Annual Greene County Fall Trip

I wanted to test myself, to see if I still knew how to take all the winding, narrow back roads from Pittsburgh down to Ryerson Station State Park in Greene County.  And I did!  It's such a pretty drive in the fall--despite the pervasive rural poverty and all the ruination that years of coal mining and now fracking have wreaked upon this lovely and lonely literal-corner of the state.

Chess Cemetery Discovery

Each fall, unless the world is entirely out of balance, I make my annual fall trek down at Ryerson Station State Park.  While I'm there, I pay my respects at the old Chess Family Cemetery.

Surely this was my 12th or 13th time on that hallowed ground.  And yet, it was the first time I'd ever noticed the little watertight plastic box beneath the headstone of a child's grave, one Freeman Jacobs.  Click on this photo to see it.

There are many children buried in this cemetery, each tiny headstone a monument to a life now long-forgotten.  O the lost tales of woe that these stones allude to...but never tell.  

Some years ago, I found that the Grimm Family lost, I believe, five children and then the mother.  The father does not appear to be buried here.  There is a Grimm Road nearby; it's probably where their farm was located.

The box beneath Freeman's headstone contained a pen and notebook so that visitors to the cemetery could write their names and the dates that they were here.  Many leave comments and, for some reason, little items like spare keys or cheap toys.

A heartbroken mother once stood at this stone and tried to restrain her tears.  Now, no matter how deep her anguish ran, there's nothing left here but a stone...and a tiny body underneath.  No one can tell us how he died, or what kind of child he was, or what his life was like while it lasted.

And another, this one with a foot stone.  

This is the front of Freeman Jacobs' grave.  The box with the notebook is under this headstone.  

And Time that Gave Doth Now His Gift Confound

Like as the waves make towards the pebbl'd shore,

So do our minutes hasten to their end;

Each changing place with that which goes before,

In sequent toil all forwards do contend.

Nativity, once in the main of light,

Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crowned,

Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,

And Time that gave doth now his gift confound.

Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth

And delves the parallels in beauty's brow,

Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,

And nothing stands but for Time's scythe to mow.

And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand,

Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.

Sonnet 60, Wm. Shakespeare 

A Beautiful Fall Day in Pennsylvania

Late but lovely, October took its good old time visiting its splendor upon us.  But that's okay.  It means that November will be something more than a gray limbo between autumn and winter, as the fall colors spill over into next month.

My day off this week was a glorious Thursday.  It's such a rare gift these days to get three full hours to wander free amid the beauty of the season--whatever season it may be, but especially the fall.

As with all things beautiful, by the time it's upon you, it's almost over.  If, as I theorize, all times are happening simultaneously, and we're only experiencing them as a march of minutes and days in succession (yesterday, today, tomorrow), then I take comfort in the belief that the brilliant autumn day I just had lives on forever in the very mind of God.  It's still occurring and will forever.

Of course, when I say "God," I'm not referring to the Republican bully who passes for a Supreme Being in most people's imaginations.  I'm speaking only of the Mystery at the heart of all life, the Mystery and the Energy that is life itself, the Infinite, the Ineffable, the Numinous--perhaps the reality that we take for granted, not so much a "being" as the ground of all being.

And yet, as transcendent and distant as that "God" seems, I must admit that She draws quite near on a gorgeous autumn day--indeed maybe on wretched days, too, though we fail to know Her then.  It's hard to deny the Mystery of life and breath and seasons when the world is so lovely.  

Giddy as I was for the color and the beauty of it all, there's a melancholy about it, too.  Or maybe pensiveness is a better word, I don't know.  Shakespeare's Sonnet 60 always runs through my head in the woods in the fall.  In fact, I fitted it into a nondescript little tune that I sometimes sing to myself.

I don't know if we live too long or too short, but as long as I live, I can never tire of October.  The chill in the air, gold-tinted sunlight, the cold mornings when dad (me) is still holding out, trying not to turn on the furnace, the distinctive smell of burning dust when he finally gives in.  And of course the glorious colors in otherwise ordinary trees.  Besides, as I said above, it seems to me that maybe we live forever, that everything that ever was still is, along with everything that will ever be.  The question is, do we only get a single run; do we only get to taste it all just this once?

Cook Forest and Buzzard Swamp

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.

A Night at Lamentation Run

This is Tionesta Creek, where it's joined by the much smaller Lamentation Run.  There's probably no one left out there who remembers my first visit to this far-flung and pathless spot on the Allegheny National Forest, but that's okay.  My older blog, where I described that visit, is finally falling into almost total disuse.  I keep it online because it's the only documentation I have of my years living up there in the forest.  But last week, I finally returned to commune again with the waters of Lamentation, where I have not been in nine years.

I don't see any changes, which is comforting.  The last time I was here, I snapped pictures of exactly these two scenes: (top) the wooded hillside above Tionesta Creek--the hill where "Stony Point" is located--and (second from the top) the mythical Lamentation Run merging into the larger creek beneath the sheltering boughs of a hemlock.  This time at last I came prepared to spend the night alone, to drift off to sleep with the watery music of Lamentation singing in my ears.

Despite the mournful moniker, the stream actually makes a happy enough sound--a rapid gurgling, something more akin to laughter than weeping.  Despite the fact that there's no trail out to this spot, there's a large campsite with a stone fire ring down beside the smaller brook.  I think horseback riders come out this way.  Fishers in kayaks or canoes might also camp out there.  But I found that camping spot a little too low-lying and exposed.  Plus, I got the impression that someone felt a sense of ownership of that spot.  They'd left cooking grills, a fire hook, and a few other camp items that made me think they could come back at any moment, and I didn't want to be there when they did.  I opted instead for a little patch of forest at the top of the bluff to the left of the brook, a place where the darkness of the trees could take me in as night drew on, a place where I could shelter and look down to observe the established campsite if someone did show up to camp there.  

This little fellow was my only companion--one of the little red salamanders that you see so frequently around here, about the size of my thumb.  Some people call them hellbenders, though I cannot guess as to the origins of such a name.  I also can't seem to get this picture right-side-up.  

Lamentation Run Road is better known as Forest Road 210.  The little lane does not pass right along the banks of the stream that gives it its name.  It follows the course of the brook from a distance, built as it is at the top of the little valley--which is perhaps a quarter to a half-mile from the water.  This means that you have to park your car somewhere along the road and bushwhack in.  But the forest here is lovely and isolated, almost entirely made up of hemlocks with a polite smattering of beeches.  

The problem with camping up atop the bluff is that there are no stones up there to build a fire ring--despite the many stones along the stream, below.  I tried using moldering old "punky" logs to contain my campfire, but it proved a risky choice.  If I come back to this spot, I'll have to put myself to the herculean task of hauling stones up from below--which will be hard without a path.  But I do hope to come back here.  

Disappointingly, I did not hear any owls in the night...and precious few wood thrushes.  A large buck came rummaging around, snorting at me angrily in the dark.  I made a loud, scary noise (one that I used to make to entertain my kids), and it eventually ran away.  It was a perfectly serene spot for a woodland idyll.  I'm becoming quite the expert on solo backpacking trips.  I've been on my own for at least my last three outings, since my usual partners have been too busy.  It's a whole different experience when you're alone, in some ways better and in some ways not.

Lamentation Run was named for the wolves that used to moan and cry along its banks.  Lover of words that I am, the stream's name drew me to this little-visited quadrant of the Allegheny National Forest shortly before moving away to Pittsburgh, nine years ago.  I didn't want to leave, and I came here to make lament.  I wanted to see this body of water weeping the tears that I could not.  I don't know why I couldn't cry; my sadness was very real.  It still is.  But I couldn't.  It's just not my way.  Coming here, all those years ago, was a pilgrimage for me.  This most recent trip to Lamentation Run was a pilgrimage, too.  I left with two liters of water from the holy brook.  I've completely fetishized the very water of Lamentation.  It was cold, and clear, and tasted sweet.  I thought, "I'll take this back to the crowded, soulless places where I live now.  I'll drink from it when I'm sad.  It'll give me strength, and courage, and...I don't know.  Peace?"  How superstitious is that?  Well, it doesn't matter anyway.  I've already drunk it all.

A Night on the Backpacking Loop at Raccoon Creek

With the family still away, I came to Raccoon Creek on a scorching Friday evening, after work, and set off to get a campsite on the backpacking loop.  My only condition was that no one else be camped out there, and from all I could tell at the self-check-in station--where you pay $4 according to the honor system--there were people in the Adirondack shelters nearby, but not in the tenting sites.  So it was a go.  I chose the Pioneer backpacking area instead of the Sioux area because it's further from things.  There's nothing particularly special about this stretch of woods.  It's just another woodlot with an airport nearby and screaming jets.  But the evening I spent out there was fantastic.

As evening set on, a whole choir of wood thrushes began to sing its flute-like, resonant song.  There must be six or eight of them in the trees nearby.  The gold sun setting through the green trees had a cathedral effect on the darkening woods.  The campers in the Adirondack shelters came out here seeking silence, too, and so there was not a peep out of them.  Just birdsong and the cool of the evening.  I got a beautiful fire going and watched it like Netflix.  Sadly, at 10:30pm, a very loud group pulled into one of the group tenting areas about a quarter mile away.  They arrived in a school bus, beeping the horn over and over, yelling, playing loud rap music on the radio.  They must have thought they were all by themselves at the end of a dirt lane through the woods--little knowing that others walk muddy trails through the same woods to spend the night in a spot nearby just in order to escape the likes of them.