Rager Mountain, Charles F. Lewis Natural Area, Gallitzin State Forest

O Pennsylvania, motherland, easily the most haunted of the Fifty--with New York and Massachusetts vying for a distant second!  That's one superlative to your credit.  And yet, you ought to be prettier than you are.  You ought to be more prosperous and pleasant.  But from the top of Rager Mountain (such a cool name), I see not one, but TWO nuclear power plants in the distance and all from a menacing electric line easement where the voltage crackles and hisses.  I wanted to go back to the Buchanan State Forest but wasn't up for another two and a half hour drive.  This place is only one hour and a half from home--even crossing the city for morning rush hour.

Admittedly, there'd be no panorama at all if not for the powerline swaths that cut straight across the mountains.  Trees would obscure the view.  But still...you can almost feel the cancerous energy radiating from these horrible wires.  This is looking west, away from the highlands and toward the lowland that will eventually level out into plains as the Ohio meanders toward the Midwest. 

It's a long upward trek from the parking area to the loop trail at the summit of Rager Mountain, in the Charles F. Lewis Natural Area of the Gallitzin State Forest, which is just a little north of Johnstown.  There were many large butterflies on the sunny areas of the mountain, too.

This fellow had a wingspan of about three and a half inches, and he flew alongside me for about an eighth of a mile as I strolled down a gravel road.  I felt somehow honored by his company, as if he'd chosen me.  He'd flit ahead for a while, then hang back so I could catch up.

Many of the best trails on the mountain are not the ones on the map.  An old logging road led me to this upland meadow where I spent a little time listening to the deep silence of the woods.  A thrush sang its melodious song somewhere in the trees.  This is looking eastward and down the mountain.  The Ridge-and-Valley province of the Alleghenies is off that way, as is the Buchanan.

I spent about six hours on Rager Mountain, even though the loop itself is only about five miles.  I ended up descending by way of a different route, the Clark Run Trail, which traverses large boulders and makes steep descents.  This is the Conemaugh River as seem from yet another electrical easement.  On the other side of the valley, the Laurel Highlands Hiking Trail makes a grueling climb up onto the opposite ridgeline.  I did that stretch of the LHHT as an overnight last summer.  

The Poison Ivy Reserve

I didn't have time to go further afield today, and so I returned to Raccoon Creek State Park, which was teeming with mosquitoes the size of sparrows, clouds of them!  Repellent only made them mad, and so I spent four hours swatting and smacking at them.  In the summer, this place is all bugs and mud; in the winter, it's all snow and jaggers.  I unaffectionately refer to Raccoon Creek as "The Poison Ivy Reserve."  The only thing it has in greater abundance is bugs--gnats, biting flies, mosquitoes.  Today's was one of the worst hikes of my long woodland career.  The trails were wildly overgrown and blocked by fallen trees.  Does no one hike here anymore?  Although it's not a beautiful park, the woods can be pleasant and calming, and I did manage to find a tolerably bug-free ridge among the hemlocks, where I spent about an hour reading in my hammock.  The birdcalls and the shade were nice.  I even heard an illusive wood thrush, which generally only sings in the deep forest.  It makes such a lovely, flute-like song.  But aside from the lake itself, there's really nothing in the way of "views" to look at here.  There are no vistas or overlooks.  My goal on this hike, other than just to disengage my spirit, was to find an old flag plaza that I came across years ago--some forgotten old site once sacred to the Boy Scouts.  I couldn't remember where it was exactly, but I knew which quadrant of the forest to look in.  And here it is, sitting just off the Camp Trail above a mosquito-infested stream.  If you click on the photo and look closely, you'll see two stone mounds with a smaller mound in between.  Once I found it, I had to wonder...should I be setting loftier goals for myself? 

Ragged Ridge-and-Valley Towns

 In a previous post, I called the little hamlets in the valleys of Central Pennsylvania "quaint," and so they are.  This is the countryside and the rural life that echoes through the music of that old alternative rock group "The Ocean Blue," which is still one of my favorites, and the excellent solo pianist and composer, Greg Maroney.  There's a stout loveliness to the towns.  They're old, and well-maintained, and solidly built, with a few architectural frills just to please the eye.

 And yet, when you've got so many small towns grouped in such proximity to each other, you're bound to see some decay, too.  German settlers in the 1700s often built their homes all together in small villages and farmed the outlying areas.  This is in contrast to the more British habit of letting each farmhouse sit in the middle of its own land.  The German way meant that you might have more towns, but the towns would be much smaller.  They would often be mere hamlets, composed of seven or eight farmhouses, surrounded entirely by the woods, pasture, and fields that belonged to each family.  Of course, there are also isolated farms along the roadways.  And most of the big, boxy houses in these towns are no longer attached to farms.

 These are all sloppy drive-by shots in the villages of Rainsburg and Charlesville, in Bedford County.  Rainsburg was a charming little place at first glance.  It had a few of these stately stone houses and, for a town of fewer than 400 souls, there were three churches, one of which appeared to be abandoned.  The menacing signage did betray a goodly number of Mennonites in the area.  You can always tell because they're the ones who put warning signs by their mailboxes, things like "Prepare to Meet Thy God" and "Jesus May Come Today." But most Pennsylvania German settlers here and elsewhere were not Mennonite or Amish; they belonged to the state churches of Germany, which were Lutheran or Reformed (aka, Calvinist, aka United Church of Christ).  And so, the churches that remain in these villages still belong to those denominations, and they're often surrounded by very old and interesting graveyards.

 Charlesville was even smaller than Rainsburg and had an eerie number of abandoned buildings, which I only got to photograph quickly from a moving car.  It looks as if this house is still filled with furniture and waiting for someone's long-delayed return.  The owner probably died, and his or her adult children keep telling themselves they'll get down here some day to go through the place and put it up for auction.  They're living in North Carolina and Harrisburg.  They don't want the old family home.

 Here's another shot of the same little village house and an abandoned business just adjacent to it.  What happened here?

 This may have been a house, but you don't see many of these New Orleans style "boxcar houses" in this area.  My guess is that this was some sort of seed or grain store.

 And this big old place with the nice front porch appears to have been both a house and a business.  It almost looks like a general store or a restaurant, doesn't it?  It, too, still has curtains in all the windows.

 The double doors make me think it was a public establishment of some kind.  But when the population of an area declines and everyone has a car to go shopping at Wal-Mart, little village stores are doomed.  If this were rural Vermont, it would be a cheese shop or a maple syrup-themed boutique.

 But alas!  Tourist dollars will not redeem the countryside of the Keystone State, where few tourists venture past Bucks and Lancaster counties.  And this!  I've seen this beautiful old farmhouse from the Turnpike several times, near the Bedford exit, and I accidentally happened past it on this last trip.  It took all my forces of restraint to keep from going up and knocking on the door, pretending to be a lone Jehovah's Witness so that I could peek in the windows.  It looks very much like my house in Allegheny County--just on the edge of suburbia.  But here it sits, dilapidated and forlorn, gazing out at the passing world, waiting to be loved again.  

The family farm is largely a thing of the past.  If you don't sell out to a giant farming corporation, then you've got an endless uphill battle to keep your independent farm in the black.  You could go organic and do a "farm-to-table" thing, but as popular as those are, I wonder if there's any money in them?  And of course, if you do sell your farm to the soulless agricultural conglomerates, this is what happens to the old farmhouse.  Our "constructed history" is being swallowed up by the monoculture of corporate greed.  I see that someone still mows the lawn.  God, I'd love to get inside this place....

Mid-State Trail

 The Mid-State Trail runs from Maryland to New York, and it passes 325 miles through some of the most scenic areas in Pennsylvania, right up the center of the state.

 When I arrived at the Buchanan State Forest, the Mid-State trailhead was a little hard to find, and the map seemed to indicate that the trek would be more scenic if I followed the trail north and out of the state forest.  It runs along top of the sharp summit of Tussey Mountain, and I expected views on both sides.  You can see how the land falls away in both directions in this photo, though views through the trees were rare at first.

 It's a pleasant grassy area up there, with nice breezes sweeping the mountaintop and lots of moss on the trail.  As you enter the upland meadows of State Game Land #97, you catch little glimpses of the valleys both to the east and to the west of the mountain that you're standing on, but no grand vistas.  This is looking east through a small break in the trees.

 On the map, it looked like the trail headed this direction would command vast panoramas out over the Ridge and Valley Region--so named because that's exactly what it is: long, low wooded ridges separate long, narrow farming valleys.  It's actually a beautiful area with quaint hamlets, enormous farmhouses, and stately, well-maintained barns.  You can't see much of it through the trees, though.  Again, this photo looks east.

Here's a shot looking west, toward the Laurel Highlands.

 The further north I traveled, the better the views, especially to the east.  I thought about setting up my hammock at the summit's edge with a view like this to lull me to sleep.

 With only a limited time to hike, heading north out of the Buchanan State Forest was definitely the best choice.  I also did a few miles southward, into the Buchanan, and the scenery was nice but not nearly as dramatic.

 The Mid-State Trail is beautifully blazed.  These orange blazes appear at regular intervals, and they're fresh and visible.  It's a good thing, too, because in many places the trail is completely overgrown with blackberry thickets and saplings.  I beat a path through a lot of the underbrush, all the while thinking about all the ticks and snakes that could be hiding in there.

 Oh, and there's just enough poison ivy up here on the mountain's peak to keep things interesting. It's actually a pretty rugged hike, what with the many rocks, and weeds, and thorns crowding out the trail.  Whacking at the underbrush to make the trail passable really slowed my trek.  But by late morning, I began to see broader and broader views spreading out in the valley to my right.

 And then at last, this beautiful overlook!  The trail becomes a narrow highland meadow of broken rocks, where no trees can grow.  This affords a clear view out to the east--where more state forestland and state game lands are in view.  See how the clouds cast shadows over the lower hills and the meadows in the valley below.  This is a truly lovely spot.

 Here you can see a bit of the boulder field.  The path runs straight ahead, directly over the tops of the rocks.  Hikers say that the Mid-State is the wildest trail in the state, and I don't doubt it--though "wild" may just be a code word for "neglected," and many backpacking trails here seem to be thoroughly neglected.  Who can you blame?  These trails are maintained by volunteers; that's 325 miles of jaggers, and nettles, and brambles, and blackberry bushes to keep down.  I hung out here on the rocks until I decided to continue the slow march to the north.

 I was stopped short by this guy.  Click on the photo to enlarge it.  Honestly, I'm not really all that scared of snakes, but you know the cold chills you sometimes get when you see one lurking in a spot where you were just about to place your foot?  I got those chills when I saw this guy, and I remained chilled for the next five or six minutes.  He was big, much thicker than a garden hose.  And the way he just lay there in the path gave me pause.  How many more of these fellas are all around me in these sunny rocks, just waiting to make themselves known?

 Since coming back to Pittsburgh and doing more research on the Mid-State, I've found that this view is relatively mild compared to many others that the trail offers.  There are actually people who do "through hikes" on this path, just like on the Appalachian Trail or the Laurel Highlands Hiking Trail.  And yet, this trail seems to stick almost entirely to the very crests of long ridgelines and even stays atop the long, rocky summit of Tussey Mountain for many miles...so where do backpackers find water?

Apparently Massachusetts also has a Mid-State Trail--and the scenery isn't unlike this.  I'll admit to being just a little bit disappointed with the state of the trail.  All the thorn bushes and poison ivy made for a slow hike.  The thought of doing it with forty pounds on my back and timber rattlers underfoot is pretty daunting.  The Mid-State is being billed as part of the "Great Eastern Trail," a more remote, more scenic alternative to the overcrowded Appalachian Trail.  Maybe when the Great Eastern Trail really catches on, the Mid-State will become better established due to increased (but not over-increased) foot traffic.  The website for the Great Eastern Trail calls the Mid-State its "western loop" in Pennsylvania, and it has describes the Mid-State a little ominously:

The longest and wildest of Pennsylvania’s footpaths where if you hike alone, you will still meet more bears than people. Sharp boulders, knife-edge rocks, forever views, and little water greet intrepid hikers who take on the west loop.

Tussey Mountain

 This is the view from the top of the famous Tussey Mountain, which is really just a low ridgeline (2,300 feet high) that runs north from the Maryland border and into the center of Pennsylvania.  This is known as the "Ridge and Valley Province" of the Appalachians.

 And here's how the mountain looks from one of the valleys below. 

 This is a typical scene in Central Pennsylvania.  You can see why settlers from the Rhine region of Germany felt so at home here in the 18th century; it looks a bit like their native place.

I'd known the name "Tussey Mountain" because there's a company by that name that constructs log cabins or sells packages so that you can build your own--which is one of my life's out-of-reach dreams.  I love the way the mountain presides over life in the valley.  It's a benign, inspiring presence.  It promises that there's more than just your daily grind.  All you have to do is look to the hills, or maybe even go to them.

Buchanan State Forest

Today I drove two and a half hours east just to hike in new territory.  That's the way it goes; you have to push further and further afield in order to get the adventurous thrills that you can no longer get in the well-worn paths close to home.  But the wife and kids were away, and so I drove halfway to Harrisburg and did a trek on the mountainous Buchanan State Forest, named after President Buchanan--that ineffectual fellow who preceded Lincoln and wrung his hands as the Union dissolved under his watch.  Buchanan is the only bachelor President the US has ever had.  His sister served as First Lady.  He never really courted women, preferring the company of a certain William Rufus King, a senator from Alabama.  The forest named after him is scenic and rugged and crisscrossed by a vast network of tangled trails, many of them overgrown.  Above is the view from Blankley Road.  Below is a view out over the Sweet Root Natural Area, one of the protected zones of the forest.

Return to Rimrock and Morrison Trail, Allegheny National Forest

I've been spending the week at the Chautauqua Institution just inside New York State.  But a friend and I got a little tired of all the self-important lectures and opted for a day trip to the Allegheny National Forest, which isn't far away--my old domain.  After a return to the beautiful overlook at Rimrock, we hit the Rimrock Loop of the nearby Morrison Trail.

Here's the famous view from the Rimrock overlook.  Can you imagine so much land, just covered in trees, with no buildings or roads as far as the eye can see?  I don't know.  Mostly I just wanted to make sure it was all still there, right where I left it--lo these seven years ago. When I return to the ANF, I'm always torn between the desire to revisit old haunts and the drive to discover new places.

Fortunately, today's day trek included a little bit of both.  After showing my Texas friend the glories of Rimrock, we made a quick jog over to the Rimrock Loop of the venerable Morrison Trail.  Strangely, I'd never gone far on the Morrison, even when I lived up here and trekked regularly.  I'd always known that the Morrison was one of the most visited trails in the forest, and one of my goals in the wilds is to avoid people.  

Today at last was the day to come back and complete the southern loop of the Morrison Trail, known confusingly as the Rimrock Loop.  It's nearly 9 miles in length, and even though it's pretty heavily traveled, it manages to be overgrown in a lot of places.  A vast thicket of beech saplings crowds out the path for several long stretches.  The trail passes through some lovely dark hemlock forest with ferns, and moss, and cold brooks trickling over rocks.  There were mosquitoes aplenty. 

After passing through an old overgrown fruit orchard, on the edge of the reservoir, an unmarked spur trail leads down to the Morrison Campground, which is a beautiful place.  Here there are campsites right on the water, with several isolated sites in nearby woods.  The only way to arrive at this far-flung campground is to hike in at least 3.5 miles from the parking lot or else to come by boat.  We did see a handful of characters swimming and playing with their dogs.  We also came across two oddly unpleasant strangers and later heard from another hiker that two creepy fellows had been snooping around his bear bag--as if to steal it.  Who knows?  We were supposed to go to the Kinzua Bridge after our hike; my Texas friend mostly wanted to see that.  But he was too tired and asked to head back to the Institution.  And so, sadly, I was deprived of the opportunity to drive again down the unspeakably lovely Longhouse Scenic Byway.  We simply went to Chautauqua.