On a sunny Saturday in April, with the world under lock down, I just couldn't stay home. I tried. But the world's so big, and there's so much yard work to do at home that I had to get out, get away, get back to the woods. This is the overlook in the Gallitzin State Forest, where Skyline Drive meets a ridgeline known as the Allegheny Front. It was a formidable disappointment to early settlers, in the 18th century, to make the difficult scramble all up and down the Appalachian Mountains, only to be met with this ascent. Of course, they'd have been looking up, whereas the camera today is looking down.
When I got here at 10:00am, there was snow on the ground and it was about 34 degrees. The view is broad and pleasant, but not stunning. Years ago, I came here and hiked south into the state forest, where the trail follows the ridgeline and offers a lot of views much like this one. Today, I wanted to try something new. Instead of taking the more scenic path, I wondered about the so-called "Lost Turkey Trail," which runs north out of this spot through state game lands (where camping is not allowed) and finally all the way to the summit of Blue Knob--which is the second highest peak in the state, and far prettier than the highest point.
Now...let's talk turkey about the Lost Turkey Trail. Er, I guess nobody says "talk turkey" anymore. That's part of the problem, I think. The Lost Turkey was laid out by the Youth Conservation Corps in 1976--back when "turkey" could mean "stupid person." The trail's name is supposed to be kind of funny, I guess. And it does meander aimlessly, just like a real turkey...or a stupid person, for that matter. It runs 23 miles from an area just southwest of here and all the way up Blue Knob. Sounds nice, right? Well, I'll give it a mixed review.
Most other long distance backpacking trails in this region at least have a Facebook group where their enthusiasts can come together and share pictures and experiences of the trail. Not so, the Lost Turkey. For one thing, it's nearly impossible to backpack. It only passes through a few miles of territory where back country camping is actually legal. These areas are both at either ends of the trail, in the Gallitzin and again at Blue Knob State Park. For the long, difficult stretches in between, you're slogging through some grueling climbs in the state game lands, where you're not allowed to spend the night. Much of the trail passes on old forest roads that are set up for fat hunters who cannot enter the woods without a gun and a truck, and so it looks kind of like the above shot.
As I trekked along the Lost Turkey, I thought how the blazes would be hidden when the trees were in full leaf, and how many of the trees will never be in full leaf because the trail passes through so many dead areas, where the bark is falling from bleached, barren trunks--as in the photo just below. I also wondered why they didn't put the trail along the ridgeline, where there would be some sense of the valley below, which is the beginning of the "Ridge and Valley" region of the Appalachians. I felt a little disappointed with the trail. I probably hiked four or six miles from the overlook to this pleasant meadow, which is planted with fruit trees in the middle to attract deer. At this point I turned around and decided to save the rest for another day--which came as an epiphany. I actually DID want to come back to this trail. All in all, it had been a nice day in the woods, even if it hadn't been a dramatic one.
There was no one else on the trail. It was sunny and exceptionally quiet. The profile of Blue Knob loomed frequently through the bare branches of the forest. Besides, I began at the less scenic end of the trail. The north end is definitely more beautiful, if it runs up to the summit of that lovely mountain.
There were tadpoles in the puddles. Little streams ran cold and clear. The April air was still more than a little frigid up here in the mountains. But it was nice.
By the time I got back to the overlook and the car, at about 3:00pm, the snow was mostly gone, and the vista had changed--as they will do according to seasons, and times of day, and weather patterns.
"In our ending is our beginning."
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