It surprised me to find campsites available on Labor Day weekend at the ever-popular Cook Forest State Park. Nearby Clear Creek was booked solid, since it has a nicer campground with sites along a stream. But it always troubles me to see vacancies on the high holy days of outdoor life. As much as I like less-crowded conditions, it makes me fearful for the future of our parks if fewer people are using them. But I did roll in on a Sunday night, which probably has something to do with it.
It would never be my choice to stay in a conventional campground. But my hiking companion on this trip always prefers to set up a base-camp someplace where there's a public shower, then do day hikes nearby. It was kind of loud, too. Our nearest neighbor ran a generator, and a state highway passed only a few hundred yards from where we camped. We camped at Cook Forest and did one hike there--top photo. But we also did a loop around the ponds at Buzzard Swamp in the Allegheny National Forest--second and third photos.
My companion is from Texas, and someone told him he needed to see Cook Forest; otherwise, I'd have chosen a less-visited destination. Like all Texans, he had to act entirely unimpressed, as if they have 375-year old trees in Texas. I took him up to Buzzard Swamp because he claims to like wide open areas, and it would be a destination worthy of a camping trip someday.
But for all his measured nonchalance, I could see that he was taken by the ancient forest, with its pillar-straight trunks dark in the mist, its shadowy depths, its clear floor soft with pine needles.
It rained like the devil up there on Sunday night. I stayed dry but slept badly. There's something very comforting about the sound of rain on a tent--as long as it's not getting in. It makes you feel cozy, of course, but also sort of...accomplished. The rain is trying so hard to get you, but it just can't reach. It's so close, but so far. You can read, or do push-ups, or pray, or sleep. The rain is a catalyst for memory. You can just lie still and think about times past, meditate on your life, consider the future. I even opened up the flap-door and smoked a very nasty Newport cigarette while nestled in my tent. (I only rarely smoke, and never Newports, but they didn't have my regular cloves at the Dollar General in the nearby village.)
And by the way, if you haven't made a foray into rural America recently, let me sing the praises of Subway restaurants and Dollar General variety stores. These two franchises can be found in small towns all across the country nowadays. Thanks to Subway, you can now find at least one restaurant in just about any town bigger than a hamlet--even if it is sometimes attached to a gas station. It's all sandwiches, but has some relatively healthy choices and usually a few tables for dining in. And Dollar General? How shall I sing thy praises? My grandma used to take me to the "Five and Dime" on the main street of New Bethlehem, PA, to buy toys, and clothes, and shoes. Kids could even sit on Santa's lap there in December. Then came a day when you could no longer buy anything much in America's small towns. For shoes, and toys, and clothes, you had to travel into a county seat at least, if not to the nearest city. Then Dollar General came about, and now you can at least get basic groceries, socks, underwear, cell phones, pots, automotive supplies, toiletries, over-the-counter meds, and a lot more in just about any little town along the road. In fact, on my last ANF solo overnight, I realized that I'd ventured into the forest without a charging cord for my iPhone. No worries. Now you can even buy such things in Tionesta, PA. Fifteen years ago, I'd have had to drive 25 miles to Warren.
