Gallitzin State Forest

This is the Skyline Drive overlook in the Gallitzin State Forest--a way cool and little-known retreat in the mountains just east of Johnstown.  The view looks east into the "Ridge and Valley" region of central Pennsylvania.

Gallitzin State Forest has been on my wish list for a long time--but it's just a little too far from home. It's a two-hour drive into the wilderlands east of Pittsburgh, but I finally got a chance this past Saturday.  In eight hours, I saw not another soul on the trails--though I did see this slightly spooky hunting tent.

Once again, it's been a dry summer in the city, so I didn't think to pack any rain gear.  But when I got up to Johnstown, at a much higher altitude, I had to stop and buy a poncho.  It rained most of the day up in the mountains, which was nice.   I get so tired of all the damned light.

The overlook at Skyline Drive (pictured at the top of this page) is nice enough.  But a much better overlook is about two miles to the south and only accessible by hiking the long trail in.  It's got this observation deck to enhance the view, too.  I don't know if this place has a name, but clearly you can someone camps here.  Technically, you can camp anywhere in the state forests, as long as your campsite can't be seen from the trail.  In reality, I don't think anyone observes or enforces that rule because there's a fire ring here at the overlook and, well, the spooky guy in the hunter's tent was right next to the trail, too.  

The sun was shining on the ridgeline, but down in the valley to the east, it was all mists and shadows, even at 11am.  On a clear day, this would be a great place to watch the sunrise.

The family and I will be coming back this way to do a summer's-last-hurrah camping trip at Blue Knob in early September.  Actually, it'll be summer's first hurrah this year. 

The treetops, the clouds, the watery light that seems to come from everywhere.  I hate living so far from scenes like this one.

But the Gallitzin State Forest has a lot more to offer than I could discover in just a day.  I did two hikes there: one along the summit, above, and another on the Bog & Boulder Trail to a small rock city called Wolf Rocks.  It reminded me of the rock cities in the Allegheny National Forest, up in the northern part of the state.

Wolf Rocks is a bunch of big boulders that would be pretty, except that they've been spray-painted by people who have no sense of civic responsibility nor any respect for natural beauty.  There must be an easier way to access this place than the trail I hiked; there's got to be a dirt road accessible to cars.  I don't think losers deface rocks would undertake such a long hike.  One of the slogans on this rock reads, "Trump will kill us all."  Although I deplore the foolishness of anyone who would tote a can of spray paint into the forest...I can't say that I disagree with his or her political wisdom.

It's a rare bit of wisdom in these parts, too.  The few political signs on display around here are all pro-Trump.  Those who oppose Trump are scared to say so.  Isn't it interesting how fear already swirls around that horrid old man, the way flies swarm around a roadkill groundhog?  Barely a square foot of these rocks remains unsullied.

Ah, but I come to the woods to expand my sense of possibility, to nurture my spirit, to rise above bitterness and frustration.  The views from these defiled boulder fields are good.  Near the center of this photo, you can see another mountain in the far distance.  Click any photo to enlarge.

It's hard to tell in this shot, but the crevasses between these boulders often open up into some nasty drops--reminiscent of that movie "127 Hours."  As with all our state forestlands, the trails were well maintained, well marked, and supplied with good maps and information.  This place is well taken care of, and the recreational opportunities are many.  Where were all the people on a Saturday in early August?

Kennywood

Some people go to Kennywood to ride the rides, to scream, and laugh, and feel the wind on their face.  Some people go to Kennywood for the thrills, the adrenaline rush.  I go there looking for tragedy, like this.  Whenever some Kennywood roller coaster chugs "ching-ching-ching" up a slow ascent in preparation for a long, screaming drop, my rule is always to look for the grimy old town of Braddock, just across the river--sight of Pittsburgh's last steel mill and its namesake's great humiliation of 1755.  I'm looking forward to reading David Preston's new book, Braddock's Defeat.  He apparently paints the autocratic commander in a much more forgiving light than all historians before him.

Kennywood was a mindless escape after the lofty conceits of the Chautauqua Institution, the gated community where wealthy white liberals gather in retro "cottages" and lecture halls to congratulate themselves on knowing what's best for poor people.

A Place to Lay Your Bones

In the end, I suppose it doesn't much matter where you lay your bones.  You'll be dead and past care.  And yet, I must say that my maternal grandparents are buried in a lovely spot. 

This is Mount Zion Cemetery, near Oak Ridge in Armstrong County, Pennsylvania.  I've been to exactly three interments in this place, and I return all too seldom to see that the graves are being tended...which they are.  Many of my ancestors lie beneath this earth, including great-grandparents and maybe some great-greats.  Isn't it odd how you're descended from complete strangers, people you can never know, but who've passed so much of what they are along to you?  

I'm not even sure if the church here is still used for regular services.  The parking lot is just a little pull-off, big enough for half a dozen cars or so.  No service times are listed.  Maybe it's one of those old country churches where there's only a minister every fifth Sunday in February--or some such thing known only to locals.  You won't find anything about this church on the Internet either.  I'm pretty sure it was one of the old United Evangelical churches, a German-speaking "peace church" that originated in the First Great Awakening of the 1760s and ended up merging with the Methodists.

 And here my grandparents and eccentric bachelor uncle lie among folks with local names like Schrecengost, and Dinger, and Doverspike...

 I'm a proponent of cremation, but there is something nice about having a place like this to return to...as long as loved ones survive to visit.  Once my siblings and I die off, who will come back to this place?  Who will even know how to find it?  Our children won't care.  They won't even wonder where their ancestors are buried--until it's too late to ask.  My own dear grandmother, buried here, tried to get me to take an interest in the family cemeteries when I was young, but what did I care?  I remember none but this one--and this one only because I've stood at so many open graves here.

But look at the clouds scuttling above, the green fields below, the tiny church in its vast graveyard.  You could do worse than to find yourself in this place when it's all said and done.  I think of this countryside as my homeplace in many ways.  I idealize it.  It's bucolic, lovely, and serene.  But living here is out of the question; it's not as idyllic as I imagine it.  There were Trump campaigns signs aplenty--a sure sign of hatred and bigotry.  These people are peace-loving farmers of German descent--just one step away from the Mennonites and two steps away from the Amish.  What kind of fear and anger causes them to support a greedy New York tycoon?

Laurel Highlands Hiking Trail

Overall, the Laurel Highlands Hiking Trail is not especially strenuous.  Most of its 70-mile course runs along the summit of Laurel Ridge, and there aren't a whole lot of ups and downs.  But the seven southernmost miles are the exception, and they are downright brutal.  This well-known overlook is well within the bounds of Ohiopyle State Park.  At about two and a half miles in, this is as far as most people go.

But a friend and I just did an overnight on this end of the trail.  We hiked in as far as the first Laurel Highlands Hiking Trail campground, at 6.3 miles.  And it was arduous.  Some of the climbs were savage, but the descents were even worse--at least for my aging knees.  This is the Youghiogheny River meandering northward among the low mountains.  

The Laurel Highlands are beautiful at any time of year, and May is especially nice.  It was only 6.3 miles each way, and we saw day-hikers practically running the trail.  But we did it with 30-pound backpacks.  I gotta say, it really wore me out.  Starting out at noon from the groovy little outdoorsy town of Ohiopyle, it all seemed so hopeful and, well, possible.  

By the time we reached the little campground, we were more than ready to stop for the night.  One of the great joys of backpacking is arriving at a strange place that is going to be home for one evening and one night--your own little makeshift home in the forest.  Of course, the biggest ascent of all--known to LHHT thru-hikers as "Heart Attack Hill"--is just after this campground (northbound), but we didn't tackle it on this trek.  We spent a pleasant evening and morning in this quiet spot, amid birdcalls and the gentle song of a nearby stream.  The only noises from the outside world were the many trains that passed in the valley below.  Though I go to the woods for silence, train noises are almost acceptable.  Maybe because they're mournful.

Just because I'm always looking for shortcuts, I thought maybe we could trek back to the little town of Ohiopyle (and the car) along the railroad tracks... I really didn't want to have to carry my pack back over those 6.3 miles of trail.  But alas, my friend was afraid to walk along such busy tracks.  He thought a passing train cold throw a rock and hurt us.  And so, we did it the hard way... When we came trudging back into town, I'm sure we looked like survivors of the Bataan Death March.  

On the opposite side of the river, the beautiful rail trail known as "The Great Allegheny Passage" runs smoothly and evenly from Pittsburgh to D.C.  But on this side of the river, all you've got is the LHHT...and it wants you dead.

Some Things I Found in Oakland Today

 One of the coolest things for me about going back to the Carnegie Museums in the Oakland neighborhood of Pittsburgh is the endless possibility of discovery.  I've always been a fan of this enormous metal mural, tucked away in a back gallery of the art museum...but the whole complex abounds with locked doors and hidden rooms.

 I managed to sneak into one of the old foyers that is no longer used.  This room was designed to be one of the vestibules to the grand staircase, but it faces the street instead of the parking lot, and since very few people walk to the museum nowadays, the room has fallen into disuse.

 The eyes in this statue are too creepy.  I could only stand under her gaze for a few seconds before fleeing.

 And here's another room I never knew was there.  I got to hang here for a few minutes, wondering what the heck this place is and how many more majestic rooms sit locked up and hidden from public view.  Most of the time, this room is just another closed door in a marble corridor.  But today I had the good fortune to find it standing open.  There was a tiny kitchen attached to it, so I suppose it can be rented for parties, but it's pretty small for that.  And it has a definite air of disuse about it.  My life needs more rooms like this.

And this is what I like about the whole Oakland neighborhood: the sense that there's so much splendor hidden all around you.  Opportunities for discovery never end.  In fact, that's one of the best things about any city, and especially "old money" towns like Pittsburgh. 

My favorite children's book creates the same sensation.  It's called "The Garden of Abdul Gasazi," by Chris Van Allsburg.  The story itself is good enough.  But the best part is the way the pictures all suggest some great depth and wonder hidden just beyond their purview.  Alan is chasing his runaway dog, and he stumbles into the vast estate of the retired magician, Abdul Gasazi.   The ill-tempered magician invites Alan into his mysterious mansion.  Gasazi hates dogs and warns Alan that any dog straying onto his property gets turned into a duck. Check out the dark doorway in the background.  It could lead to a library with thousands of leatherbound books; it could lead to a ballroom with crystal chandeliers and marble pillars; it could lead down a stone staircase to a dank wine cellar.  Or it could lead to a room like the one I found today in Oakland.

The Netflix Series "Mindhunter," Filmed in Pittsburgh

 I went to work one morning to find the parking lot looking like my childhood.  Just look at all these big old Detroits parked in a beautiful row.

 The ubiquitous woody.  Apparently Netflix is filming a new series here in Pittsburgh entitled "Mindhunter" and based on a nonfiction book about the psychology of serial killers.

 It's directed by Charlize Theron, though she was nowhere to be seen.  I'd never heard of any of the actors.

 This majestic fleet cruised off to the old steel town of Braddock for filming, but they also filmed scenes of the more upscale neighborhoods in Mt. Lebanon.

 It's apparently a very graphic FBI thriller series set in 1979.

Of course, for anything set in the 70s, you've got to have a few Ford LTDs.  It was cold on the day the film crew was here, in the high 40s.  I loved seeing all the Californians bundled up like Eskimos. 

Cross Creek Church and Cemetery

Now this is what I love, a cemetery dating back to the 1700s!  I found an online article about this place a year or two ago.  I'm always amazed at how old the countryside west and south of Pittsburgh is.  There are many old churches and cemeteries dating back to the 18th century--and most of them a little forgotten and forlorn, like Cross Creek United Presbyterian Church, in Washington County, which has many graves of Revolutionary War soldiers.  Mary Patterson--whose headstone is shown here--was buried in 1795.  Click on the photo to enlarge it.

The congregation of Cross Creek Church has been in existence since before the American Revolution.  But sadly, the great majority of these little country churches won't be around in another twenty years.  Despite their great history, their beauty, and their bank-calendar place in the American psyche, the country church is fading fast.  A handful of aging farmwives will not be able to maintain these buildings and cemeteries for very much longer.

The Cross Creek Church is pretty typical of rural Washington County churches: tall and redbrick with the sanctuary on the upper level and the various classrooms and social hall below, but not in a basement.  Notice that there is no cross on the cupola.  These old frontier Protestants tended to avoid all ornamentation and religious symbolism.  It's curious that this place is shuttered as if it's out of business, but it seems well enough maintained.  Do they actually close the shutters every Sunday after services?

 I have a theory as to why the oldest country churches around here are all Presbyterian.  Of course, the Presbyterian Church is the state Church of Scotland, and those old time Scotch-Irish settlers were steadfast Calvinists.  They believed that all things whatsoever were foreordained--war, famine, wealth, personal blessings, and losses.  All things.  And so, they went charging into the American back country before anyone else because they knew that their destiny was already set in stone.  If it was God's design that they were to be scalped by Indians, then so be it.  To them, God's will was always best.  In the words of Darth Vader, "It is your destiny!"

 Fatalism can be a comfortable worldview because it places all the blame for everything on a wise and merciful deity who allows us to suffer only so that good can come of it eventually--according to some mysterious plan that we humans cannot begin to know or grasp.   

 Of course, beliefs are always changing and growing.  There are few left today who hold fast to the idea of a puppetmaster deity who would allow a whole family of settlers to be tortured and massacred according to some secret plan, but who would also help me find my car keys when I lose them... 

I know a lot of Presbyterians, and none of them are fatalists like those old Scotch-Irish pioneers.  And yet, I almost wish I could believe that there was a master plan somewhere out there, governing the universe, guaranteeing that everything will be good in the end.  There's less peace of mind in a world of chance and happenstance.  Where would America be if not for the fatalists of bygone days?