish up my tasks and return the rental back in Pittsburgh, two hours away.  It was one of those rare moments when you truly feel grateful to sink into bed.  I was deep asleep by 9:30.  At 11:30, above the sound of the oscillating fan that was blowing on me, I heard a loud noise outside: whack, whack, whack, shhhhhh, whack, shhhhh, shhhhh, creeeeeek.  It sounded like someone was chopping down a tree and also dragging big leafy branches across the forest floor.  The noises were definitely coming from the woods just beyond the back yard, which the bedroom's only window faces.  It was 11:30pm, so relatively early, an hour when many of the neighbors were probably still awake.  I looked out the window, wondering if someone was actually chopping down a tree on my property, but I couldn't see anything in the pitch dark.  The noises repeated for a while, but I became less alarmed by them.  I thought, "It's a bear, pushing over a dead tree and cracking it open for grubs.  It's a sick tree, splintering and collapsing slowly to the earth.  The leafy branches of the falling tree are rubbing against the leaves of adjacent trees.  It's nothing.  Go back to sleep."  Which thing I did.  And the next morning, I left before sunrise, so I wasn't able to investigate.  It was fine being inside the house and hearing noises in the woods--sort of creepy, but bearable.  If I'd heard such noises while camped out there, I'd have been terrified.  None of my possible explanations makes really good sense to me.  It sounded like someone whacking a tree erratically with an axe, dragging a leafy branch across the ground, then the grain of some great piece of wood slowly cracking, repeat, repeat.  Actually, what it really sounded like to me...was a dinosaur in the woods.  What was it?

Timber Rock Amphitheater Hosts Old Crow Medicine Show

It was a bit out-of-character for people who like to be in bed by 10:00pm, but we went last night to hear Old Crow Medicine Show at Timber Rock Amphitheater, near Farmington--just adjacent to Fort Necessity National Battlefield, in the Laurel Highlands.  Before the concert, we had dinner in an old inn that's served travelers along the National Pike since 1822, "Stone House." It's got a really great restaurant in a huge old stone inn that still rents rooms.  The concert venue was pretty cool, with views of the sun setting and mists gathering out over distant wooded hills.  And Old Crow Medicine Show?  They put on a really phenomenal performance.  They looked like 6 or 7 drunk uncles up there on stage, swaggering and dancing and making dramatic faces.  They sing alternative country or Americana or Appalachian folk music, not easy to categorize, but they are all true musicians.  The front man would make frequent casual references to local rivers and beers and historical facts--Yuengling, the Youghiogheny--then stick a harmonica in his mouth and start to play a high energy, raucous song, then spit the harmonica out and start to sing.  No intermission, cocaine-like speed.  A stage hand would grab the harmonica and replace it with a violin, then the front man would play the violin while dancing and singing, all at break-neck speed, then toss the violin to the stage hand and start singing and playing the piano.  The stage hand was always running around, picking up the performers' cowboy hats and handing them musical instruments, until, much to your surprise, he too comes out onto the stage playing an accordion and stealing the show by tossing and spinning some kind of baton with amazing skill.  (And here, you thought he was just the stage hand.)  Most of these 7 entertainers have something of the court jester about them, and they put on a really great performance.  But just as good as the show was the audience, a motley, gyrating parade of stray humanity.  I'd say it was about 2/3 genuine rednecks (though OCMS typically has some progressive themes and lyrics) and about 1/3 aging folks from Squirrel Hill who hold disused degrees in philosophy or medieval dance.