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.
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