A Sad Day in the Forest

My plan is to backpack across the breadth of the Allegheny National Forest on the North Country Trail, which meanders for about 98 miles through the ANF, Pennsylvania's only national forest.  I hope to do it in the summer of 2021, but the family and I were there for a short camping excursion on Salmon Creek, and so I decided to scope out a portion of the trail near the area where I'll be starting my "through-hike."  Starting at the Amsler Spring Campsite on the North Country Trail, I could either wander north into nearly 100 miles of wild lands, or I could make the short trek south to see my real starting point at the southernmost border of the ANF.  I decided to go north first, then come back and go south.

Big mistake.  Today was not a good day in the woods.  In fact, today the forest did to me all the things that I expect the forest to help heal.  Oh, the trek started off pleasantly enough.  The Adirondack shelter and the broad campgrounds at Amsler Spring are pleasant and close to Salmon Creek Road.

The North Country Trail follows the road for a short distance and crosses over Salmon Creek, which is a shadow of its regular self due to very dry weather.  But the sound of trickling waters was the only sound at all, which is a beautiful thing.  Silent legions of dark butterflies swarmed my little car, parked beside the road.  The trail leaves the road and ascends into the woods through an old apple orchard, long overgrown.  There along the path I picked tart green apples and sour black raspberries.  The elderberries were still green.  My goal was the campsite at Little Salmon Creek, which appears on my forest map.  I thought maybe I'd string up the hammock in that spot, read a little, meditate, take in the quiet and the stillness of the woods.  

That's not how things turned out.  Less than a mile along that winding, climbing trail, I started to hear the distant buzzing of chainsaws.  Lots of them.  The noise grew deafening as I advanced, and the forest became brighter for the disruption of the once-shady canopy.  Acres and acres of trees, mostly beech, had been cut to the ground and left there like so much carnage.  The smell of fresh green leaves was oddly strong.  At first the trail ran along the edge of the clear-cuts, but then it began running directly through this wasteland of slaughtered trees.

There were guys with chainsaws all over the place.  I encountered one, a short, round-faced Latino fellow who greeted me courteously with a very heavy accent.  I know that these guys could be working for the US Forest Service.  These trees, they might say, are being cut to open out the forest and allow new growth to occur.  Forests, like all living things, need predators--they might say--to cull the herds and bring about adaptation.  This is a "land of many uses," after all.  There's recreation, and conservation, and industry all at work on public lands.  Yada, yada, yada.  Or else, maybe this woodland ass rape is all just the damnable greed of the lumber industry.  But hell, it made for an unpleasant hike.  And it made no sense to me at all why they chose to cut certain trees and leave others standing.  Often, the surviving trees looked sick or scraggly, and the felled trees looked healthy.  The chainsaws just screamed and screamed until at last I crossed an old forest road and re-entered a darker part of the woods again.  This time there was a different noise, eerie and plaintive: oil derricks.  The damn things were all over the f***ing place.  Land of many uses, maybe, but clearly industry is the only one that the Forest Service favors.

After the derricks, I came upon the top of a valley where it sounded like an 18-wheeler was idling loudly.  This was maybe the worst noise of all.  It was unrelenting and sounded very much like the world I was trying to escape.  I chanced upon this disused campsite on top of a rock ledge, just alongside the trail.  See how the rock stands level with the upper reaches of nearby trees.  It would have been a nice place to sit quietly for a moment, but the industrial noises were too loud for that.  

Here's a view from the edge of the rock overhang.  It wouldn't exactly be a great campsite--even without the truck engine roaring nearby--because there's no water sources, and where would you even put a tent.  But it was probably once a fun place to sit and watch the forest go dark around you.  

Here's the rock ledge as seen from below.  It's in the left half of the photo.  But I was pressing on to the campsite on Little Salmon Creek.  I was hoping that both water and silence would be available once I got there.  But...

The campsite looked like a crime scene.  I noticed a plastic bag on the trail and turned toward the campsite to see what was up.  There was garbage everywhere.  Candy wrappers, plastic bottles, two broken kerosene lanterns, some weird-looking hemp necklaces.  It totally creeped me out.  And to make matters worse, a big white driller pickup truck pulled up about 200 feet away from the campsite.  A guy jumped out and looked at an oil derrick that I hadn't seen, then he jumped back in his big Texas-boy pickup and hurried away. Even the damn frackers are scared to linger in this spooky spot...

The scariest thing of all was an old hammock that had been abandoned there, still attached to a tree.  It looks as if someone cut down one end of the hammock as well as the rain fly that might have been over it.  Tell me it doesn't look like someone got murdered here!  Or else they fled the place as fast as they possibly could.  I didn't even want to draw water from the nearby brook, but I didn't have much choice.  I got water and retraced my steps, discouraged, making a mental note to myself to BY NO MEANS spend a night at the Little Salmon Creek campsite when I come back next summer.  I don't care if the mess is cleaned up by then, and I know that all trail maintenance is done by goodhearted volunteers.  I'm not criticizing anyone.  But this place has some bad vibes.

And so, it was three miles from Amsler Spring to Little Salmon Creek, six miles round trip.  I felt disheartened, sad, deflated by the ugliness and the noise that I found in a place where I'd gone seeking if-not-beauty, then at least peace.  There was none to be found.  But I still had a few hours and some energy left, so I decided to trek south from Amsler Spring to the southernmost border of the ANF, to the spot where my 100-mile pilgrimage would begin next year.  I'm glad I did.  The woods here were not special--just a patch of plain, nondescript hardwoods.  The trees mostly looked young, as if this part of the forest had also been harvested some twenty years ago.  But there was silence, sweet, sweet silence the likes of which I rarely get to enjoy.  I could have wept for love of it.   

It's just three miles to a large, level area called Cicely Camp.  I wanted to reach that spot in order to reassure myself that not all campsites along the North Country Trail would be like the one at Little Salmon Creek.  I also just wanted to see this place named "Cicely," because I used to be a fan of that old TV show Northern Exposure, back in the 90s, and Cicely was the name of the fictitious town in Alaska where the show was set.  Surely it was a fellow fan who named it that, right?  With the strange spelling and all?  

Then back through mostly level young forest to the trailhead on Guitonville Road.  I left my walking stick by the trail register for someone else to use.  I love the Allegheny National Forest, and I know that the southern half of the forest is the more industrialized part.  But I was shaken and a little repulsed by all that I'd seen and heard in the forest that day.  It makes me wonder if I shouldn't be looking elsewhere for the things my spirit needs.  

Another Night (Or Two) at Buzzard Swamp

Despite the searing climate change heat, I made my way back to Buzzard Swamp to do another solo camping trip and an 8-mile trek around the wildlife management area.  It was crazy hot, and those placid green ponds that looked so cool and inviting when I last visited?  They looked downright murderous and poisoned this time around, as if they concealed evil water creatures whose sole intent is to lurk unseen and cause solitary backpackers to wonder if they made the right decision in coming here.  Such heat can distort anything.  But any day in the woods is better than a day in town.

 But the butterflies were magnificent, and the wildflowers were such a delight to the eyes and nose: white clover, purple clover, these majestic-looking thistles, and wild daisies, and heal-all, and what are those yellow flowers called?  Trefoil?  This time around, I took the lesser-traveled path up toward the smaller, more northerly ponds.

 A small flock of deer was feeding in the pond closest to my campsite, which is the same spot where I camped last weekend.  Surprisingly, I met up with a young couple hauling canoes into the pond on a bicycle-cart, a band of about six young adults waking the trails together, and a family with two dogs.  I, however, was the only person spending the night.  

 Any trip to the Allegheny National Forest is good.  But the heat made this one a little less good than some others.  I’m beginning to fear for the trek that I’m planning next summer.  I’m hoping to hike the entire breadth of the ANF on the North Country Trail—which meanders through the forest for about 100 miles from the southern end to the New York State line.  My plan had been to eat nothing on that trip except Huel, which is a powdered “nutritionally complete food,” just add water.  No prep.  No need to pack a stove, or pot, or heavier food items... It was the perfect plan.  By I tried the Huel-only thing on a recent trip to Dolly Sods, and found it a little gag-worthy.   

Here’s a closeup of the deer grazing in the pond.  

Jake’s Rocks, ANF

Jake's Rocks is not quite as grand as Rimrock, but it's still pretty nice.  It's one of only a few big overlooks on the ANF.  

The winding road up to Jake's Rocks has a nice little pull-off with this dramatic view.  Click on it and look at the very center.  How I love the ANF.

Kinzua Beach, ANF

I actually took my kids to the beach on Memorial Day weekend.  For all my writing about the Allegheny National Forest, I'd never actually visited Kinzua Beach.  It's a really beautiful spot and would be worth a visit when there are fewer people in the water.

See the bridge out between the oak trees.  This reminds me of the famous painting by Seurat.

A summer beach with spots of shade.  The sound of people laughing and playing in the water.  The smell of grilling meat and cigarettes.  It's almost like a drug.  

Rimrock, ANF

This is the view from Rimrock, the most recognizable feature of the Allegheny National Forest.  I hadn't been here in years, but I wanted to bring my daughters here to see it.

You can hike down among the rocks below the overlook.  The cracks between them exude a kind of cool, earthy air.  It blows out of the rocks almost like air-conditioning.

Such a beautiful spot, high among the treetops.

A few lesser overlooks like this one are not on any path and rarely visited.  The Allegheny National Forest is one of my favorite places in all the world, but I must admit that it has only few overlooks.  Most of its glories are hidden deep in the shadows of the great trees and far from the several grand and spreading views.  But it's nice that there are a few places to look out over the forest roof.

Memorial Day on the Allegheny National Forest, Salmon Creek

My little family of four usually goes camping on Memorial Day weekend.  Up to this point we've always gone to an established campground with showers, and dumpsters, and noisy neighbors.  Raccoon Creek State Park is our usual go-to.  But this year I convinced my wife to try "dispersed camping" in the Allegheny National Forest near Marienville.  This was our lovely spot right on Salmon Creek.

Nights up there are dark!  My three ladies went inside the tent to read before bed, and I sat out by the smoldering orange fire as it burned low--to the right of the tent.

Salmon Creek and Salmon Creek Road.  Naturally, there are no wild salmon anywhere near here.  They ought to call it Trout Creek.

And it was a lovely place to sit and contemplate life and the world.  Fishers in gaiters did wade up close to our campsite--which I didn't love.  But the spot was so perfectly beautiful and secluded.

I spent four nights here.  My kids spent three.  My wife spent two.  This is the closest I've ever gotten her to any kind of backcountry camping.  The car was only a few hundred yards away, parked up by the road.  It was kind of the best of both worlds: the big tent, all the coolers, and the bag chairs, and the campfire menu.  It was a lot like car-camping.  But no noisy neighbors playing classic rock.

Return to Sleeping Giant, ANF

This is Sleeping Giant, an overhanging rock that sits on Minister Hill near the well-known campground known as Minister Creek.  Although Minister Creek Campground and Trail are very popular, especially on summer weekends, Sleeping Giant is hidden away and little-known.  This is the little campsite that lies hidden beneath the rock overhang.

And here's the rock itself.  It's a massive thing.  A very tall man can stand beneath it with plenty of headroom.  It stands in a "rock city" with perhaps a dozen or more interesting boulders of various configurations.  

This one I call the Flatiron--for obvious reasons.  

The Presbyterian Church of Kane, Pennsylvania

It's a small but beautiful building in the downtown area of Kane, Pennsylvania--which is surrounded on three sides by the Allegheny National Forest.  There's an image of the enthroned Christ in the round window above the altar.  The altar sits down on the same level as the congregation, and each of the side windows up in the "clerestory," or the second level, depicts the lives of one of the 12 disciples.  That way, churchgoers are seated around the Table with the Apostles, and Jesus is seated as the host.  Kind of a clever psycho-spiritual arrangement.

But my favorite window in the room is rarely seen.  It's this lovely blue one hidden away in the choir loft.  It depicts nothing at all, but it does express a mood, a calm, a peace.  I was astonished when we found the church doors unlocked on a weekday afternoon in late May.  The purple Lenten "paraments" (or cloths) were still on the pulpit and table--even though Lent was long over.  But of course, all the churches emptied out in mid-March, and the Lenten paraphernalia was left in their wake.  This is a very special place in my history.  

As far as this blog is concerned, it's just a curious building.  Here's a view from the pulpit.  There are so many lovely sacred places tucked away in small towns, and on side streets, and among the fields and woods of the nation and the world.  Temples, mosques, churches, synagogues, shrines.  Communities have historically expressed their highest ideals and aspirations in the bricks and mortar of their sacred places.  See how shadow and light create an atmosphere of...otherworldliness.  See how the Sacred is expressed in our constructed environment.

A Night at Buzzard Swamp, ANF

After a quick little backyard wedding on Saturday, I slipped out of the city on back roads passing through hilly farmlands and quiet old towns--up, up, up to the North Country near Marienville.  There's a lesser-known spot up there in the Allegheny National Forest that bears the dreary name of Buzzard Swamp.  This is just one of a few neglected campsites, which see little use.

Buzzard Swamp is anything but a dreary place.  It's a large area of mostly open meadows with a series of about 13 large ponds created as a habitat for birds and fish.  There are many smaller ponds, bogs, and meres, too.  On the downside, fresh-flowing water is scarce, so you need to pack it in.  And there are bugs aplenty.  The deerflies are especially fierce.  But they mostly go for your face and hands, so you'll be okay if you spray with insect repellent and wear a wide-brimmed hat topped off with a mosquito net.  I love my mosquito net.  I call it "The Minister's Black Veil," in reference to the short story by Nathaniel Hawthorne.  Buzzard Swamp was a lovely place to arrive at 5:30pm on a sunny Saturday, just after a rain shower.

I've been to Buzzard Swamp many times, and I've always wanted to work up the nerve to camp there.  I don't know why, but the openness of the landscape always spooked me a little.  I'm a woodland creature.  I like to take shelter under trees.  Where grass and sky replace tree cover, I feel exposed.  Buzzard Swamp has a small network of foot and bike trails--about 11 miles--that are only lightly traveled.  Non-motorized boating is allowed on all the bodies of water, though I've never once seen a canoe or kayak here.  Maybe because you'd have to carry your boat about one mile from the parking lot.  This place only seems to get busy in the fall and in the spring when hunters and fishers come out. 

But I knew of a little spot just inside the woods that looked out over the grassy meadow and one of the larger ponds.  The opening into my forest campsite faces northeast, and so I sat just inside the trees and watched as golden sunlight faded off the water, and the woodland shadows grew deep all around me.

Back in olden times, I used to bring a bike and ride among the ponds.  But that was before I ever started backpacking.  Now I come and wander on foot.  I only had one night to give this place, but it was enough.

These photos are out of sequence, but I'm so far behind in updating this blog that I'm not taking the time to arrange things chronologically.  This shot peeps into the trees from the grassy path.  The campsite is nicely tucked away and sheltered from wind, and sun, and rain.  

Click on this photo to enlarge it.  This is the view from my collapsible chair among the trees.  There's a deer out in the water nibbling on something beneath the surface.  It must be pretty shallow in that spot.  There were ospreys, and ducks, and geese, and hawks, and songbirds without number, all soaring over acres of cattails and fragrant clover.  I almost hesitate to tell the world that this place exists...but I think I could publish the nuclear codes on this blog and their secret would still be safe.  

I slept better here than I've ever slept in the woods--except with a hammock.  (I'm a recent convert to hammock backpacking, though I don't yet have all the gear, and it's a good thing I brought the tent on this trip because of all the bugs.)  This is a 6:30am shot of the misty morning light.  I took such great joy in discovering that this southern stretch of the forest is exactly 2 hours from where I live.  I've always thought the ANF was more like 2 hours and 40 minutes...but that's because I used to live in the more northerly reaches of the ANF.  Two hours seems pretty manageable.  Just jump in the car at 2:00 in the afternoon and go!  It's as if this place was never taken from me in the first place...

Nightfall.  See how the light lingers out over the meadows and ponds while it's already dark inside the trees.  My as-yet-un-hoisted bear bag dangles in the middle distance.  Buzzard Swamp is a beautiful place, one of my long-time hiking favorites and now a new camping favorite.  It reminds me of a book I used to read to my daughters when they were little and we lived up there, Bear's Water Picnic.  It was so nice to retreat into the landscape of a children's book for a night and half a day.