St. John's Lutheran Cemetery, Spring Hill, Pittsburgh

 The most famous view of Pittsburgh is from Mt. Washington, and I gotta admit that it's nice.  But a far more sweeping vista is seen from the desolate hilltop neighborhood of Spring Hill, on the Northside.  Tucked away at the top of steep, narrow streets, St. John's Lutheran Cemetery rises up above the rooftops of rundown rowhouses.  This is the final resting place of many a German immigrant from Pittsburgh's industrial days.  The Northside hasn't been a German enclave for many a long year, but here on this hilltop, headstones are still in the old mother tongue. This place is a lot harder to find than Mt. Washington, but the advantage is a broader panorama and a complete absence of people.  Nobody comes here except neighborhood folks.

Mt. Washington's views are almost too close to the skyline.  St. John's Cemetery is removed just enough to let you see most of the major downtown landmarks.  To the far right of the top photo, you see the fountain at the Point.  At the far left--before the leafy branches--you see the 16th Street Bridge.  In between are all the major skyscrapers, the convention center, and the sports arenas.  Mt. Washington itself is visible, with its "inclines," and Mt. Lebanon can be seen at the horizon.  As always, click on a photo to enlarge it.

On the way back down the hill, my friend and I came across a well-known local distillery that makes whiskey according to the recipes of the 18th and 19th centuries: Wigle Whiskey.  One of their specialties is old Monongahela Rye Whiskey--the kind that was made here in the 1700s, and which played such a crucial role in the Whiskey Rebellion.

Too Few Ferns

There are too few ferns in my life.  Ferns are savage.  Ferns are survivors.  Ferns were here first; they'll outlast the human race and perhaps anything we do to the planet.  They'd overtake meadows and fields and whole cities if we let them.  Without human intervention, much of North America would revert to ferns and vines--those damnable vines, the unholy trinity of poison ivy, Virginia creeper, and wild grapevine, which is by far the worst of the three.  But ferns are noble.  They're primordial.  Like great white sharks, they've evolved very little over the eons...maybe because they started out so close to perfect.  With their delicate, lacy leaves and their rich, earthy scent, ferns deserve to dominate the world.  Today in the patchy woods west of the city, where the forest canopy is sparse and the trees all look haggard, I noted with sadness that this is no kind of wilderness to nourish the spirit.  The Pittsburgh region sits in a basin where the Midwestern plains end and the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains begin.  For that reason, air pollution gets pushed up against the highlands and stuck here--both homegrown smog as well as clouds of particulates that are blown in from the Midwest.  In the US, only Los Angeles has worse air quality.  The air pollution weakens the trees and makes them more susceptible to common diseases.  Ragged trees depress me.  A hike among forlorn trees is more upsetting than restorative, and so it makes hiking sometimes seem counterproductive unless I can get away to a more northerly part of the state, where the trees are tall and strong.  And yet, just as my short hike was beginning to wear away at my soul, I came across these ferns, and all was well.  

Pittsburgh from the Rivers

River tours around Pittsburgh are pretty common.  This is The Point as seen from the headwaters of the Ohio River.  It's nice to have the fountain back; it was out of order for four full years.

 The new skyscraper that PNC Bank is adding to the Pittsburgh skyline is being called "the greenest skyscraper in the world."  It'll only be thirty-three floors tall, but will exceed criteria for a "platinum LEED certified building."  I like the way the rising tower already dwarfs my favorite Pittsburgh skyscraper, the much smaller Arrott Building on Fourth Ave.  Built in 1902, it's only 18 stories.  This view is from the Monongahela River, where the boat ride begins.

 The Duquesne Incline is one of two uphill / downhill passenger trolleys that transports people between Mt. Washington and the downtown area.  It's basically a large street car built on a steep slant, and commuters really do use it.

 A graceful fountain marks the spot where the city began, at the confluence of two rivers that gives birth to a third.  The two greatest empires of Europe once vied for control of this spot, thinking they could use it to launch ships westward into the uncharted continent.  Ironically enough, the only boats here today are pleasure boats.

 The Allegheny County Courthouse, which was once one of the tallest buildings on the Pittsburgh skyline, is hidden away among the knees of taller skyscrapers.  It's the one with the triangular roof that looks vaguely ecclesiastical.

 A rare view from the Allegheny, the river of my life, of my homeplaces, and my childhood.  Like me, the Allegheny drifts down here from up north, but you can sense that its heart is still up in the highlands and woods of its northerly origins... Or am I projecting?

This shot is also taken from the Allegheny River.  The city's tallest tower, the ominously black US Steel Building--which is largely occupied by the University of Pittsburgh Medical Center--stands vigil over several of its lesser colleagues: The faded old Gulf Tower is the 30s-looking structure just to the left of the black behemoth.  Much shorter but statelier is the old Koppers Building, with the green roof.  The newish looking silver tower a bit to the right is called One Oxford Center, I think.  It's a loveless, nondescript contribution to the city's skyline that went up in the 1980s.

The Edge of Possibility

I could take a camp chair and sit out in my side field at 3am to read a book by flashlight.  The lightning bugs would accompany me.  But I'll never do it.  I could pitch a tent, of a January evening, on the front lawn and sleep there all alone.  But I won't.  I could diverge from my daily course, take an unexpected road, wander long and far into other places, learn the language of the Arapahos, acquire a taste for tortillas and beans.  I could stray off into the mountains of Mexico, like some ruined desperado in a Cormac McCarthy novel, there to take my place at a corner table in a sunny cantina on a village square.  In daylight hours, the tiny plaza would be noisy and bright, sparsely shaded by the patchy branches of four old acacia trees.  By night, the little square would be alive with possibility.  The lower branches of the acacias would glow with strings of red and green Christmas lights in the middle of July.  There, at my corner table, staring out at the plaza, I'd drink my liver into iron.  I could do it; alcoholic lounging in exotic locations is not new to me.  But I won't.  I won't.  The world and I have both grown too old now.

There are wildly extravagent possibilities that pass by us unnoticed.  There's potential in each new moment, but its power is hidden from us by boredom and routine, by unimaginative living.  In fact, I've come to believe that energy, matter, and potential are all there is.  Perhaps the life-giving power that people have called "God" is really nothing more than the potential hidden in each ordinary moment of every day?  Or perhaps "God" is some combination of two or all of these?  

We passed through Washington, DC, en route to the Outer Banks.  Both places are better than I remembered, but still their touristy locations are as dreary as a new suburban cemetery.  The Outer Banks are overrun by Western Pennsylvanians who used to vacation at Atlantic City.  The North Carolina coast has become Upper Saint Clair on stilts.  (And Atlantic City is pretty much Homewood-by-the-Sea.)  And yet, the vacation was too short.  The ocean is good wherever you meet it.  Take your troubles to the ocean, and you're sure to come away with some consolation.

More Thoughts about Kayaking Chartiers Creek

 The cool thing about kayaking is that it gives you someplace to escape to when you're stuck doing things you don't love.  Whether I'm working at my desk, moderating some fruitless argument about administrative details, absently pondering my reply to some email, or forcing myself to be creative and productive on a deadline, I can always slip away--in my mind--to some recent cruise down the Chartiers.  You might think I'm all ears, that you have my undivided attention, but in reality, I'm gliding over rocks, choosing my channel between shallow rapids, drifting in the shade of sycamores.  That's the only reason I keep a blog anyway: to revisit my adventures.  (I'm not narcissistic enough to believe that anyone out there is waiting for me to update my blog.) 

Actually, I've been doing a lot of research about Chartiers Creek online.  There's a faithful handful of people who care about it and who work to mitigate the industrial damage that's been done to it.  Water quality is a big issue for a stream like this one, whose headwaters are up in the coalfields and frackfields, and whose mouth opens into the Ohio after passing through old milltowns with their dead and dying factories and their woefully outdated infrastructures--including their methods of sewage treatment and discharge.  The efforts of these conservationists have gone a long way toward restoring a waterway that used to run orange with industrial waste.  But there's a lot of room for improvement.

In places, the Chartiers looks like the Los Angeles River: canalized and enclosed by concrete pylons and ugly cement walls.  In other places, quite nearby, the same stream could almost pass for some little-known waterway deep in the wilderness.  I'm also thinking about tackling the Raccoon Creek, out in Beaver County--not the lake inside the state park, but the actual stream that the park is named for, which only touches the park's easternmost edge.  It's apparently navigable into June, and after a good rain.  The Raccoon is supposedly wilder than the Chartiers but also a little less accessible and often obstructed by fallen trees.  I know a good put-in spot near Kramer Road at Hillman State Park.

I like using the definite article before the name of a creek or stream: "the Raccoon," "the Chartiers."  It sounds vaguely knowledgeable, as if I'm an old riverhand.  Anybody out there ever kayak Raccoon Creek?  Not the lake at Raccoon Creek State Park, but the creek itself?

Kayaking Chartiers Creek: The Heidelberg to Carnegie Oxbow

This is Chartiers Creek, where it separates Heidelberg (on the far side of the bridge) from Carnegie.  The trouble with kayaking on moving water is that you don't end up where you started, so you need someone to taxi you--and your boat--back to your car.  But the water levels were good today, and I couldn't resist the river's call.  

I far prefer moving water to flat water.  And so, last year while poring over maps, I came up with a way to travel the moving water of Chartiers Creek without calling on anyone to transport me.  It was a pretty ingenious plan that I finally enacted today.  Despite the fact that this part of the creek runs through densely populated and industrialized areas, it's a beautiful ride, scenic and serene.  The urban sprawl isn't visible from the water.  In fact, for the first quarter of the ride, you'd think you were out in the country.  The early summer air is sweet with honeysuckle, and privets, and the mossy smell of fresh water.  It smelled exactly like a Pennsylvania childhood in the 1970s, the adventure, the discovery, the freedom of the water.

There's an "oxbow" in the stream as it runs between Heidelberg and Carnegie, and there's a railroad track that traverses the narrow neck of land between the two ends of the oxbow.  You start off at the great "put-in" spot in Heidelberg, beneath the bridge in the top photo.  You use a bicycle chain to secure your kayak someplace near the bridge, then you leave the boat there and drive into Carnegie with all your gear.

Park your car in the PNC Bank parking lot (metered parking, but not often checked).  You'll be pulling your boat out of the water under the Mansfield Blvd Bridge, just adjacent to this parking lot.

Get your paddle, life jacket, and all your gear--especially the key to your bicycle chain--and then walk along the railroad tracks back into Heidelberg to board your kayak.  The walk's not as long as you think, and the time you'll get on the water is way more than you'd expect.

When I was a kid on a Sunday afternoon in early summer, the creek and railroad tracks would have been crawling with kids--troublemakers, swimmers, rock-throwers, smokers, bike-riders, drinkers.  Where are all the kids nowadays?  They must be in their bedrooms playing on their wiis.

The trek down the tracks from the bridge in downtown Carnegie to the Heidelberg bridge is exactly 20 minutes at a moderate pace.  It's not a scenic stroll, but not unpleasant at all.  Mostly just back yards planted in old fashioned vegetable gardens, with aluminum pie plates dangling over the plants to keep the birds and rabbits away. 

Once you get back to your boat in Heidelberg, you take it under the bridge and push out into the deep.  Let the currents carry you downstream to Carnegie and your car.  The creek forms a wide C between Heidelberg and Carnegie, but the railroad tracks cut a straight line between the two towns, running directly from one end of the C to the other.  

For that reason, your 20-minute walk down the tracks affords you a full 50 minutes on the water!  Near the beginning of your downstream paddle, the riverbanks appear wild, wooded, and silent.  You can't see the neighborhoods and streets at the top of the valley wall--if there are any.  There are geese, and ducks, and an occasional blue heron.  What sounds like a waterfall just around the bend turns out to be passing traffic on I-79, which comes pretty near to the creek at times, though you never have to see it.  In places, the current is choppy--which I love--and in other spots it's deep and gentle.  But the pull is always strong, even in those places where the water appears placid.

There are gravelly shallows where you might have to get out of the boat and walk for a few feet, but they're surprisingly few.  I only had to get out once.  For the most part, the creek is nicely navigable.  As you draw nearer to Carnegie--a more heavily industrialized community--old factories raise their heads on the riverbanks.  The abandoned factory in the fourth photo might be worth checking out someday--though the feeling of remoteness is an illusion.  There are houses all around.  Most of these homes are humble, but some have great views and access onto the creek.  You cross under more antique railroad bridges, too.  The stream becomes deep and wide as it passes through the center of town.

In Carnegie, this old hotel looms over the water like a vengeful math tutor.  Not to denigrate Carnegie, I think it's a great old town with lots of character and easy charm, but the creek in this town has a pretty distinct odor of sewage.  You have to slow down and get into the left channel as you pass under Carnegie's Main Street Bridge, the first bridge in town-proper.  Plan to stop under the second bridge, because that's where your car is parked.  Besides, there's better space for putting in and taking out a boat down there.  Be careful not to dash yourself on the rocks.

All in all, the whole adventure took me about an hour and ten minutes--including the railroad track walk.  If I include travel time to and from the Heidelberg / Carnegie area, then it took less than two hours.  Sounds like something I could do early in the morning when all the world's asleep...

Ira D. Sankey?

Shadowy 19th century evangelists aren't interesting to most people.  In fact, since its long slide into politics and judgment, I find modern American evangelicalism pretty despicable. But I'm always interested in the history of social movements and philosophies.  Plus, I had a fiery fundamentalist Methodist grandmother who used to drag us off to Cherry Run Camp Meeting every summer.  So the phenomenon of religious revivalism in rural America intrigues me.   

Apparently a man named "Ira D. Sankey" wrote many of the rollicking old gospel songs that lilted up and down the valleys of the American frontier in that great shiver of evangelical fervor that followed the Civil War.  As I said, I'm not a fan of that kind of faith.  The modern variation of it has been the Billy Graham movement--which is fast fading away--and all the televangelists and megachurches of the religious right.  And yet, I have very fond memories of my grandmother going about her housework while singing these cloyingly sweet 19th century tunes with their pious words.  A little Internet research reveals that I have only the vaguest recollection of one of Sankey's songs, "I Will Sing the Wondrous Story." 

While traveling backroads in Lawrence County, I came across this historical marker in the village of Edinburg, which is apparently the birthplace of Ira Sankey.  Edinburg is in the darkling borderlands between Youngstown and New Castle, a farming area with a penchant for decaying industry; it's a zone that I've always considered a little spooky.  Click on the picture to enlarge it.  "Ira" is a great name.  If the Universe had granted me a son, I really would have liked to name him Ira, or maybe Malcolm, but I'm sure my wife would have objected to both.  Alas, no matter now.