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.
Time Passes
ReplyDeleteUntil some trespasser, loosing his way, could have told only by a red-hot poker among the nettles (jaggers) or a scrap of china in the hemlock, that here once someone had lived; there had been a house.
Yes, I see a child of melancholy has made their way to this blog!
Delete"Only the Lighthouse beam entered the rooms for a moment, sent its sudden stare over bed and wall in the darkness of winter, looked with equanimity at the thistle and the swallow, the rat and the straw."