Wood Thrushes in the Valley of Canoe Creek

At precisely 3:00pm as I was trudging back toward the car after an excellent trek to the summit of Brush Mountain, I heard my favorite birdsong echoing through the springtime forest... The wood thrush has a uniquely flute-like voice, and its evening song is resonant and lovely; it has a rich echo that I've never heard from any other bird.  It reminds me of a place I used to know--and the safe feeling of that place.  As my children could tell you (if they cared), it's only permissible to sing evening hymns after 3:00pm, so my birdfriend was right on time!  I love the evening song of the thrushes, and I caught it here on video so that I can listen to it when my ears grow weary of hearing lesser things.  Crank up the volume, there is no lovelier song than this!

Brush Mountain from the Top!

Approaching Altoona on I-99, the villainous Brush Mountain came into view, mocking me from afar.  "So you've come back to try again!  Bring it, you weakling, you puny old man!  Twice have I turned you back." The imperturbable mountain sneered, "My glorious rocky heights are off limits to the likes of you."  It was then I made my solemn vow: This is the day I conquer you, Brush Mountain!  This was indeed my third attempt to summit the elusive peak.  It turned me back twice--not because it was hard to climb, but because it was hard to find a way up.  But this?  This is the view from the top of Brush Mountain looking west over Sinking Valley. 

So yes, a referee probably would have called the match in my favor, but it was far from a knockout.  I did reach the crest of the mountain, but not at its absolute highest point.  These Central Pennsylvania mountains are not conical mounds, like the Adirondacks, with a single high point like the top of a tepee.  Instead, these are long, sharp ridges that extend over many miles.  On a map or aerial photo, they resemble the formation of ocean waves all in sequence.  The best way I could find to reach the summit at any spot at all was to follow an electric line easement--which made the feat a little less romantic...

This is the neighboring peak to the east, Canoe Mountain.  See the tantalizing boulder fields along the pinnacle!  I must make it there someday!  The valley of Canoe Creek runs between the two hills, Brush Mountain and Canoe Mountain.  All of this is public land, State Game Land 166, which is deeply wooded, scenic, and open to explore!  I was amazed at how little evidence there was that anyone had ever climbed Brush Mountain on the trail that I had found by poring over maps.  It wasn't a footpath; it was a "gator" path.  A "gator" is like a golf cart, but more powerful.  Gators are used by the guys who go out regularly to inspect and maintain the electric lines that have been strung across this low mountain range.  Farmers and ranchers use them, too.

From this gate on Beaver Dam Road Extension, it was exactly 9 miles out and back.  What with all the lingering here and there and the aimless exploring, the whole trek took four hours from the time I left the car till I got back.  The forests were fragrant with Japanese honeysuckle.  Call it an invasive species, but it sure is pleasing to the nose and eye.

It was a sunny, cool morning in the mountains with mature gallery forests on both sides of the road.  The creek chattered unseen and to the left, and the valley grew more and more lovely the further I wandered away from the car--with frequent meadows and smaller brooks and the forest floor bright and clear and inviting--unobstructed by the jaggers and vines and undergrowth that you so frequently find in the compromised woodlands nearer to big urban areas.

By the time I made my slow trudge back toward the car, four hours after striking off, the skies were gray and spitting rain.  I felt privileged to have seen this place in both the bright morning light and in the early gloom of a spring afternoon.

This is where the easement crosses Canoe Mountain, making a trail all the way to the top.  As I hiked the gated road through Canoe Creek Valley in State Game Land 166, workmen riding in gators zipped past twice.  I'm not sure what they were doing out there.  They seemed to have some business near the electric line swath, down by the creek, which made me nervous because the swath was to be my trail up the mountainside.  I wondered if there would be signs to ward off hikers or if the workmen themselves might try to stop me.  It's about 2.5 miles from the gate to a wide place in the road where the electric easement crosses the valley--providing clear ascents up to the tops of both mountains!

Google seemed to be of the opinion that there was a restaurant or some sort of bar out there at that spot, where the power swath met the forest road.  It even named the establishment "Stingers in Paradise."  Look it up.  It appears on Google Earth, with a little fork and spoon to indicate what kind of business it is.  I doubted the possibility of Google's accuracy when I saw the gate across the roadway leading out to the bar.  And once you get to the spot where Stingers in Paradise ought to be, all you see is a birdhouse and...this.  The phantom bar with the intriguing name was nowhere to be found.  Here's the same swath as it crosses over Brush Mountain, on the other side of the valley.  Brush is taller than Canoe.

Beaver Dam Road does indeed lead to a beaver dam and a beautiful marshy area where Canoe Creek runs slow and deep.  It would be fun to explore these still waters in a kayak.

Almost three miles from the gate, there's a fork in the road.  The leftward way leads to the electric line easement and a long, muddy ascent to the mountain's peak.

The electric lines make an evil sound--a buzzing, and a snapping, and a sizzling.  They hiss like vengeful serpents as you make your climb.  But once I had the summit of Brush Mountain in view, real serpents could not have stopped me.  After two failed attempts, I NEEDED to make it to the top.  Here again is Canoe Mountain as seen from its neighbor.

Canoe Mountain actually proved quite photogenic on this trek, though nothing disrupts a good photograph like electric lines.  There were wildflowers abloom on the long upward climb and a certain weed that smells like crayons, which I recall from childhood.  The dogwood were in flower, and it reminded me that my grandmother never allowed my brothers and me to climb dogwood trees.  Although she was a hinterland Methodist with a revivalistic bent, she believed the cross of Christ was made of dogwood, and so the tree was too sacred for climbing.  I've never seen a dogwood tree tall or straight enough to provide planks for a crucifixion.  

And finally, the summit!  I made it to the top of Brush Mountain...on my third attempt.  If I'd failed this time I was going to concede defeat and stop trying.  (It's a 3-hour drive after all.)  The gusts up top were strong and cold, and a few of the evergreen trees up there were flagged toward the east by constant winds.  I was glad I'd brought a hoodie to the top, even though I had no need of it in the valley.  It reminded me of a time in the Adirondacks.  My friend and I would sweat and toss all through the hot nights in our tents down in the valley.  But when we climbed to the windy mountaintops in daylight, we needed windbreakers and hats.  To be sure, Brush Mountain is no Giant Mountain, which is the unimaginative name of the chilliest peak we climbed in New York.  And the so-called Giant Mountain is no Mount Rainier.  But this is a mountain all the same--certainly by the standards of, say, Belgium.... And unlike Giant Mountain and Rainier Mountain, I had this pinnacle all to myself.  

Aside from the electric lines and towers, it felt like no one had ever been up there before.  There were no beer bottles, no soda cans, no cigarette butts.  There was no graffiti!  The entire mountain was pristine, even the peak!  Why don't kids from Altoona come out here?  I mean...aside from the 3-mile walk to the trailhead and the steep, muddy climb up the mountainside.... I suppose the mountain is protected by the paucity of spots where you can legally climb it.  I believe the the pinnacle on the horizon in this photo is the far more accessible and popular Tussey Mountain--which I've also summited and documented on this blog.

I had also seen on Google that if you follow the ridgeline either north or south you quickly get away from the manmade horror of the electric lines and into the mountaintop boulder fields--where views would be just as good and unobstructed by power lines.  I made for the north and found my way to the nearest of many such barren spots on the mountain's heights.  So beautiful.  If this place were any easier to reach the stones would be absolutely covered in spray paint.

This is the view out toward Sinking Valley.

I maintain a page on a certain website where people put up photos and descriptions of the mountains they've climbed.  The peaks range from Campbell Hill, which is the highest point in Ohio--where you can walk to the top from a parking lot--to real mountains that require icepicks and climbing gear.  I'm the first person on that site to claim a lot of the peaks in West Virginia and Pennsylvania--though I know they're laughable to real mountain climbers.  One of the reasons I absolutely HAD to reach the summit of Brush Mountain was that no one else had ever claimed or documented that mountain yet, despite the fact that it's visible from an interstate highway and looms over one of the larger towns in Central PA.    

What a beautiful day--well worth six hours in the car!  If my day in the forest last week felt unsatisfactory, I can see now that it was a reconnaissance mission which led me to today's success.  You know, I speak about this grand old mountain in vaguely military terms, as if reaching its pinnacle was a conquest.  But I do hate violent communication and ought to find gentler language to describe the joy that the mountain gave me.  The mountain's ruggedness and beauty and solitude were not a victory as such; they were a gift that the mountain shared with me only after making absolutely sure that I was willing to work for them, that I was dedicated to achieving them, that I was worthy of their rarity.  I'm grateful to this lonely, lovely mountain for opening her wonders to me at last.  I could almost imagine living in Altoona just to be close to this place, to come here often and see the world from up here in every changing light and season.  I ask it again, why do we spend our lives in ugly places?

Just to provide documentation for my forgetful future self, here's the trail I took.  Park at the gate on Beaver Dam Road Extension, where the red line begins.  Walk about 3 miles to the power line swath--which is shown in blue.  Then up the mountain you go.  I hope to return here to take the same route up Canoe Mountain.  

Tussey Mountain

Sinking Valley and the Elusive Summit of Brush Mountain

This is Sinking Valley--an upland hollow of farms and meadows that stands in the miles-wide maw of Brush Mountain. Hmm, that sentence wasn't very clear... The valley stands in a weird dip where the selfsame hill makes a broad zigzag that looks, on a map, like a dragon with its mouth open to swallow the farmland between its teeth. When the villainous Brush Mountain again defeated my attempts to reach its summit, I consoled myself with exploring Sinking Valley by car. 

I had arrived at the little lane that leads up to the western tract of State Game Land 166 at 10:30am, ready to summit the elusive stony peak that overlooks Altoona. But the little road was blocked by utility vehicles which remained there the rest of the day. What they were doing, I don't know. Trimming branches, working on the power lines? All I saw them doing was standing around blocking the road that I needed to take. A local guy eyed me suspiciously, a gruff old mountain man who looked about 65 but was probably close to my age. He looked at my two trekking poles, my pantlegs tucked into my socks (against ticks), my REI gear. He gestured at the sharp-tipped poles and said, "You snake huntin'?" I explained that I was trying to get to the summit of Brush Mountain. We talked for a while, and he discouraged my plans. "The trail's too steep up them rocks, and they'll be crawling with snakes."

Actually, I would have done it anyway, except that he redirected me to the route I'd taken last week, and he assured me that the little lane I traveled last time would wind around to a broad overlook to the east, if I just follow it far enough. And since I hadn't wanted to hike the whole way from the main road to the summit anyway, I returned to the same trek I did last week with the intention of following it all the way to an overlook.... There was no overlook. The trail ended at a No Trespassing sign. So I came back down and drove around the valley. This is Fort Roberdeau, a Revolutionary War fort that was built to protect the lead mines where the Continental Army got lead for its musket balls. It never saw a battle and was only operational for two years. Still, it's cool that the Revolutionary War reached the whole way into these mountains. The place was crawling with school children, so I didn't take a tour.

And here's Sinking Valley Presbyterian Church, founded in 1790. It sits in a scenic spot near a stream and surrounded by its peaceful cemetery. It's not sectarian bias that causes me to document so many Presbyterian churches on this site. It's just that the Scottish and Scotch-Irish Presbyterians tended to be the first white settlers into the Pennsylvania interior, and for that reason, many old rural churches belong to that denominational franchise.

After being turned back once again by the mountain (strike two!), I tried to enter the big eastern tract of State Game Land 166 by way of Canoe Creek State Park. That, too, was what the kids call and "epic fail." Instead of a bucolic wildlife reserve and hunting park, I ended up in a place called Scotch Valley, where I found miles and miles of beautifully tended farms, vast green lawns with long tree-lined driveways leading to immense and palatial homes, most of which appear to have been built in the last 20 years. There was a beautiful country club and miles and miles of landscaping. No disrespect to Altoona, but I didn't expect to find such a wealthy little valley hidden away there. I mean, "Altoona Style Pizza" doesn't exactly inspire confidence....

In a letter to George Washington in the 1770s, one General Roberdeaux writes that he has established a fort at the foot of "Tussee Mountain" to protect the lead works used for the manufacture of ammunition.  I could see how Tussey Mountain and Brush Mountain sort of run together. He calls the place "Sinking Spring Valley," which makes a little more sense than "Sinking Valley."  The cemetery at the church was worth a visit.

Although I hated to trek again in the exact same woodlands as last week, they were indeed beautiful in the bright sunlight--though they were beautiful too beneath glowering skies.  They're called "gallery forests," where the trees stand like pillars with almost no understory or brush to conceal the forest floor. I've got one last plan to make it to the summit of Brush Mountain, but it might be a longshot. If I fail on the third attempt I'll consider myself struck out. 

Brush Mountain and State Game Land 166

If you've ever driven I-99--which is a north / south interstate that runs along the eastern edges of Altoona--you've surely seen the stony-topped mountain that looms darkly over the roadway and the town. This is it, Brush Mountain, and I went back to Central Pennsylvania again to see if I couldn't summit this humble peak.  I was hoping to reach the barren stretches near the top of the mountain so that I could look out over Altoona and the surrounding countryside. 

All the easy ways up the mountain are on private land and marked with No Trespassing signs.  On a map, I located an ascent that was entirely within the bounds of State Game Land 166.  All of our state game lands are open to hiking, just not camping.  I drove across Brush Mountain, where Kettle Road  runs through a high mountain pass, in order to begin my climb back up to the summit from Sinking Valley, which is a hollow that sits on the far side of the ridge.  This valley stands between two separate arms of the mountain, and it contains an old Revolutionary War fort that protected the mines from which colonists drew lead for the manufacture of their ammunition.  I saw a sign for the state game lands on the wrong side of the road but thought I must have missed my intended ascent.  So I allowed myself to get sidetracked by this mossy old road (open only to horses, bikes, and feet) that climbed ever upward on the wrong arm of the mountain--which splits like a snake tongue. I was hoping at least to reach a summit--if not the one I'd originally intended.

The views were not as remarkable as they've been of late.  I caught some nice glimpses of the farmland below through trees just beginning to take on leaves in delicate, almost-pastel colors.  In a few weeks, the leaves will obscure what little view there is.

The manic-depressive skies were, by turns, glowering and bright.  The flanks of the more easterly head of Brush Mountain were pleasant, but I found no clear track leading to the summit, just a road that went up high and then petered out into a narrow path that began to descend on the same side of the hill.  Also, aerial photos on Google showed no clear rocky patches where trees would not obstruct the view even if I could reach the summit on this part of the mountain.

I had an elderly parishioner back in Kane who had married a fellow from that town and moved there from Vermont as a young woman. She had the most wonderful old-timey Vermont accent.  She also had a real crabapple tree in her front yard--as opposed to these ornamental ones, which have poison apples.  She invited us to come and pick some crabapples to make wine--which turned out so delicious!  When we showed up, she was blaring "Appalachian Spring" by Aaron Copeland at a surprising volume. I mean, loud enough for the neighbors to call the police--on an old woman playing Copeland.  "Appalachian Spring" is a 1944 ballet, and ballet is not my thing.  But it's set in the mountains of Central Pennsylvania, and its reinterpretation of the familiar old American hymn tune "Simple Gifts" is really beautiful.

I thought of her and of that day as I walked the Appalachians of Central Pennsylvania "robed in the blooming garb of spring."  What a beautiful time to be in the hills and forests.  And though my weekly adventure may have been considered a failure in that I did not get to summit Brush Mountain, as I drove toward home--still in Sinking Valley--I did find the game lands on the correct side of the mountain and the upward path that I'm sure will lead me to the vistas I'm looking for.  That will be an adventure for another day....

I'd read online that hang-gliders use Brush Mountain to push off from, but I don't know where they would do that.  The areas that are not privately owned are under the jurisdiction of the PA Game Commission--and not easily accessible.  See on this game lands map how Brush Mountain zigzags?  The yellowish areas are public lands, and the smaller yellow segment to the left (west) is where I need to be.  But that big area to the east surely holds some hidden wonders.  There's a whole stream valley in there, a so-called "hollow."  O the beauty of being able-bodied and curious!