Upper Lake, Raccoon Creek

 This strange little body of water is the isolated "Upper Lake" at Raccoon Creek State Park.  The main body of water in the park, Raccoon Lake, is a little over 100 acres with a nice beach...if you're into lake beaches, which I am because they're shark-free.  The Upper Lake, however, is small and set off in a part of the park that most people never discover.  I got there by following Nichol Road to the Wetlands Trail, which follows a swampy stream to the lake.  

Beaver dams create deep pools along the Wetlands Trail, which is an appropriately named path.  The stream valley is springing to life with green grass, buds, and little incipient leaves.  I came across some wood ducks and wild geese, too.  The geese had their long necks drawn down low, in a defensive posture, as they sat on their waterside nests.  

I used a map of the park to patch together a hiking loop, using trails and roads.  It was surprising to discover about six occupied campsites in the "year round" camping area, all tents.  Who in the hell would go tent camping in this kind of weather?  Two very rough-looking teenagers--one as fat as Tweedle-Dum--glared at me on the roadway near the camps.  I greeted them, and they looked at me menacingly but made no reply.  One of them walked toward me a little.  I was feeling threatened but pretended to be calm; I allowed my hand to slip off the top of my walking stick to reveal that I've sharpened the tip of the stick into a pike.  I actually like to carry a sharpened walking stick because of all the damned dogs you meet on some trails.  The kid saw me wielding a sharp stick, gave me a crazy smile, and kept walking.  It was very unsettling.  

"A Home Within the Wilderness"

 Remind me--if I'm ever homeless in the cold seasons--to make my way to the wilderness on the westernmost edges of Raccoon Creek State Park, where many pleasant cabins sit empty and unlocked for months.  I especially liked the porch on this one, where I made myself at home for a while. 

 In one bedroom, I relaxed on the mattressless box springs of an old camp bed and thought, "This is livable."  Someone left a cheap rosary dangling by the window.  I'm not Catholic, and I don't understand rosaries, but it seemed like a good place for one.  I could almost grasp the repetitive appeal of slowly feeling my way along the rows of beads.  

 I set up camp in the rosary room for a little while.  It was my wilderness home for a short time.  I honestly think it would be possible to locate a remote cabin and move in for the winter--provided you could feed yourself from the forest.  Raccoon Creek has many very simple, far flung cabins for group camping.  Heat the place with a space heater during the day; the electric breakers are all within reach.  And at night, when there are no rangers or hikers around, light a wood fire in the fireplace.  

 Of course, you wouldn't want a wood fire during the day because someone would follow their nose to you.  

 There are few things I love more than snooping through empty buildings.  I chanced across three little gaggles of cabins, and I think all of them must be used during the summer.  The mess hall was all swept and arranged, and the kitchen was spotless.  I do recall coming across some old, abandoned cabins in another area of the park...last spring?  Do people really still camp like this?  

When I was about 15, there was a single guy in his 20s who lived in a duplex in the alley behind our house.  In the summer, this guy rode his bike for about half an hour every evening for exercise.  Once I noticed him leaving, and on a fluke, I tried his front door...only to discover that it was unlocked.  I snooped around inside his house for about ten minutes.  I didn't steal or vandalize anything, and I didn't open any drawers or cabinets.  I just liked the thrill of exploring, the risk of getting caught.  (And this guy was a dweeb.  He would have called the cops...)

Heinz Hall

          Heinz Hall at night, from the outside looking in (as usual).  It felt so strange to be downtown in the evening.  There were people walking around everywhere, dining in restaurants as late as 10:30.  Don't they know it's bedtime?  It was strangely energizing to be out there among the people of the world as they moved through the shadows.  I really need to get into the city more often...

Lawrenceville Neighborhood, Pittsburgh

          Every time I go into the city, I say to myself, "I miss this!  I need to start coming in more often."  But it rarely happens.  This afternoon my wife had a "Groupon" for a family event in the once-gritty Lawrenceville neighborhood, along the Allegheny River.  This part of town is experiencing a major upswing, and even in this economy, there were signs of construction and renovations everywhere.  

           This regal statue above the main entrance to St. Augustine Church made me giggle.  "Don't jump, Auggie!  It gets better!  You won't always get teased for your flowing gowns and smart cane."  (Not that teen suicide is any laughing matter, but those vestments are.)  The church is part of a monastery complex for the Capuchin Friars of the Province of St. Augustine.  Much of the compound struck me as semi-derelict, but this is Lawrenceville: derelict is very much the fashion.  Having a Lawrenceville address used to mean that you're a riverside factory worker.  It could still mean that, or it might mean that you're a vegan left-wing activist with a six-figure salary, a degree from Brown, and a nose ring.

          It's a part of town worth exploring.  It offers that rich juxtaposition of old on new, chic on ramshackle.  You see supermodels walking their rarefied canine breeds down narrow streets where ancient Irish and Italian grandmothers gaze from the parlor windows of dark houses, mysterious houses at once cramped and vast as labyrinths, filled with Roman statuary, and icons, and photographs of bygone days.  Drug dealers, pottery spinners, goths.  I don't know if I'd want to live there, but Lawrenceville is so much more intriguing than the semi-rural scene that I inhabit, in the outermost ring of suburbs.  The rowhouses and steep streets have an almost European feel, especially in the areas where the Italianate towers of St. Augustine preside.  

Lake Erie Coast

          These are the vineyards along the coast of Lake Erie.  The lake itself is barely visible on the horizon.  This is one thing I miss, living near Pittsburgh: that line in the distance where water meets sky.  The ocean is better, but Lake Erie will do in a pinch.  The Great Lakes are large freshwater seas, and so the air in their vicinity is discernibly lighter, and the skies have a watery beauty to them.  I'm not a wine drinker anymore, but I understand that the wine from this area could be described as "watery," too.

"Mostly Sad...Kind of Lonely"

           My seven-year-old and my six-year-old sneaked up behind me while I was updating my blog.  They asked what I was doing, and I answered with a question: "How do you feel when you look at this webpage?"  They took the question seriously.  "Well, click on that picture.  It's a little pretty.  Now that picture.  It's okay, I guess."  And so, I asked again, "But how do the pictures and the colors make you feel?"  They replied with all seriousness, "Mostly sad...and kind of lonely."

          Yeah, I got to admit.  It has that effect on me, too...

Raccoon Creek, Nichol Road Area

 Raccoon Creek State Park is vast.  Unlike most of our state parks, it really is big and wild enough for backpacking...and backpacking is permitted here.  

 The Appaloosa Trail, in the extreme western part of the park, is used by snowmobilers, skiers, hikers, and equestrians.  If the trails are even a little wet, the horses tear them up, making them muddy and slick for hikers.  I tend to avoid multi-use trails for that reason.  

There's a large, ugly, grassy area known as Doak Field.  It's almost as eerie as nearby Hillman State Park.  What the hell kind of place is this?  Far more scenic are the many ridges and valleys, as in the second photo. Old Nichol Road tends to hug the walls of valleys.  The Appaloosa Trail runs along far-flung summits.  

I came across a spray of daffodils blooming in the forest, sure evidence that there was once a home out here.