Perspective

The world just looks better from this angle, with the water lapping gently against the side of the kayak, the birdsong in the trees, a light breeze on the lake.

This is Cross Creek Lake, looking more festive than it looked the last time it was featured on this obscure blog. And it was my new kayak's maiden voyage. The lake was busier than I would have liked, and I was just about the only person there without an engine and a fishing pole. I'm thinking we'll look into some alternative destinations next time around. But it's still beautiful to be out on the water. Paddle into a quiet cove, explore the shoreline, pull out a book and a bag of almonds, glare at all the fishers in order to make them think you're a little weird and dangerous, because if they think you're creepy, then they won't steer their noisy-engined lazyman watercraft into your cove and ruin your idyll.

There's nothing like accessing a woodland spot that can only be reached by boat. There are no trails through much of this park, since trails require walking, and the people who use this park don't want to put that much work into it. So the kayak is a great way to reach parts of the forest that can't be reached on foot unless you're willing to bushwack through some thick backcountry.

Actually, the best place I know to boat across the lake to a pristine sylvan haven is at Elk State Park, up north. You begin on the narrow shoreline of the very lame-arse state park, then cross the water to the opposite shore, where you find yorself in the immense and nearly unvisited Elk State Forest. I must make it back up there someday.

Cross Creek Lake: The Poisoned Park

There's a kind of beauty in it, but I'm a melancholic who always finds sad things beautiful. Cross Creek Lake is a big, semi-wild park owned and operated by Washington County. There's a nice lake there, and at this time of year, the frozen surface is crisscrossed by ice-fishers' trails running from the beach to the little tarp huts where they spend their winters. [Indent] Winter has its many charms, and one of them is the silence of a deserted world. The solitude, too. I love the muffled quiet of an empty landscape. And the winter birds. And the animal tracks in the snow. [Indent] Many acres of land surround the lake. Some woods, a nice playground, a large picnic area. Most of the park seems to be hayfields, strangely enough. At least I think they're hayfields. They're vast expanses of contour-plowed fields alternating between fallow and harvested segments. I'm sure they look like a strange quilt from the sky. And it's fun to explore the lonely landscape. [Indent]

But this is Washington County--ever the slut for mineral extraction. There are exactly 14 marcellus shale gas wells being dug on the park lands. Fourteen! At 15 acres each, not to mention the many access roads being cut through the area, this once pleasant park will soon be another industrial wasteland. The diggers have already spilled massive quantities of their noxious chemicals, resulting in fish kills in the lake. It's nothing compared to what lies ahead. [Indent] But someone recommended this lake for ice skating and--come summer--kayaking, so I came to check it out. I liked it okay. There was a kind of windblown sanctity out there on those snowy fields. But mostly, I don't think I'll be coming back here much. The whole marcellus shale thing is such a depressingly shortsighted grasp. [Indent]

In this final shot, you can see the lake off in the distance. There's a kind of beauty here, but touched with the sorrow of impending ruin. The silence will be broken by endless convoys of trucks and the pounding of the "frack" drills. The beauty will be destroyed by access roads and tall wells. The air will be destroyed and toxic to anything that needs to breathe it. And the water will be poisoned for generations to come. It's all a grab for shortsighted gain. [Indent] I had a solitary winter picnic at the pavillion in the top picture. I love pretending that winter isn't real, treating January just like July.

Picnic Table at the End of the World

It seems like the end of the world, though it's right here in crowded Allegheny County. Behind the abandoned farmhouse described below, there's a long-disused parking lot. Dead weeds rattle in the wind, pushing through cracks in the pavement. Old lamp posts lie in the snow like felled trees.

At the far end of this bleak expanse, there's a sharp descent into the wooded valley of Pinkerton Run. And here at the cusp of the valley, just at the edge of the old parking lot, sits this lonely picnic table. It's almost inviting.

Nothing says "Merry Christmas" like a frozen pond in the intense silence of winter. Despite a popular wave pool and a few blazed trails, Settler's Cabin Park is 1,610 acres of mostly untamed woods. It's called a "park," which conjures images of fountains and statues. But it's really more of a woodland reserve. Many unmarked trails traverse the area.

You can follow the steeply descending ridgeline down away from the picnic table, into the deep valley. At the valley floor, there's a trail that follows the brook upstream into the snowy woods toward the pond. You have to ford the run. I hadn't walked across a frozen stream in a long, long time. Made me feel younger than I am. It also made me feel daring, since the only other set of footprints were made by someone who didn't have the nerve to cross on the ice.

I can't decide what kind of sylvan creature forded the stream on this fallen log. They're cat-like paws, but my guess is a porcupine. Whatever it is, I'm kind of jealous. I often think about spending the night alone in the forest in the winter, huddling for warmth in a debris hut beneath the snow. Everything is so still, so quiet, so solitary. I always forget how beautiful the winter is until I find myself out in it.