A Peace of Pennsylvania

by Michael Palm

The sun rises quietly over the mountains disturbing only the cold air with its warm touch. A ½ inch covering of virgin snow lay while I slept, leaving the previously rumpled landscape renewed. The only patterns in the newly fallen powder are prints left around my shelter by a hungry raccoon obviously searching for scraps I may have accidentally discarded. Cardinals and chickadees sing and hop from branch to branch, tree to tree welcoming the suns rays into another day. Though winter hiking in southwestern Pennsylvania may not compare to the extremes offered in the Rocky Mountains or the higher Appalachians in New England, the beauty and the natural solitude rival that of both places and may even offer simpler pleasures that the more famous venues do not.

After forcing myself out of the warm confines of my sleeping bag and slipping a fleece pullover atop my long underwear, I begin reviving last night’s fire that still smolders in the lean-to’s fireplace. I estimate the temperature to be around 20 degrees with a slight breeze that only the tops of the tallest trees must endure. I’m pleased with the pleasant January weather, though not El Nìno driven, the winter has been mild thus far. As the fire sparks to life, my thoughts wander to the daring people who brave the weather on Mt. McKinley. With temperatures that drop to 30 degrees below zero and winds that exceed 125 mph, pushing the mercury lower still, it’s hard for me to comprehend why or even how a person could subject themselves to such extremes. I myself am content with simply bonding with nature, inhaling it. Conquering it seems a feeble quest and one that, I feel, is vain and quit simply, in vain. A leisurely 18-mile hike comprising two days is enough excitement for me, and I’m sure many who participate in the mountain sports (hiking, climbing, mountain biking, etc.) will agree, it’s not defeating nature and defying the insurmountable odds, it’s feeling you are one, combined, heart and soul.

My water boils and I stir in my gourmet Irish Creme hot chocolate and take a sip. (Yes, even cocoa has gone yuppie.) I decided a couple weeks ago during the hustle and bustle of the Christmas season that I needed a couple days to relax, reflect and revive. I figured this overnight adventure would calm my nerves and subdue unwanted stress. I call it an adventure because this is the first time in my young 29 years that I needed to get away from society, and have ventured out into the heart of the winter season by myself—a feat not recommended by the masses, but company would have simply undermined the purpose. I wanted a trail that was long enough for an overnight stay, yet not too lengthy to where I needed to rush to finish.

With nearly 20 state parks in the southwest corner of Pennsylvania, finding a trail would be no problem, but finding an overnight trail was much tougher. Unfortunately, nearly all the trails are day hikes except for the Laurel Highlands Trail (LHT), a 70-mile path that connects Johnstown with Ohiopyle. The LHT is a trek that I have done sections of numerous times, though not in the winter, and was hoping to find a trail much less familiar. To my dismay for any other overnighters I would have to head three hours North to the Allegheny National Forest and the North Country Trail, or head four hours East and hike a stitch on the Appalachian Trail, or venture both five hours East and North to Pine Creek Gorge (Pa’s Grand Canyon) and spend the night on the 31-mile West Rim trail. All beautiful trails in there own right but a bit far of a drive for what I had in mind. Remember the point of my trip is to delete unwanted stress, not compound it by adding a lengthy drive, another person for safety reasons and still yet, finding someone who’ll drive that far to pick me up at the terminus of the one way trails and drive me back to my car. So it seems its back to the Old Faithful and an overnighter on the LHT.

After rinsing my mug of the chocolate residue, brushing my teeth and dousing the fire, I decide I’ll get a late start today and begin to explore the LHT’s Ohiopyle campsite. Like the Appalachian Trail, the LHT has designated sites along the way in which to camp. Each site, which are spaced between 8 and 10 miles apart, has five to ten wooden adirondack-type lean-tos and clearings to accommodate, at least, 25 tents. My lean-to, like the others, is made of a sturdy conglomeration of two-by-fours and two-by-sixes, and is big enough to accommodate four adults easily, six with a little bit of a squeeze. The structure is raised about two feet off the ground by stilts and a huge six foot wide chimney and fireplace is centered in the front opening, leaving only six feet of space on either side unprotected. (From my summer hikes I found bringing a tarp to tie up over the opening that gets the wind and the weather helps greatly.)

As I round the corner of my lean-to and head toward the outhouses, nothing more than open pits with toilets, I notice something I wish I would have seen the night before, a pile of split wood stacked neatly against the restroom’s back wall—sure would have saved me from foraging around the campsite for an hour searching for dry branches small enough to break or fit into the lean-to’s fire place. (Remember there is snow on the ground so dry wood isn’t easily come by.) I tread the campground peeking into each lean-to checking if anyone had ventured in during the night. Although I consider myself a light sleeper, especially when camping alone, I remember one time when a family of six had pulled up next to me in the middle of the night in their huge Winnebago. I didn’t even roll over in my sleep, which scared me, especially after reading about two hikers that were trekking in Northern Pakistan. A husband and wife bed down in their tent just above treeline in the Haramosh Valley, when later on that night they were awakened by gun fire. Someone was shooting blindly into their tent! Both were wounded, the husband fatally. Ever since, I’ve tried to sleep with one eye open. But no one took advantage of my “light slumber,” all the buildings were vacant, save a few field mice and a feral cat.

After nosing around a little more, I head back to my lean-to and begin packing up. The sun is completely awake and shining brightly. A woodpecker pokes at a tree and a jet slides across the sky at thirty thousand feet, a little higher than Mt. Everest. I feel elated and energized this morning. Probably because yesterday’s 12-mile hike from Laurel Ridge State Park office at Rt. 653 was an easy walk with barely any gain or loss in elevation. Today’s hike, though considerably shorter, six miles, boasts two mountains and a change in elevation of 1500 feet, twice. I shrug on my pack and adjust the straps. It’s been a couple months since I donned a pack this heavy and my shoulders and lower back make me painfully aware of it. As I take the first few steps toward the end of this trail and the conclusion of my mental and emotional edema, I wonder how the world is fairing without my glum, cynical self. I picture my mother sitting at her work table decorative painting and making crafts, Duke her collie, laying at her feet; my father would have just rolled out of bed and switched on the coffee maker; my brother would be sound asleep for, at least, another four hours; and Lisa, my significant other, would be laying in bed, groggy, but clear minded enough to wonder where on the trail I might be. She would be judging by the quick itinerary I recited to her yesterday before I left and think I would be nearly to the three-mile marker with only three miles to go. But I’m two miles farther away than she suspects and not anxious to hustle through the natural splendor of PA’s backwoods. In fact, the thought of rejoining the chaos of the modern world is unsettling. I slow my pace as I pass the four-mile marker.

The snow crunches under the weight of me, diminishing my chances of seeing any kind of wildlife other than a few scampering chipmunks and the flash, then flutter of a startled grouse. The cold air burns my lungs as I suck in gaping mouthfuls like a hyperventilating claustrophobic. I had packed a little extra, just in case. But as I work my way through the switchbacks up the first of the two mountains, I wish my idea of a little more, was a little less. I don’t believe in being “ready for anything,” especially when backpacking. (The weight of an outdoor generator would be too great.) Yet, the utter silliness of going off on my own in the middle of winter caused me to be more cautious and bring along a few extra things—extra fuel, two of every piece of clothing, an extra jacket, much more food than I’ll need and even an extra pair of boots. (Hey, one never knows when the pair you’re wearing may slip off in the snow, get stolen by wildlife or, more commonly, freeze solid.) As I climb higher, I curse the extras and contemplate tossing a few of the heavier things out—boots, stove, sleeping bag, water bottle, Planters Peanuts, Wilderness First Aid Book. But, alas, I digress and think of the words of my mother as I packed for the trip, “You better take all that you need and more, because I’m not hiking into those woods and dragging your starving, hypothermic butt outta there. I’m too old for that.... Better safe than sorry.” With those words echoing in my head, I put one boot in front of the other and plod up the mountain.

After a slow ascent of the second mountain and a two-mile skirt along the top of the ridge, I stop and rest at an overlook I have seen many times before. The view seems more beautiful than usual. The snow-covered ridge looms high over the Youghiogheny River Valley and the river itself reflects the sky and clouds like a long, serpentine mirror, blemished only by scattered rocks and patches of whitewater. I’m not sure why this vista is so breathtaking today. Maybe it’s because I just traveled sixteen miles to this point and the thought that this is near the end of the trail overwhelms me. Or maybe it’s simply the picturesque white, glittering landscape. Yet, in my heart, I don’t believe it’s either. I believe it’s a feeling, an emotion, the idea that I’m atop this mountain, the last mountain of my trek. It isn’t McKinley or Mitchell or even a mountain that needs to be conquered, it’s simply the mountain I’m standing on, alone, seemingly one with it and the river, the trees, the air, nature. I’m invigorated, stimulated, inspired. I can hear my heart beating. It blends with the pulsing sound of the river and the gentle swooshes of the wind. I close my eyes and take a deep fulfilling breath. Aaaahhhhh..... Then I sit for a few minutes, wishing this wasn’t the end..... I sigh, stand, shrug on my pack, snap my hip belt, adjust my straps and begin to descend the trail to the car, the heater and the chaos.

About the Author

Mike Palm (mpalm@dp.net) is a freelance writer, hiker, rock climber, tennis player, Master degree borrower (he still owes 20k in student loans) and steak flipper (he