A Red-throated Hummingbird with Link to Otter Creek Wilderness Trek

 This faithful visitor—unlike my other avian friends—comes from earliest morning to the near dark of gloaming dusk. The Audubon Society claims that he weighs about the same as a penny and beats his tiny wings 50 times a second. Ah, but look here…a LINK to my recent backpacking trip to the magnificent Otter Creek Wilderness of West Virginia.

Sacred Places in Rural Pennsylvania

This is a rural Presbyterian church in Washington County.  It’s an old, old congregation, founded in the 1700s—though this building dates to 1872.  This church was a significant spot on the frontier during the Second Great Awakening, and you might still catch a whiff of that old backcountry revivalism in the old churches that stand sentinel among these broad green hills.

I was here for the funeral of a once-dear friend from long ago, who died at the age of 49, leaving behind a wife and three children—the youngest just 10 years old.  His was the kind of death that people don’t talk about…not a suicide, but a “death of despair,” as they call them these days.  My friend had deep, deep roots in this place—one of the smartest people I’ve ever known, but so profoundly and inextricably a part of this soil to which his body has been returned.  Over 2 decades ago, when his first daughter was born and we were both in seminary, he asked me if I’d come here to this church to fill in for him at the Sunday morning church service.  He was their student pastor at the time.  I still had horrible stage fright back in those days, so demurred…and forever regretted it.  I really should have worked up my courage and helped the guy out.  And now?  Now these 22 years later, I came at last to this same old brick church on a hill, not to preach, but to see my old friend laid in the ground.

One of the first things I do in any church I visit is look to see which hymnals and pew Bibles they use.  The books here are standard fare for rural Western Pennsylvania.  

In a surprising twist of liturgical awareness, the simple windows of this far-flung house of prayer are colored according to the seasons of the church year: red for Pentecost, white & gold for Easter and Christmas, green for ordinary time, and purple for Lent and Advent.

The little chancel is bedecked all in red for Pentecost…which was once a holiday as big as Christmas.  Or maybe I should say that Christmas was once a holiday as small as Pentecost.

The pews are divided down the middle so that women can sit on one side and listen to the sermon while men sit on the other side and nod off to sleep.  Of course, nowadays, anyone can sit anywhere.  I mean, you’re technically allowed to sit anywhere, but folks in these old country churches always sit in their same regular spots each week on Sunday morning.  You have to be careful not to take someone’s unofficial seat by accident.  People often mark their territory with cushions and boxes of Kleenex.  But honestly, this room probably seats 200, and I’m sure it needs less than a fifth of all these seats.  There’s LOTS of room to spread out…

A clergyman from an old Scotch-Irish family will always have the bagpipes at his graveside.

And this?  This is our local parish up near my camp.  

I’ll probably be seeing more of this place in the days ahead, though I don’t get many Sundays away from Pittsburgh.  It’s dark on the inside but still a place with a bright feel about it.  Of course, up here in the North Country, all these little churches had oil money—unlike the above church in Washington County, which surely had some wealthy shopkeepers and dairy farmers, but little if any income from the coalfields that surround it.  There’s a whole different feel up here in the rural northwest part of the state, as compared to the green hills in its southwest corner.  The north seems more…industrialized.

 

Allegheny River Trail, Brandon, PA

My wife buys potted flowering plants in order to entertain, but then she allows them to die in their pots.  This time around, instead of letting them die, I decided to take them to the graves of my grandparents on both sides, just to give them a place to live and grow.  The graves near New Bethlehem, see below, had been neglected for decades.  I thought I would find our family graves at Rockland (Venango County) in the same sad state.  But I did not.  My aunt or cousin is maintaining them beautifully, so instead of planting flowers, I took a hike.

Little did I know that there’s a long, narrow lane that descends from the Rockland area all the way into the valley of the Allegheny River, as it passes through the northern forests.  People have vacation homes down here, and it really is beautiful.  There’s an old rail trail called the Allegheny River Trail, which runs at times between people’s lavish summer homes and their riverside decks and picnic tables—right through private property.

I followed the trail a little over 2 miles southward, where it passes through some state game lands and through some very expensive looking pieces of private real estate.

There was this strange little place…

And a few of the summer homes out here were old and modest.

This place might be a year-round home—palatial with lots of outdoor space and terraced decks down to the water.

It was sunny and cool with just enough of a breeze to keep things fresh.  The birds were all in concert.  The shade was deep and comforting.  Such a beautiful walk alongside the river of my life.  I like having a life-river.  I’ve lived all over the world and the nation, but I keep returning to places where my old original river still flows.  I need to put the kayaks in this summer…

The rail trail doubles as a road in places, which is not the best of all worlds.  But it would be worth coming back to this hidden place of hidden luxury escapes.  

 

Cornplanter State Forest

Cornplanter State Forest has several smallish tracts in Northwest Pennsylvania. This is the biggest tract along Jamison Run Road, near Tionesta. You can see that there used to be a farmhouse here by the way these old evergreens line the lane.  There are old foundations in among the trees.

I hiked here over Memorial Day weekend, and there were bugs aplenty.  A big band of car-campers had a few vehicles parked beside the road, guarded by angry dogs.  I camped in the woods here years ago when the camping spot I was planning to use was unavailable.  The barred owls serenaded me all night, and it was lovely—even if the woods are unspectacular.  The presence of barred owls in the forest here helped influence my decision to buy property in these parts. 

It seems a little wrong to take this land away from Chief Cornplanter and his people and then name it after him.  The forests here are full of the rusting detritus of the long-ago oil boom.  There are some active wells here still, too.  They make an eerie creaking noise sometimes when you think you and the birds have the woodlands to yourself.  

Taking a closer look at the old oil pump…

On the map, I saw a trackless segment of the Cornplanter Forest that stuck like a peninsula out into the Allegheny National Forest.  It intrigued me, so I bushwhacked a bit, but mostly stuck to old forest roads that don’t appear on the map.  They were very, very muddy, and the bugs were nearly unbearable.  Also, someone did a lot of timber harvesting in this part of the forest, and so it’s mostly just tree carnage, not much to see.  However, I did arrive at the ANF, where the border between state ands and federal lands is clearly delineated. God help us, our federal lands are in trouble with Trump in office.

 

Erie National Wildlife Refuge

It’s a strangely alluring spot with well-maintained trails and lots of wildlife to see. 

The trail system wends through low-lying countryside of forests and marshes, crossing quiet country lanes and dirt roads.

There were many handsome birds on display and a few more retiring creatures. 

I took this enormous turtle for a rock.  It’s about the size of two human heads!  What was he doing here? 

He was being, just being.  He wasn’t thinking anything, or doing anything, or making any plans, or regretting any past decisions or behaviors.  He wasn’t wondering about the future or misremembering the past.  He wasn’t telling himself old, old lies just to keep his morale up.  He wasn’t thinking about his next fix or his next meal or his next chance to shag.  (Actually, I dunno, maybe he was thinking about his next meal; what do these guys even eat?). He wasn’t worrying about the end of democracy in America and the world as we know it.  He was just being.  I think someday I’ll be able to do all that. 

 

Gregg Hill, Allegheny National Forest

To bag the (previously) unclaimed peak of Gregg Hill, I found a spot to park along the beautiful Millstone Creek in the Allegheny National Forest. A bald eagle soared serenely just above the quiet surface of the creek as I was standing on its banks, taking in the cool, fishy smell of a woodlands spring. It was a Wednesday afternoon, but there were fishers aplenty parked along Millstone Road.

I picked this spot because I saw on my maps that a pipeline swath runs all the way to the summit. Mind you, this is our public lands—though Trump and his band of evil baboons plan to further decimate the Allegheny National Forest in order to avoid buying lumber fro Canada.  I HATE the fact that the ANF is an industrial forest to the great expense of watershed protection, conservation, and recreation. Lumber, oil, gas. Republicans can only see the value in a thing that has a price tag attached, shallow and soulless as they are. That said…it was convenient to simply hike the pipeline swath to the top of Gregg Hill.

Standing at 1,601 feet above sea level, Gregg Hill barely qualifies for “mountain” status.  There were no views from the top, and I did have to bushwhack a bit to stay off a small piece of privately owned land, where I heard a pack of dogs barking angrily. They sounded like hounds, which are usually kept in pens, so I wasn’t too worried about them. But trespassing seemed unwise out here. 

This hunting stand presides over the pipeline meadow at the edge of someone’s private property. 

It was a pleasant day to roam the springtime woods. The only significant thing about this hike is that when I got home in the evening I found a tick. It had attached itself to my hip, but not very deeply. I removed the whole thing in one piece, but the bite was painful, which is unusual, and surrounded by the infamous red ring. It swole up and ached a little into the evening. Two days later, early Friday morning, I felt a sore throat coming on as I slept. When I got out of bed, I had the most excruciating sore throat of my life. It felt like a large splinter was stuck in my gullet. I also had a stiff neck and a headache. Lyme disease. I’ve had it once before. I got a prescription for doxycycline—two weeks—and it was only today, Tuesday, that I’ve started to feel better. It’s my own fault. I got lazy and thought I’d hurry to the top of the hill and back down without bothering to take precautions against ticks. 

 

Return to New Bethlehem

It was a lonely Sunday afternoon in the spring, the family all gone, and I got the urge to go up to New Bethlehem to plant our Easter flowers on my grandparents' and uncle's graves.  When I was a kid, New Bethlehem was my favorite place in the world.  My grandmother took each of us--all five siblings--to stay with her by ourselves for one week every summer.  That's to say, she spent five weeks of every summer hosting one of her grandchildren.  What a dear, loving soul.  She knew our home life was kind of like living in an orphanage.  It was the best week of the year for each of us because it was the only time and place where we were known and loved as individuals...by someone who took a genuine interest.  My parents?  They weren't (aren't) bad people.  But they didn't really have much interest in parenthood,  And if you weren't the only girl or the oldest boy, they'd forget your birthday and even get your name wrong most of the time.  

This photo shows the remains of the old Andrews estate in New Bethlehem.  The Andrews may still live here, I don't know.  They were among the small town elite that used to thrive in rural communities.  The southern portion of their estate was a formal garden open to the public and planted with ornamental shrubs and shade trees--all of which are gone now.  This murky pool was once a goldfish pond, and one of my first memories is of holding my grandmother's hand and gazing in wonder at the colorful aquatic life in its magical depths.  In fact, I used to keep a print of M.C. Escher's "Three Worlds" on my wall to recall that lovely memory to me.

There are lots of palatial old houses in the small towns of Western Pennsylvania, but the Andrews' house came replete with terraced formal gardens, a guest house, a carriage house, and an air of self-possessed grandeur.  To look at it now, all you see is a big house with a terrace in the back and a huge lawn.

Sitting on this spot was once the Old Globe Hotel, where my great grandmother worked as a cook, and where my mother was born.  In fact, I still own the bed in which my mother was born!  (Different mattress and springs, of course.)  My grandmother was also born that same bed, which had been built by my grandmother's grandfather, whose name was Christian, though he went by "Christ," rhyming with tryst.  He was a minister who spoke only Pennsylvania German and whose given name is my middle name.  It makes me sad to know that my kids will have absolutely zero interest in that bed when I'm ready to let it go...but non-attachment is wisdom.

In many small towns around here, the Presbyterian church was the club of choice for the educated and for professionals and business owners... You'd have to make the long trip into the county seat each Sunday for an Episcopal church, which defeated the communitarian nature of church back in the day.

The Methodist church, where my grandparents belonged (until the pastor suggested that the Devil was more a metaphor than an individual) still bore a whiff of frontier revivals and the sawdust trail.  In fact, my grandparents' former church--pictured here--quit the Methodists just a few years ago because the denomination began to welcome LGBTQIA folks into leadership.  

The old railroad running west out of New Bethlehem was a fun place for my brothers and me to walk, back in the day.  I still fondly recall the smell of tar and creosote mingled with the fishy fresh scent of Redbank Creek.  It's a really nice rail trail now.  I decided to walk it past the old brickyard that was once new Bethlehem's claim to fame.  

I went about three miles out and three miles back.  The vacant brickyard is still where it always was.  Both my grandfather and my bachelor uncle worked there.  For a photo of the distinctive New Bethlehem style bricks, see the last photo.  You can still see these bricks in older buildings across this part of the state.  They look...quilted.

It was a pleasant walk and full of wildlife.  A river otter crossed the path only 50 feet in front of me.  Another animal that I took to be a fisher did the same--smaller than an otter and shaped a bit more like a ferret with a long tail.

And here's the old Zion Cemetery, high on a hill above town.  This is where my grandparents and uncle are buried.  No one had done anything to their graves for many years--since their friends are all dead, and their family consists of my mother, my siblings, and me.  I'm the only one still living in state, and tending graves has never felt like an urgent concern until recently.

I've always been curious about the old, disused church that sits surrounded by the cemetery, waiting for its congregation to return.  Apparently this was once a Evangelical United Brethren church, which merged with the Methodists long ago...before closing its doors.

It is a scenic little piece of Americana.

And here's the quilted brick that gives New Bethlehem its claim to fame.  You've seen these blocks in the foundations and exterior walls of buildings all around the region.  Consider the significant places in your life.  Where are they?  Why are they significant to you?  Is there wisdom in revisiting them, or is it better to leave those ghosts alone?  All in all, it was a pleasant Sunday afternoon in this place that used to be my favorite spot on earth.

 

Oil Creek State Park & State Game Lands 253

This is Oil Creek, an unfortunate name for a scenic body of water which, just the day before I visited, was stocked with trout by the Commonwealth.  You’ve noticed by now that I obsess over things for a season then forget them and move on to something else?  One of my current obsessions is Oil Creek State Park.  

I can’t believe how resistant I was to exploring this place.  But it’s big, and picturesque, and so close to my camp…which is good because the GD Republicans are already talking about increasing drilling, fracking, and timbering on the Allegheny National Forest, so as to decrease our dependence on Canadian resources. How could anyone possibly hate Canada?  They’re the most innocuous country on earth…except Belgium.  Belgium First.  🇧🇪 

All of this was private farmland that got overtaken by the oil boom of the 1860s.  The farms became bleak oilfields, denuded of all trees, stripped of all natural life, polluted, barren, wretched.  This was the Miller Farm, and here’s Miller Farm Road, which is a public road that wends through the modern park.  

The Miller Family surely struck it rich and headed off to Californy, like Jed Clampett.  But their ancestors are still buried here, on a hillside above a very steep cliff descending into the creek below.  It’s a pretty place that shows on park maps as “Miller Cemetery.”  No one has been buried there since the 1890s.  

Just on the east bank of the creek, after crossing the bridge above, you see this little staircase to the left.  It leads to the Miller Family Cemetery.

This place, which would not be a bad spot to rest for all eternity.

This poor young lady died at the age of 18, married.  Probably due to complications from childbirth.  Oh, how my heart aches to know that girls younger than my daughters suffered such a fate.

Someone still comes here to put flags on the graves of war veterans.  Maybe it’s the park ranger, but there’s only one here at Oil Creek…

Still, a serene spot in the woods.

Moss, shade, a cliff, a quiet creek.  It might be heaven…

The last time I drove on Miller Farm Road, it was after a winter overnight camping trip with a friend, and the road was covered in at least 6” of snow.  His vehicle did great, but I was nervous the whole time.  It’s been such a beautiful winter, but I barely covered it on this blog.  I think I have an article about that camping trip below….

Prior to exploring Oil Creek State Park, I took a quick walk through State Game Lands 253, which is just outside Plumer, PA.  It felt…haunted.

I wanted to reach a certain “Plumer Fire Tower” which showed up on some of my maps.  My intuition led me to it after less than 2 miles of hiking.  It’s very off-limits, probably because local kids used to come here to drink and horse around.  There’s a chain link fence around the bottom.

Can you see the buzzards perching on the firetower?  This place made me sad.  I had cousins—all dead now—who were probably the kids who caused the State to close this firetower off.  They lived nearby in Plumer, and I spent much time there as a child.  Not at the firetower, but in Plumer at my aunt & uncle’s place.  As soon as I arrived at the Plumer Firetower, a flock of buzzards began to circle and land on the roof of the tower.  Can you see the evil bastards in this photo?  Click on it.  It’s like they were waiting for me to return in order to die, too.  Not enough that they ate my cousins, now it’s time for more flesh from my ill-fated family…

I can’t even say that it’s a scenic spot, it’s not… But it was a good day in the woods of Venango County…