Linn Run State Park & Forbes State Forest — Off the Beaten Path

I often underestimate the moodiness of the Pennsylvania uplands. Nothing in this state gets much higher than 3,000 feet.  I scoff at the puniness of it, and so I forget that the weather up top really can be very different from the weather down here in Pittsburgh.  I went up to the Laurel Highlands last winter and marveled at how much colder and snowier it was up there.  Likewise, yesterday I returned to the Laurel Highlands and couldn't believe that once you got above 2,000 feet, the fog was too dense to do any peak-bagging.

This is how I hike now: I look online to find peaks that are still unclaimed on the peak-bagging site where I document my uphill climbs. I figure out how to reach them. Then I spend my day off climbing to the summits of those unclaimed peaks.  When I get home, I post a few photos and do a brief write-up on the peak-bagging site. Now I've claimed that peak.  I'm its first ascender (at least on the website in question), it is mine forever after. Of course, most of the peaks around here are not claimed because this area just doesn't do it for true mountaineers.  Most real mountain climbers don't have any "first ascents" because they're too busy climbing the real mountains that are worth talking about--mountains that have been attracting climbers for 100 years or more.  But I found a few peaks in the Laurel Highlands that were well over 2,500 feet. They were unclaimed, of course, so I decided to go and bag them.  The thick fog turned me back.

Or maybe it wasn't exactly fog; it was low-flying clouds trapped on the ridges.  In any case, visibility made driving difficult.  It would have made peak-bagging absolutely pointless.  Why trek to the summit of some forgotten hill if there are no scenic vistas to reward the effort.  In the case of these two summits--Mystery Hill and Sugar Camp Hill--I expected trees to obscure the views even on a clear day.  Naturally, I was drawn to Mystery Hill because of its name.  When the fog discouraged me, I turned instead to follow the ridgeline of Laurel Mountain south and west into Forbes State Forest and Linn Run State Park.  I revisited the old forest road that has so many private cottages and cabins.  Some are brand new.  Most are in decent repair.  A few are nearly desolate. 

Like this place.  Looks nice from down here, doesn't it?  Get up close and the steps onto the porch are dangerous.  The windows have something akin to green algae growing on them.  The interior is very dark and grimy.  There was garbage laying all around, and it felt like everything was on the verge of collapse.  The place looks like it's gone a few summers without seeing any visitors.  Like the vacation house in the Scottish islands where a rich London family spends their summers in Virginia Woolf's novel To the Lighthouse.  There's a whole chapter of the book, titled "Time Passes," which describes the gradual decay of the vacation home as it sits empty, when World War II prevents the family from coming up for a few years.  It's one of the most poetic chapters ever written.

About two miles past that little gaggle of cottages, you follow the long-overgrown road--now barely even a path--to this wonderful spot.  I wanted to see if it was still here.  I've put up photos of this little cabin before.  It's all I want in the entire world: a one-room cabin in the woods.  No bathroom, just an outhouse.  No running water; you bring jugs from home.  No shower; you use those disposable washcloths that they use in nursing homes and on long backpacking trips.  Nothing to heat the place but a wood-burning stove.  It's all I need.  Really.

I've been jealous of the owners of this little place for years--and especially now that they've added a nice, big porch!  This place, too, is a mess though.  Debris is strewn everywhere around this cabin, old beer cans, bottles, broken down tools and riding tractors and lawnmowers.  The interior is the same, as you'll see in a photo below.

With the fog and cool autumnal weather, it did feel a bit like Alaska--not that I've ever been there.  I mean, look at this scene.  Tell me that doesn't look like some hunter's far-flung cabin on the edge of the Denali Wilderness.

Oh how I would care for a little place like this.  I promise I wouldn't let it fall into decay and molder like the crumbling redbrick farmhouse that I also used to believe I wanted...

Just one room, 12 x 24 feet.  I realize that a one-room cabin is necessarily going to be a little cramped and cluttered.  There's just not much space for all the things you need.  But I think I'd make a little more effort than this.  By the way, this photo was taken by pressing my camera up to the window; I did not enter this place.  A bed, a stove, a ridiculous number of tables and uncomfortable chairs, some jugs of water, the severed head of a long-dead animal... I'd like to be snowbound here for a few weeks, as long as I had enough food and firewood.  Water wouldn't be a problem.  Wherever you've got snow, you've got water.  And whenever the snow is gone, you're not snowbound anymore.

The path to the outhouse was pretty overgrown, which makes me think this place doesn't see much use either--new porch notwithstanding.

The higher I climbed up out of the valley of Linn Run, the foggier it got.  It's beautiful and kind of haunting.  It made me want to settle onto the porch of one of these woodland cabins with a cup of coffee and a book.

Which thing I did--sans coffee.  Actually, I played my panflute on the pondside patio of this old cinderblock cabin.  This place belongs to the Forbes State Forest.  When I inquired about it years ago, they said that it had been donated to the forest when the owner died, and it could be used for overnights.  Now they've got signage indicating that it's for day use only, no spending the night.  Honestly, it's a nice little place by day, but I bet it gets a mite eerie at night.

Here's the pond as seen from the patio.

There are two rooms, one downstairs and one upstairs.  The first time I chanced upon this place, there was a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the mantel.  Someone was making his regular escapes out here to drink.  This cabin too could be really great, with a little effort....

Someone had a good time here.  They left this little plastic bin full of food.  The note on it reads, "Enjoy! :) Nice spot!  We will be back!"  The newspaper beside the container was dated May 22, 2022.

It was a kind gesture, but nothing inside tempted me....

This is the road you'd have to travel if you owned that little one-room cabin with the new porch.  Perfect.

The Tower of Terror, Lost Mountain

Lost Mountain lives up to its name. Not only is it hidden away from view, but it's forgotten by history and a total stranger to Google and Wikipedia.  Just try finding any information about it online. You'll find a few perfunctory mentions here and there, but very little. 

I'm amazed that the fire tower at the summit stands open, but there's no evidence that anyone ever goes there.  I mean, it doesn't exactly "stand open."  There's an old fence around it, but the gate is broken, and someone has also cut a large hole in the chain links.  By the way, the official 1941 plate which marks the summit of Lost Mountain quaintly threatens a $250 fine to anyone who disturbs it.

Apparently the murder that took place on the road leading up to the fire tower was a drug-related robbery gone awry.  The killer shot a dealer three times with a .22 caliber gun.  Of course, a .22 isn't likely to kill a human being, so when he didn't die, the murderer and his two accomplices set him on fire.  The murderer himself, a guy from Philadelphia, was later killed by authorities in the Cambria County Jail when he took a guard hostage.  His two accomplices might still be in prison.

Here's a view from the third landing--on my second attempt to climb the tower.  It was just too wobbly to go all the way to the top, and the wooden stairs felt like driftwood--papery and brittle.  Even the railings--onto which I tried to distribute a lot of my bodyweight--felt a little too shaky in places.

And yet...a part of me will forever regret that I didn't go all the way to the top.  Note to the reader, if ever there be one: Please do not climb this tower!  It's very dangerous, and I'm a fool.

Lost Mountain Lookout, Cambria County, PA

Lost Mountain is a strange place indeed. It's in the northeasternmost reaches of Cambria County, which is an area I'd never explored before. It's also a pretty lofty site, at 2,638 feet above sea level, which is quite high for the Keystone State. I was drawn to its mysterious name, its out-of-the-way location, and the fact that no one had ever claimed it yet on the peak-bagging website where I document my climbs.  (Now that I'm the first one to claim it, I'm credited with its first ascent, and I bear the badge "king of the hill.")  See how the fire tower at the summit looms above the forest roof.  It looks vaguely sinister, like something guarding an evil passageway in The Lord of the Rings.  

Although it's above 2,500 feet, there really aren't many steep ascents or striking views.  In this photo, the Allegheny Mountains are mere highlands that roll away gradually to the west. Here on the lower flanks of the mountain, there were many of these broad, grassy meadows, bordered by young piney woods--which causes me to think that this part of the mountain consists of rehabilitated coalfields.  Scenic enough, but nothing remarkable.

It was the last day of summer and a pleasant 66 degrees in the uplands of Central Pennsylvania. The golden rods of early fall added a dash of color to the pleasant scenery. I actually rode an old Schwinn bicycle, with a loose chain, the four uphill miles from the village of Blandburg to the summit of Lost Mountain.  A little gravel lane passes through state game land 158, entering a small tract of the Gallitzin State Forest just where you meet the road-gate near the fire tower.  On the way back down, all I had to do was let it coast, since it was a long, gradual downhill grade on a decent gravel surface.

There are sideroads and narrow snowmobile trails to explore, but it's not likely that I'll ever return. It's just too far. There was a gruesome murder committed somewhere along this lonely little road back in 2006. When I was looking online for information about the fire tower, or photos of it, I discovered the old newspaper article about the murder. Something drug-related. There was absolutely nothing online about this mountain, or the forest, or the tower.  This blog post is pretty much it.

But here it is, an official geological plate marking the highest point on the summit.  See, it says "Lost Mtn. 1941."  I wonder what this place looked like in 1941.  As you ascend the mountain toward the summit, the meadows and piney woods give way to lovely, mature hardwood forests--gallery forests, with very little understory and big, straight tree trunks. Here, too, there was a splash of color in anticipation of the changing seasons.

About four miles up, you meet a closed gate, and there in the distance you see a weathered old fire tower looming above the treetops. Some modern signal tower stands beside it. The older tower has a bedraggled air about it and made me think of Rapunzel or some woodland fairytale with a princess imprisoned in a tower.

The chain link fence around the bottom of the tower was breached in two places, and there weren't any No Trespassing signs to be seen. And yet, this fire tower is dangerous! The editorial board at Snow and Jaggers strongly discourages any and all from trying to climb it! It has been abandoned for decades. The wooden stairs are not safe. And the tower actually shakes. Only a fool would climb it.

Which thing I did...three times, but never to the top.  The first time, I only made it to the second landing, where I lost my nerve and went back down. Then on a second ascent, I worked up my courage to go as far as the third landing, but then I felt that tower shaking, and I scurried back down. Finally, realizing that I would forever regret not climbing that tower, I made a compromise with myself: I would only climb high enough to see above the treetops, no higher. So on my third ascent, I made it to the fourth landing. The key to walking on these dangerous old stairs is to use your arms to put a lot of your bodyweight onto the handrails. I also only placed my feet at the furthest edges of the steps, which were undergirded by metal brackets, which hold the rotten wood onto the steel frames.

Here's a hasty view from the fourth landing, looking south.  I did not stay up there for very long!  The one prominent rise on the horizon might be the beautiful mountain known as Blue Knob, where there is a very nice state park and ski resort.

Again looking south but more southeasterly.  I know the views would have been better if I'd gone all the way up to the cabin, but I saw from below that the cabin had a big hole in the floor, and I really couldn't make myself go any higher.