Hunters Rocks, Rocky Ridge

 This is just a very small portion of one of the larger "rock cities" on Rocky Ridge.  It's hard to see in this picture just how immense these boulders are.  The fire ring in the foreground is meant to give you some sense of perspective.  

 Of course, there are numerous little shelters under the big rocks.  These are "tectonic caves," not the deep, underground caves that stay at 55 degrees year round.

I couldn't tell if Hunters Rocks were on state forest land (where camping is permitted) or on state game lands (where camping is not permitted).  But someone definitely camps there.

Two Nights on Rocky Ridge, in the Shadow of Stone Mountain

 I returned to the Standing Stone Trail this past weekend to scope some things out for my big end-to-end trek, which is planned for the summer of 2021.  This time, instead of staying up on the highest peak around, I ended up setting up camp on a lower ridge that sits in the shadow of its taller neighbor.

 My campsite was right on the trail, which I did not like, but it had a nice view off to the west despite being on a lower ridge.  I have long watched movies on my iPad or iPhone when I'm backpacking alone.  It takes my mind off the scary night creatures that could be lurking in the forest.  On these two nights I bought and downloaded the old classic, "The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly."

 The ultimate test of my courage would be to watch "The Blair Witch Project" in my tent alone at night in the woods.  I've never seen it because it came out when I was living in Africa.  I have a friend who often backpacks with me, but he will not do it alone because of that movie!  Rocky Ridge is an aptly named hill of about 1000 feet elevation.  It runs alongside Stone Mountain, which stands at 2000 feet.  As evening falls across the countryside, you can see the shadow that the smaller hill casts on the larger.

This area of the trail passes through some huge rock cities that are very much worth exploring.  That's probably why it's named Rocky Ridge.  It's also relatively close to the VERY cool little town of Huntingdon, so there were quite a lot of rock climbers who came out and interrupted my sense of solitude...except at night.  After dark, I had the whole vast forest to myself.  I think.  Note to self: If I can possibly ever move to Huntingdon in this lifetime, I should definitely do it!  Quaint, picturesque, surprisingly fashionable with microbreweries, and coffee shops, and antique stores.  And it has a daily train into Philly and New York.

Two Nights on Cove Mountain, Standing Stone Trail

I spent two very chilly nights on Cove Mountain, the ridge that overlooks Cowans Gap State Park.  The Standing Stone Trail follows the ridgeline in most places.

Finding a level spot to put up a tent can be an issue up here.  Between the rocks and the ground sloping off in both directions, campsites are hard to find.  But I did discover this long-disused fire ring and some relatively flat terrain just at the juncture of the Standing Stone with the Sharpe Trail--which, by the way, is crazy steep.

The whole weekend, I only saw two other hikers, a young couple on a Sunday morning.  

It was level enough, but not an ideal area for camping.  The top of Cove Mountain is mostly inside the Rothrock State Forest, which means that primitive camping is legal.

The views were good but not mind-boggling.  I liked the way you could see the shadow of the mountain descending out over Allens Valley as evening began to gather.

Ah, yes, one of my favorite views in all this world... When I do the Standing Stone from end to end, this tent that I love so much might prove a little too heavy.  I'm actually considering a hammock tent, so that I can set up camp in the trees: no need for level ground.

It's so incredibly peaceful to be in the woods as night falls.  I fell asleep watching "Treasure of the Sierra Madre" on my iPad and listening to the owls and coyotes.

Cowans Gap State Park

 I found myself social distancing at Cowans Gap State Park two weeks ago, so beautiful.

This is the southern terminus of the Standing Stone Trail--except that I hope to do the trail from south to north, so I would be starting out here.  This is the view from the flank of Cove Mountain.

Ye that Dwell in Dust...

At the old Cross Creek Churchyard, which has several graves dating back to the 1780s and perhaps even further, one marker reads, “Awake and sing, ye that dwell in dust, for thy dew is as the dew of herbs.  -Isaiah 26:19.”  I was intrigued by the thought, dating from a more religious age than our own.  The verse from Isaiah takes some unpacking, so it’s a good thing this is my area of expertise... A “death dew” was the cold sweat that was said to come upon a person’s face just before death, signaling the end.  But the dew that falls on grass (“herbs”) is a sign of sunrise and morning.  So if your death dew is the mist that falls on grass, then it is a sign of rebirth and a new day.  Death is real but brief, for it heralds new life.  An Easterlike thought for this season.  Speaking of which, a family chore called me out into the sad reaches of lower Ohio, despite the quarantine.  I had to take my mother to a doctor's appointment, and she's living in the pretty part of Ohio with my youngest brother.  That's to say, the hilly part south of the ugly urban sprawl.  The drive out there was winding and almost mysterious.  Dilapidated little towns, once quaint, tidy farms, ornate old farmhouses in varying states of disrepair, sprawling under majestic trees, bare for the season.  While out there, I went looking for the grave of one Sara Parks Hickman Rowley.  But because it’s in another state I have to put it in my online annex.  Click on her name if poking around cemeteries is your thing.

Lost Turkey Trail

On a sunny Saturday in April, with the world under lock down, I just couldn't stay home.  I tried.  But the world's so big, and there's so much yard work to do at home that I had to get out, get away, get back to the woods.  This is the overlook in the Gallitzin State Forest, where Skyline Drive meets a ridgeline known as the Allegheny Front.  It was a formidable disappointment to early settlers, in the 18th century, to make the difficult scramble all up and down the Appalachian Mountains, only to be met with this ascent.  Of course, they'd have been looking up, whereas the camera today is looking down.

When I got here at 10:00am, there was snow on the ground and it was about 34 degrees.  The view is broad and pleasant, but not stunning.  Years ago, I came here and hiked south into the state forest, where the trail follows the ridgeline and offers a lot of views much like this one.  Today, I wanted to try something new.  Instead of taking the more scenic path, I wondered about the so-called "Lost Turkey Trail," which runs north out of this spot through state game lands (where camping is not allowed) and finally all the way to the summit of Blue Knob--which is the second highest peak in the state, and far prettier than the highest point.

Now...let's talk turkey about the Lost Turkey Trail.  Er, I guess nobody says "talk turkey" anymore.  That's part of the problem, I think.  The Lost Turkey was laid out by the Youth Conservation Corps in 1976--back when "turkey" could mean "stupid person."  The trail's name is supposed to be kind of funny, I guess.  And it does meander aimlessly, just like a real turkey...or a stupid person, for that matter.  It runs 23 miles from an area just southwest of here and all the way up Blue Knob.  Sounds nice, right?  Well, I'll give it a mixed review.

Most other long distance backpacking trails in this region at least have a Facebook group where their enthusiasts can come together and share pictures and experiences of the trail.  Not so, the Lost Turkey.  For one thing, it's nearly impossible to backpack.  It only passes through a few miles of territory where back country camping is actually legal.  These areas are both at either ends of the trail, in the Gallitzin and again at Blue Knob State Park.  For the long, difficult stretches in between, you're slogging through some grueling climbs in the state game lands, where you're not allowed to spend the night.  Much of the trail passes on old forest roads that are set up for fat hunters who cannot enter the woods without a gun and a truck, and so it looks kind of like the above shot.

As I trekked along the Lost Turkey, I thought how the blazes would be hidden when the trees were in full leaf, and how many of the trees will never be in full leaf because the trail passes through so many dead areas, where the bark is falling from bleached, barren trunks--as in the photo just below.  I also wondered why they didn't put the trail along the ridgeline, where there would be some sense of the valley below, which is the beginning of the "Ridge and Valley" region of the Appalachians.  I felt a little disappointed with the trail.  I probably hiked four or six miles from the overlook to this pleasant meadow, which is planted with fruit trees in the middle to attract deer.  At this point I turned around and decided to save the rest for another day--which came as an epiphany.  I actually DID want to come back to this trail.  All in all, it had been a nice day in the woods, even if it hadn't been a dramatic one.  

There was no one else on the trail.  It was sunny and exceptionally quiet.  The profile of Blue Knob loomed frequently through the bare branches of the forest.  Besides, I began at the less scenic end of the trail.  The north end is definitely more beautiful, if it runs up to the summit of that lovely mountain.

There were tadpoles in the puddles.  Little streams ran cold and clear.  The April air was still more than a little frigid up here in the mountains.  But it was nice.

By the time I got back to the overlook and the car, at about 3:00pm, the snow was mostly gone, and the vista had changed--as they will do according to seasons, and times of day, and weather patterns.

"In our ending is our beginning."  

Abandoned Farm in Greene County

Park near the now-defunct dam on the now-defunct lake at Ryerson Station State Park, and follow the Sawdust Trail up the hill and into the woods.  The trail runs about half a mile steeply uphill and comes out where the park ends on the side of a little country lane known as McClellan Avenue.  Standing there on the side of the narrow farm road, you'll see a mysterious old farmhouse nesting among the trees at the top of the valley.  Click on this photo to get a better look.

I'd done the brief hike several times over the years, and each time I've wondered about the old house on the hill.  Is it occupied?  Is it abandoned?  Is it one of the many old houses in this area that's been purchased by the frackers or the coaldiggers and left to fester along the side of the road, a forlorn ghost of happier times before unbridled capitalism began consuming everything?  This time, instead of peering up at the old farm from the edge of the woods, I decided to emerge from the forest and stroll up the little lane to take a look.  

It was a sunny Sunday afternoon, and the city was on lock down for the COVID-19 quarantine, but I'd been hearing that the parks closest to Pittsburgh were crowded.  Where to go?  Ryerson Station, of course!  It's less than an hour's drive through scenic countryside to one of the least-visited parks in our region.  During our time there, on such a beautiful spring day when everyone had cabin fever, I saw only three or four other cars.

And yes, this pleasant old homestead has been sitting empty at least ten years, I would guess.  The farmhouse presides vacantly over a green valley of dairy farms.  Its barn, and tractor shed, and garage all sit around facing the house as if waiting to be told what to do, expectant, obedient, hoping for some instruction or occupation.  What an idyllic little settlement this place once was!  Look at the deep front porch, with its stone columns, overlooking the valley.   And the kitchen porch, facing the yard and fields.  See the broad, sloping lawns, the shade trees--not too close to the house.  The hilltop isolation with its hints of monarchical grandeur, as if to say, "This is my valley.  I am the king of this hill."

Here's the view from a bit higher on the same hill.  If this were in Allegheny County, I could look up the address and see who owns it, and how much it's worth, and what it costs in taxes, and when it was last sold, and how many bedrooms the house has, and how many acres the farm is, and what kind of condition the house is in.  Here in Greene County, I'm not sure if such information is available to the public.  I feel a real sense of wistfulness when I see such a lovely old place returning to its elements.  As the years pass, little gaps between shingles will develop into full-blown leaks.  Gutters will clog.  Cracks in the foundations will get bigger.  And in time, someone's once-upon-a-time home will be no more.   It could still be a dream property for anyone willing to undertake the back-breaking task of farming--and willing to live in frack country.