Laurel Highlands Hiking Trail

Overall, the Laurel Highlands Hiking Trail is not especially strenuous.  Most of its 70-mile course runs along the summit of Laurel Ridge, and there aren't a whole lot of ups and downs.  But the seven southernmost miles are the exception, and they are downright brutal.  This well-known overlook is well within the bounds of Ohiopyle State Park.  At about two and a half miles in, this is as far as most people go.

But a friend and I just did an overnight on this end of the trail.  We hiked in as far as the first Laurel Highlands Hiking Trail campground, at 6.3 miles.  And it was arduous.  Some of the climbs were savage, but the descents were even worse--at least for my aging knees.  This is the Youghiogheny River meandering northward among the low mountains.  

The Laurel Highlands are beautiful at any time of year, and May is especially nice.  It was only 6.3 miles each way, and we saw day-hikers practically running the trail.  But we did it with 30-pound backpacks.  I gotta say, it really wore me out.  Starting out at noon from the groovy little outdoorsy town of Ohiopyle, it all seemed so hopeful and, well, possible.  

By the time we reached the little campground, we were more than ready to stop for the night.  One of the great joys of backpacking is arriving at a strange place that is going to be home for one evening and one night--your own little makeshift home in the forest.  Of course, the biggest ascent of all--known to LHHT thru-hikers as "Heart Attack Hill"--is just after this campground (northbound), but we didn't tackle it on this trek.  We spent a pleasant evening and morning in this quiet spot, amid birdcalls and the gentle song of a nearby stream.  The only noises from the outside world were the many trains that passed in the valley below.  Though I go to the woods for silence, train noises are almost acceptable.  Maybe because they're mournful.

Just because I'm always looking for shortcuts, I thought maybe we could trek back to the little town of Ohiopyle (and the car) along the railroad tracks... I really didn't want to have to carry my pack back over those 6.3 miles of trail.  But alas, my friend was afraid to walk along such busy tracks.  He thought a passing train cold throw a rock and hurt us.  And so, we did it the hard way... When we came trudging back into town, I'm sure we looked like survivors of the Bataan Death March.  

On the opposite side of the river, the beautiful rail trail known as "The Great Allegheny Passage" runs smoothly and evenly from Pittsburgh to D.C.  But on this side of the river, all you've got is the LHHT...and it wants you dead.

Some Things I Found in Oakland Today

 One of the coolest things for me about going back to the Carnegie Museums in the Oakland neighborhood of Pittsburgh is the endless possibility of discovery.  I've always been a fan of this enormous metal mural, tucked away in a back gallery of the art museum...but the whole complex abounds with locked doors and hidden rooms.

 I managed to sneak into one of the old foyers that is no longer used.  This room was designed to be one of the vestibules to the grand staircase, but it faces the street instead of the parking lot, and since very few people walk to the museum nowadays, the room has fallen into disuse.

 The eyes in this statue are too creepy.  I could only stand under her gaze for a few seconds before fleeing.

 And here's another room I never knew was there.  I got to hang here for a few minutes, wondering what the heck this place is and how many more majestic rooms sit locked up and hidden from public view.  Most of the time, this room is just another closed door in a marble corridor.  But today I had the good fortune to find it standing open.  There was a tiny kitchen attached to it, so I suppose it can be rented for parties, but it's pretty small for that.  And it has a definite air of disuse about it.  My life needs more rooms like this.

And this is what I like about the whole Oakland neighborhood: the sense that there's so much splendor hidden all around you.  Opportunities for discovery never end.  In fact, that's one of the best things about any city, and especially "old money" towns like Pittsburgh. 

My favorite children's book creates the same sensation.  It's called "The Garden of Abdul Gasazi," by Chris Van Allsburg.  The story itself is good enough.  But the best part is the way the pictures all suggest some great depth and wonder hidden just beyond their purview.  Alan is chasing his runaway dog, and he stumbles into the vast estate of the retired magician, Abdul Gasazi.   The ill-tempered magician invites Alan into his mysterious mansion.  Gasazi hates dogs and warns Alan that any dog straying onto his property gets turned into a duck. Check out the dark doorway in the background.  It could lead to a library with thousands of leatherbound books; it could lead to a ballroom with crystal chandeliers and marble pillars; it could lead down a stone staircase to a dank wine cellar.  Or it could lead to a room like the one I found today in Oakland.

The Netflix Series "Mindhunter," Filmed in Pittsburgh

 I went to work one morning to find the parking lot looking like my childhood.  Just look at all these big old Detroits parked in a beautiful row.

 The ubiquitous woody.  Apparently Netflix is filming a new series here in Pittsburgh entitled "Mindhunter" and based on a nonfiction book about the psychology of serial killers.

 It's directed by Charlize Theron, though she was nowhere to be seen.  I'd never heard of any of the actors.

 This majestic fleet cruised off to the old steel town of Braddock for filming, but they also filmed scenes of the more upscale neighborhoods in Mt. Lebanon.

 It's apparently a very graphic FBI thriller series set in 1979.

Of course, for anything set in the 70s, you've got to have a few Ford LTDs.  It was cold on the day the film crew was here, in the high 40s.  I loved seeing all the Californians bundled up like Eskimos. 

Cross Creek Church and Cemetery

Now this is what I love, a cemetery dating back to the 1700s!  I found an online article about this place a year or two ago.  I'm always amazed at how old the countryside west and south of Pittsburgh is.  There are many old churches and cemeteries dating back to the 18th century--and most of them a little forgotten and forlorn, like Cross Creek United Presbyterian Church, in Washington County, which has many graves of Revolutionary War soldiers.  Mary Patterson--whose headstone is shown here--was buried in 1795.  Click on the photo to enlarge it.

The congregation of Cross Creek Church has been in existence since before the American Revolution.  But sadly, the great majority of these little country churches won't be around in another twenty years.  Despite their great history, their beauty, and their bank-calendar place in the American psyche, the country church is fading fast.  A handful of aging farmwives will not be able to maintain these buildings and cemeteries for very much longer.

The Cross Creek Church is pretty typical of rural Washington County churches: tall and redbrick with the sanctuary on the upper level and the various classrooms and social hall below, but not in a basement.  Notice that there is no cross on the cupola.  These old frontier Protestants tended to avoid all ornamentation and religious symbolism.  It's curious that this place is shuttered as if it's out of business, but it seems well enough maintained.  Do they actually close the shutters every Sunday after services?

 I have a theory as to why the oldest country churches around here are all Presbyterian.  Of course, the Presbyterian Church is the state Church of Scotland, and those old time Scotch-Irish settlers were steadfast Calvinists.  They believed that all things whatsoever were foreordained--war, famine, wealth, personal blessings, and losses.  All things.  And so, they went charging into the American back country before anyone else because they knew that their destiny was already set in stone.  If it was God's design that they were to be scalped by Indians, then so be it.  To them, God's will was always best.  In the words of Darth Vader, "It is your destiny!"

 Fatalism can be a comfortable worldview because it places all the blame for everything on a wise and merciful deity who allows us to suffer only so that good can come of it eventually--according to some mysterious plan that we humans cannot begin to know or grasp.   

 Of course, beliefs are always changing and growing.  There are few left today who hold fast to the idea of a puppetmaster deity who would allow a whole family of settlers to be tortured and massacred according to some secret plan, but who would also help me find my car keys when I lose them... 

I know a lot of Presbyterians, and none of them are fatalists like those old Scotch-Irish pioneers.  And yet, I almost wish I could believe that there was a master plan somewhere out there, governing the universe, guaranteeing that everything will be good in the end.  There's less peace of mind in a world of chance and happenstance.  Where would America be if not for the fatalists of bygone days?