Strange Things in the Woods…and Elsewhere

Here is the new deck that we're building on the back of my camp up north. It looks off into the woods on the property--nearly 2 acres of it. The forest here is not old, probably 30 to 40 years' growth. It may have been a hayfield before the trees came up. One of the reasons we're building a deck on the back is to orient the house away from the road and toward the trees. We'll build two additional bedrooms where the current front porch is located and add a sliding glass door to the back of the house, so that the main entrance will be by way of the new deck.  The point is to look away from the road and toward the forest.

I've always felt the deep peace and beauty of the great North Woods, which seems to begin just behind the house. The forest stands like a silent sentinel over the whole place, casting its cool shade over the yard, the porch, the house, the entire property. The trees form a sort of collective presence, like a character in the drama. Deer are common visitors to the property...and pests. I know there are bear in the woods, too, and bobcats and coyotes and foxes. The numerous and varied kinds of birds are a delight. Some of my favorites are red-breasted grosbeaks, who winter in Costa Rica, as well as the handsome tufted titmice, who stay with us all year.  There are lots of animals you hear at night but never see...like fishers and raccoons and possums--all of which make their odd noises.  There are even a few unverified creatures that you hear ABOUT but never see, like bigfoot and dogman. I'm not a superstitious, fearful kind of person.  I sleep alone in the woods pretty often--exposed in a tent or a hammock, no firearms, no weapons, no dog. Solo backpacking is its own kind of joy. Your companion is a flickering fire. You sit quietly with a book and your thoughts, hoping to hear thrushes and owls as the peaceful gloaming deepens all around you. 

(By the way, this is just a hearse that some otherwise normal-looking guy in his 60s drove to Lowe's.)

The night before last, I was up at camp--top photo--delivering and assembling furniture for the new deck.  I rented a big Dodge Ram truck and squeezed it all in the back, then drove up and spent the whole day out on the deck, piecing together metal tables and chairs. That night, I sank into bed at about 9:00pm, tired and grateful for a few hours to rest before getting up at 4:00 to finish up my tasks and return the rental back in Pittsburgh, two hours away.  It was one of those rare moments when you truly feel grateful to sink into bed.  I was deep asleep by 9:30.  At 11:30, above the sound of the oscillating fan that was blowing on me, I heard a loud noise outside: whack, whack, whack, shhhhhh, whack, shhhhh, shhhhh, creeeeeek.  It sounded like someone was chopping down a tree and also dragging big leafy branches across the forest floor.  The noises were definitely coming from the woods just beyond the back yard, which the bedroom's only window faces.  It was 11:30pm, so relatively early, an hour when many of the neighbors were probably still awake.  I looked out the window, wondering if someone was actually chopping down a tree on my property, but I couldn't see anything in the pitch dark.  The noises repeated for a while, but I became less alarmed by them.  I thought, "It's a bear, pushing over a dead tree and cracking it open for grubs.  It's a sick tree, splintering and collapsing slowly to the earth.  The leafy branches of the falling tree are rubbing against the leaves of adjacent trees.  It's nothing.  Go back to sleep."  Which thing I did.  And the next morning, I left before sunrise, so I wasn't able to investigate.  It was fine being inside the house and hearing noises in the woods--sort of creepy, but bearable.  If I'd heard such noises while camped out there, I'd have been terrified.  None of my possible explanations makes really good sense to me.  It sounded like someone whacking a tree erratically with an axe, dragging a leafy branch across the ground, then the grain of some great piece of wood slowly cracking, repeat, repeat.  Actually, what it really sounded like to me...was a dinosaur in the woods.  What was it?

Timber Rock Amphitheater Hosts Old Crow Medicine Show

It was a bit out-of-character for people who like to be in bed by 10:00pm, but we went last night to hear Old Crow Medicine Show at Timber Rock Amphitheater, near Farmington--just adjacent to Fort Necessity National Battlefield, in the Laurel Highlands.  Before the concert, we had dinner in an old inn that's served travelers along the National Pike since 1822, "Stone House." It's got a really great restaurant in a huge old stone inn that still rents rooms.  The concert venue was pretty cool, with views of the sun setting and mists gathering out over distant wooded hills.  And Old Crow Medicine Show?  They put on a really phenomenal performance.  They looked like 6 or 7 drunk uncles up there on stage, swaggering and dancing and making dramatic faces.  They sing alternative country or Americana or Appalachian folk music, not easy to categorize, but they are all true musicians.  The front man would make frequent casual references to local rivers and beers and historical facts--Yuengling, the Youghiogheny--then stick a harmonica in his mouth and start to play a high energy, raucous song, then spit the harmonica out and start to sing.  No intermission, cocaine-like speed.  A stage hand would grab the harmonica and replace it with a violin, then the front man would play the violin while dancing and singing, all at break-neck speed, then toss the violin to the stage hand and start singing and playing the piano.  The stage hand was always running around, picking up the performers' cowboy hats and handing them musical instruments, until, much to your surprise, he too comes out onto the stage playing an accordion and stealing the show by tossing and spinning some kind of baton with amazing skill.  (And here, you thought he was just the stage hand.)  Most of these 7 entertainers have something of the court jester about them, and they put on a really great performance.  But just as good as the show was the audience, a motley, gyrating parade of stray humanity.  I'd say it was about 2/3 genuine rednecks (though OCMS typically has some progressive themes and lyrics) and about 1/3 aging folks from Squirrel Hill who hold disused degrees in philosophy or medieval dance. 

Allegheny River from West Hickory to Tionesta

We spent a few nights over the July 4th holiday up north, at our camp. I knew I'd be in bed too early to catch the fireworks, so instead, I celebrated by spending about 3 hours paddling the Allegheny River. We have a pair of cheap kayaks, which we rarely use.  But being cheap, they're also lightweight and easy to transport--albeit hard to keep on course, once they're in the water.

The put-in place in West Hickory was crowded for the holiday, though I've never seen more than a single car or two parked there before. Canoes, kayaks, big inflatable floaties. Everyone wanted to spend the hot day out on the cool, fragrant water of the river. I put in quickly and broke from the crowd. Then, as I bobbed further and further downstream and the crowd remained close to shore, I wondered what they knew that I did not. Was I headed for a lock? Were there Class VI rapids up ahead?  

At times, I felt that I had the entire watery world to myself. Then I'd round a bend and come face to face with a band of 20 or 30 kayakers, resting on an island--of which there are many. It was always a challenge to know which channel to take past the numerous river-islands. Some were broad and rocky and impassable. Others were fast-moving but passable. Still others were still and deep--which is usually best, though I like the thrill of turbulent water. But when you're in a kayak at level with the water, you can't always see far enough ahead to know which channel is best. 

Traveling at a leisurely pace, it took me about 3 hours to go the 6.5 miles from West Hickory to Tionesta, where I moored beneath the bridge. That means I traveled a little faster than 2 mph. How could that be? (With a 40 pound pack, I typically hike about 2.5 mph.) I did stop a few times, once for about half an hour to eat and rest in the shade. Still, it felt like I was moving a lot faster than that. I'd like to do this stretch of river again on a cloudy, cool weekday with no one else on the water. As I bobbed along the current, I tried to remember an Irish folk song that I heard years ago about traveling down a river, but most of the words escaped me, and I can't find it on Google either. It is funny how the water changes our perceptions, how it refracts light, how it transmits noises from afar, how it confuses our sense of speed and distance.

Beaver Meadows, Allegheny National Forest

This photo was taken on Independence Day weekend, 2025.  I was trying to duplicate a photo that I took for my old blog in October of 2009.  SEE HERE.  Beaver Meadows was once a campground and recreation area in the Allegheny National Forest.  The campground was closed for unknown reasons, but the trails and lake were kept open with a few picnic tables but no potable water or restrooms.  It's all very much in keeping with current trends in the Allegheny.  Although the forest was originally created to protect the watershed, it has been increasingly repurposed as a place for industrialists to make a quick buck. Our national forest has been in a long, rapid, and seemingly inexorable descent into an industrial wasteland. Conservation and recreation in the forest is diminishing. Beaver Meadows was closed. The nearby Twin Lakes campground and recreation area was also closed, due to barium in the water--which is caused by gas drilling in adjacent forestlands. Local volunteers have taken on the task of reopening the campground at Twin Lakes, out of community pride and pure nostalgia, but how can this kind of reckless exploitation be allowed on our public lands. The Trump administration wants to enact a major increase in logging, too.

But the trail system at Beaver Meadows is pleasant. It's got about 7 miles of interconnecting loops with one very long boardwalk over a marshy area with all manner of birds. The red-winged blackbirds are especially numerous. I think there must be good fishing here, too, since most of the people I saw had fishing poles. 

The last time I was at Beaver Meadows--in 2009--I didn't get very far on these trails. I was still relatively new to the hiking life back in those days, and I naively took my two little girls with me, intending to pull them along the trails in their little red wagon. It was not a successful excursion. Now that they're both adults, I could bring them back here to explore the trails on foot, but I think there might be even more whining now than there was when they were 3 and 4. They would do it to make me happy, but they wouldn't like it.

It seems strange that this big trail system has been here all along, and though I fancy myself an expert on all things ANF, it took me 16 years to finally explore it. True, it doesn't have any spectacular views or interesting rock formations. Even the woods here is not especially lush or lovely--a lot of evergreens that look like they were planted by hand. But it's pleasant and uncrowded with some nice waterside areas. 

I don't remember if the lake was covered in lily pads the last time I was here, but they're pretty, and they bespeak the stillness and the tranquility of the place. You can tell that all of this--the trails, the lake, the dam, the boardwalk, etc.--used to be attached to a campground that is no more. I guess that's what gives Beaver Meadows a slightly forlorn and forgotten feel. If I ever go to another costume-Halloween party in this life of years, I'm going to go as a red-winged blackbird. 

Quaker Knob, Washington County

Just shy of 1,500 feet, Quaker Knob is the undramatic climax toward which all the surrounding countryside tends. It's all hills around here, and Quaker Knob accounts for a lot of the steepness of the farms and fields. The viewless summit is on private property with a water tower and some sort of communications tower, but the views are pleasant enough on the way up. This is the entrance to the old Vance farm on Vance Road. It appears to be abandoned, which is a shame because it was a big operation with a private monument to the family's war dead.

A better view of the Vance farm from the flanks of Quaker Knob. I hate to see these grand old farmhouses moldering into ruin. Actually, there are a lot of "bandos" (abandoned buildings) in this rural part of Washington County, including the pleasant little homestead (not pictured here) just at the top of the Vance family's lane. In much of this county, the frackers have rolled in and poisoned soil, air, and water, but they pay well, so no one wants to admit to the damage they're wreaking.

Another view along Vance Road from the climb up Quaker Knob. I'd like to know how this hill got its curious name. There's a historic old Presbyterian church very nearby, but I've never heard of Quakers in these parts. The Quakers have always been pacifists, and it surely took a more bellicose flavor of Christian to settle this frontier in the late 1700s. Enter: The Scotch-Irish...

This country is old. It's been stolen and retaken and stolen again. It's been bought and sold and left to the coal companies and now these reckless drillers from Texas. This land has been denuded of trees, and poked, and prodded, and poisoned and returned to its hayfields. But still, at the summit of Quaker Knob, the wood thrushes awaited me with their afternoon song, and the forest smelled of wildflowers. The summit is on private property, but the little gated lane to the top is not marked "posted," so I did a quick jaunt up to claim the peak for my peak-bagging club.

For a few sun-bleached photos of a very hot day on Pea Island, a national wildlife refuge off the coast of North Carolina, follow this LINK.  

A Red-throated Hummingbird with Link to Otter Creek Wilderness Trek

 This faithful visitor—unlike my other avian friends—comes from earliest morning to the near dark of gloaming dusk. The Audubon Society claims that he weighs about the same as a penny and beats his tiny wings 50 times a second. Ah, but look here…a LINK to my recent backpacking trip to the magnificent Otter Creek Wilderness of West Virginia.

Sacred Places in Rural Pennsylvania

This is a rural Presbyterian church in Washington County.  It’s an old, old congregation, founded in the 1700s—though this building dates to 1872.  This church was a significant spot on the frontier during the Second Great Awakening, and you might still catch a whiff of that old backcountry revivalism in the old churches that stand sentinel among these broad green hills.

I was here for the funeral of a once-dear friend from long ago, who died at the age of 49, leaving behind a wife and three children—the youngest just 10 years old.  His was the kind of death that people don’t talk about…not a suicide, but a “death of despair,” as they call them these days.  My friend had deep, deep roots in this place—one of the smartest people I’ve ever known, but so profoundly and inextricably a part of this soil to which his body has been returned.  Over 2 decades ago, when his first daughter was born and we were both in seminary, he asked me if I’d come here to this church to fill in for him at the Sunday morning church service.  He was their student pastor at the time.  I still had horrible stage fright back in those days, so demurred…and forever regretted it.  I really should have worked up my courage and helped the guy out.  And now?  Now these 22 years later, I came at last to this same old brick church on a hill, not to preach, but to see my old friend laid in the ground.

One of the first things I do in any church I visit is look to see which hymnals and pew Bibles they use.  The books here are standard fare for rural Western Pennsylvania.  

In a surprising twist of liturgical awareness, the simple windows of this far-flung house of prayer are colored according to the seasons of the church year: red for Pentecost, white & gold for Easter and Christmas, green for ordinary time, and purple for Lent and Advent.

The little chancel is bedecked all in red for Pentecost…which was once a holiday as big as Christmas.  Or maybe I should say that Christmas was once a holiday as small as Pentecost.

The pews are divided down the middle so that women can sit on one side and listen to the sermon while men sit on the other side and nod off to sleep.  Of course, nowadays, anyone can sit anywhere.  I mean, you’re technically allowed to sit anywhere, but folks in these old country churches always sit in their same regular spots each week on Sunday morning.  You have to be careful not to take someone’s unofficial seat by accident.  People often mark their territory with cushions and boxes of Kleenex.  But honestly, this room probably seats 200, and I’m sure it needs less than a fifth of all these seats.  There’s LOTS of room to spread out…

A clergyman from an old Scotch-Irish family will always have the bagpipes at his graveside.

And this?  This is our local parish up near my camp.  

I’ll probably be seeing more of this place in the days ahead, though I don’t get many Sundays away from Pittsburgh.  It’s dark on the inside but still a place with a bright feel about it.  Of course, up here in the North Country, all these little churches had oil money—unlike the above church in Washington County, which surely had some wealthy shopkeepers and dairy farmers, but little if any income from the coalfields that surround it.  There’s a whole different feel up here in the rural northwest part of the state, as compared to the green hills in its southwest corner.  The north seems more…industrialized.

 

Allegheny River Trail, Brandon, PA

My wife buys potted flowering plants in order to entertain, but then she allows them to die in their pots.  This time around, instead of letting them die, I decided to take them to the graves of my grandparents on both sides, just to give them a place to live and grow.  The graves near New Bethlehem, see below, had been neglected for decades.  I thought I would find our family graves at Rockland (Venango County) in the same sad state.  But I did not.  My aunt or cousin is maintaining them beautifully, so instead of planting flowers, I took a hike.

Little did I know that there’s a long, narrow lane that descends from the Rockland area all the way into the valley of the Allegheny River, as it passes through the northern forests.  People have vacation homes down here, and it really is beautiful.  There’s an old rail trail called the Allegheny River Trail, which runs at times between people’s lavish summer homes and their riverside decks and picnic tables—right through private property.

I followed the trail a little over 2 miles southward, where it passes through some state game lands and through some very expensive looking pieces of private real estate.

There was this strange little place…

And a few of the summer homes out here were old and modest.

This place might be a year-round home—palatial with lots of outdoor space and terraced decks down to the water.

It was sunny and cool with just enough of a breeze to keep things fresh.  The birds were all in concert.  The shade was deep and comforting.  Such a beautiful walk alongside the river of my life.  I like having a life-river.  I’ve lived all over the world and the nation, but I keep returning to places where my old original river still flows.  I need to put the kayaks in this summer…

The rail trail doubles as a road in places, which is not the best of all worlds.  But it would be worth coming back to this hidden place of hidden luxury escapes.  

 

Cornplanter State Forest

Cornplanter State Forest has several smallish tracts in Northwest Pennsylvania. This is the biggest tract along Jamison Run Road, near Tionesta. You can see that there used to be a farmhouse here by the way these old evergreens line the lane.  There are old foundations in among the trees.

I hiked here over Memorial Day weekend, and there were bugs aplenty.  A big band of car-campers had a few vehicles parked beside the road, guarded by angry dogs.  I camped in the woods here years ago when the camping spot I was planning to use was unavailable.  The barred owls serenaded me all night, and it was lovely—even if the woods are unspectacular.  The presence of barred owls in the forest here helped influence my decision to buy property in these parts. 

It seems a little wrong to take this land away from Chief Cornplanter and his people and then name it after him.  The forests here are full of the rusting detritus of the long-ago oil boom.  There are some active wells here still, too.  They make an eerie creaking noise sometimes when you think you and the birds have the woodlands to yourself.  

Taking a closer look at the old oil pump…

On the map, I saw a trackless segment of the Cornplanter Forest that stuck like a peninsula out into the Allegheny National Forest.  It intrigued me, so I bushwhacked a bit, but mostly stuck to old forest roads that don’t appear on the map.  They were very, very muddy, and the bugs were nearly unbearable.  Also, someone did a lot of timber harvesting in this part of the forest, and so it’s mostly just tree carnage, not much to see.  However, I did arrive at the ANF, where the border between state ands and federal lands is clearly delineated. God help us, our federal lands are in trouble with Trump in office.

 

Erie National Wildlife Refuge

It’s a strangely alluring spot with well-maintained trails and lots of wildlife to see. 

The trail system wends through low-lying countryside of forests and marshes, crossing quiet country lanes and dirt roads.

There were many handsome birds on display and a few more retiring creatures. 

I took this enormous turtle for a rock.  It’s about the size of two human heads!  What was he doing here? 

He was being, just being.  He wasn’t thinking anything, or doing anything, or making any plans, or regretting any past decisions or behaviors.  He wasn’t wondering about the future or misremembering the past.  He wasn’t telling himself old, old lies just to keep his morale up.  He wasn’t thinking about his next fix or his next meal or his next chance to shag.  (Actually, I dunno, maybe he was thinking about his next meal; what do these guys even eat?). He wasn’t worrying about the end of democracy in America and the world as we know it.  He was just being.  I think someday I’ll be able to do all that. 

 

Gregg Hill, Allegheny National Forest

To bag the (previously) unclaimed peak of Gregg Hill, I found a spot to park along the beautiful Millstone Creek in the Allegheny National Forest. A bald eagle soared serenely just above the quiet surface of the creek as I was standing on its banks, taking in the cool, fishy smell of a woodlands spring. It was a Wednesday afternoon, but there were fishers aplenty parked along Millstone Road.

I picked this spot because I saw on my maps that a pipeline swath runs all the way to the summit. Mind you, this is our public lands—though Trump and his band of evil baboons plan to further decimate the Allegheny National Forest in order to avoid buying lumber fro Canada.  I HATE the fact that the ANF is an industrial forest to the great expense of watershed protection, conservation, and recreation. Lumber, oil, gas. Republicans can only see the value in a thing that has a price tag attached, shallow and soulless as they are. That said…it was convenient to simply hike the pipeline swath to the top of Gregg Hill.

Standing at 1,601 feet above sea level, Gregg Hill barely qualifies for “mountain” status.  There were no views from the top, and I did have to bushwhack a bit to stay off a small piece of privately owned land, where I heard a pack of dogs barking angrily. They sounded like hounds, which are usually kept in pens, so I wasn’t too worried about them. But trespassing seemed unwise out here. 

This hunting stand presides over the pipeline meadow at the edge of someone’s private property. 

It was a pleasant day to roam the springtime woods. The only significant thing about this hike is that when I got home in the evening I found a tick. It had attached itself to my hip, but not very deeply. I removed the whole thing in one piece, but the bite was painful, which is unusual, and surrounded by the infamous red ring. It swole up and ached a little into the evening. Two days later, early Friday morning, I felt a sore throat coming on as I slept. When I got out of bed, I had the most excruciating sore throat of my life. It felt like a large splinter was stuck in my gullet. I also had a stiff neck and a headache. Lyme disease. I’ve had it once before. I got a prescription for doxycycline—two weeks—and it was only today, Tuesday, that I’ve started to feel better. It’s my own fault. I got lazy and thought I’d hurry to the top of the hill and back down without bothering to take precautions against ticks.