Monday, February 27, 2012

Canyonlands, PA


Last September I spent a week in Canyonlands National Park, a week highlighted by a day hike to the remote confluence of the Green and Colorado Rivers and a backcountry overnighter to Druids Arch mixed with shorter explorations of various slot canyons and archeological sites from petroglyphs and Anasazi ruins to remnants of the early pioneer days. 

Last weekend I visited another remote confluence, two natural bridges and a “slot canyon” all within an hour’s drive of Pittsburgh, all within two miles of a trailhead in the rolling farmland of Western Pennsylvania. 

The particular locale is McConnell’s Mills State Park, home to what after Intercourse and Bird-in-Hand may be the butt of more jokes than any other locale in the Keystone state: Slippery Rock Creek.  The creek – which would qualify as a full-fledged river in many places – got its name from the Native Americans who found rocks near its headwaters quite, well, slippery thanks to the petroleum seeping to the surface; petroleum destined to be tapped by Edwin Drake in nearby Titusville, sparking the dawn on the petroleum age in 1859.

As you might deduce, McConnell’s Mill State Park is best known for the picturesque mill and covered bridge on Slippery Rock Creek just before it carves its way through a 600’ gorge en route to the Beaver and, later, Ohio Rivers. Understandably so.  The mill and bridge are the stuff of post-cards and, with an occasionally rugged trail running alongside the fast-flowing creek, a draw for hikers, canoeists, rafters, anglers, rock climbers and photographers alike.

Four or five miles downstream, Hell Run flows into Slippery Rock Creek after a trip down a less dramatic but more idyllic gorge lined on each side by trails.  The trailhead at the beginning of that journey offers little hint of the wonders to come.  To all appearances, Hell Run is little more (or less) than a stream meandering through a woodsy glen, steps away from farms whose livestock is audible for the first few hundred yards of the hike.  The trail quickly presents you with a choice: bear right to the Hell’s Hollow Trail or left for the very much longer and demanding Slippery Rock Gorge trail leading to the confluence of Hell Run and Slippery Rock Creeks and, ultimately, McConnell’s Mills. 

On the right fork you quickly enter a world apart, as Hell Run splashes over a series of ledges before carving through multiple thin bands of shale in a narrow, if not particularly deep “slot canyon.”  The shiny gray-black walls contrast with alternating carpets of dry brown leaves, brilliant white snow and velvety yellow-green moss decorated with crystalline icycles dangling from the rock layercake.  Further along, the watercourse crosses a broad shelf with barely enough water to dampen the whole expanse, creating a wafer-thin water sculpture in the bargain.

There’s much more to come.  A few yards further along the trail stand the remnants of a 19th century lime kiln.  A nearby staircase leads down to the water’s edge beside Hell’s Hollow Falls, a twenty foot cascade plunging into a shaded pool broken-up by a jumble of fallen trees and boulders – made treacherously slippery this day not by petroleum but a thin coating of ice.

And what of the trail on the other side?  Retrace your steps up Hell Run, cross a sturdy wooden bridge and you join the Slippery Rock Gorge trail, which happens to be a two mile segment of the North Country Trail, a “work in progress” that, when finished will stretch some 4,600 miles across seven states from South Dakota to New York and take its place alongside the Appalachian, Continental Divide and Pacific Crest Trails as one of America’s great long distance through hikes.

It’s hard to imagine any two miles of the North Country Trail will be more delightful than these.  While it’s hardly a rigorous two miles, there are ups and downs aplenty, some fairly steep, multiple stream crossings and not one but two natural bridges created by streams undercutting the limestone as they plunge to Hell Run hundreds of feet below. 

This time of year (and probably deep into April and perhaps early May) the natural bridges do double duty as ice caves, their dark interiors five or ten degrees cooler than the surface world and never seeing the light of day, at least directly.

Pressing-on, the omnipresent sounds of Hell Run are eventually drowned-out by a greater din, the sounds of Slippery Rock Creek.  Heard but not seen, Slippery Rock Creek is directly ahead as the trail makes a sharp left and heads towards Walnut Flats, the Eckert Bridge and, ultimately, McConnell's Mills.  This day, however, my destination is the confluence of Hell Run and Slippery Rock Creeks, a couple of hundred feet down a steep hillside on an unofficial trail.

From the moment I first laid eyes on the point of land between the two water courses several years ago, it’s been my ambition to camp there overnight.  It’s an ideal campsite, a flat, wooded parklet of sorts with lots boulders for shelves and seats around a spot that has obviously been used for many a campfire . . . as it is this day.  A trail of smoke rises to greet me as I clamor down the hillside and spy a man and three boys fishing nearby on Slippery Rock Creek.  Unless they intend to flout Pennsylvania Department of Conservation and Natural Resources rules, however, they will not be spending the night . . . although I can’t say the thought hasn’t occurred to me that it would be worth risking the wrath of the DCNR to slip in here with a tent and sleeping bag on my back just before dark some midweek summer’s evening.

No matter, it’s a perfectly wonderful place to spend an afternoon, lounging in the sun by the rushing waters of Slippery Rock Creek , or exploring the final quarter mile of Hell Run as it ends with the flourish of two elegant little waterfalls.

On a chilly winter’s day though, Slippery Rock Creek is no place for lounging.  It’s not so chilly as to discourage a leisurely lunch of PBJ, apple and Luna bar mind you, but it’s a far cry from the sun-drenched summer afternoons that have seen me doze away the hours listening to the waters hurrying towards the Ohio River.  

So with a wave to the fishermen of all ages, it’s a brisk climb back up the hill, over the natural bridges and through the woods to the trailhead . . . and back to a Pittsburgh few know lies just an hour away from the most beautiful natural bridges and slot canyon this side of Canyonlands National Park.    

Tuesday, February 14, 2012

Size Doesn't Matter


When it comes to appreciating nature, size doesn’t much matter.  No matter how big or small a natural feature, event or being, there’s always something else out there even bigger or smaller or, more importantly, every bit as compelling.

I was reminded of that fact while hiking through Cook Forest on Super Bowl Sunday.  Situated on the Clarion River in northwestern Pennsylvania, Cook Forest was established in 1927 to preserve some of the last remaining stretches of old growth forest in a state whose vast woodlands had been “harvested” by the timber industry in the 1800s.   Among the leaders in that timber industry was the Cook family whose scion – John – built a sawmill on 765 acres he purchased in 1828 at the confluence of Tom’s Run and the Clarion River. After his father’s death, Anthony Cook added two more sawmills to the business and prospered handsomely, but in the early 1900s the A Cook Sons Company began exploring ways of preserving some of the remaining virgin timberland.
In cooperation with the Cook Forest Association, A Cook Sons Company effectively “ate” the taxes on their forest holdings for more than two decades before the state legislature approved the purchase of the land – based on the condition that the Cook Forest Association raise the funds to purchase 6,000 adjoining acres.  That they did, and in 1928 Cook Forest became the first Pennsylvania state park dedicated to a natural landmark.

And what a natural landmark.   A hike along nearly any of the park’s 29 miles of trails quickly transports you into a primeval forest of towering white pines, hemlocks and hardwoods largely untouched by the ax or saw of Man since the earliest pioneers visited the area in the mid-1700s.  Those evergreens are among the tallest remaining trees east of the Mississippi, cresting 160’ and more above a floor carpeted in fallen pine needles and leaves, lush pockets of ferns and wind-downed trees covered in an emerald cushion of moss punctuated by various fungi and the first tentative sprouts of a new generation of trees that won't reach full maturity until the 22nd or 23rd centuries.

Of course, Cook Forest’s white pines and hemlocks would be little more than saplings in California’s groves of redwoods and giant sequoias.  But as I said, size doesn’t much matter when it comes to appreciating nature.  I can hardly imagine being more (or less) profoundly affected by a stroll through a grove of redwoods or sequoias than through the majestic calm of the Cook Forest’s “Forest Cathedral.”

Stand amid a stillness broken only by the tops of the evergreens softly hissssing in the high breezes and you can’t help but feel a sense of reverence, what Paul Woodruff calls “the capacity to be in awe of whatever we believe lies outside our control.”

Somewhere hereabouts stands the Longfellow Pine, said to be THE tallest tree in the northeastern United States at 182’.  I say “somewhere” as, unlike Sequoia National Park’s celebrated General Sherman tree (274.9’) for example, the Longfellow Pine stands in anonymity among its neighbors, no signs marking its presence, no trails directing visitors and hikers to its precise location.

Small wonder.  A glance around the Forest Cathedral reveals that, unlike the corrugated bark of the pines and hemlocks, the smooth trunks of many hardwoods have been (and continue to be) defaced by irreverent Kilroys whose egos are inflated by scratching their Lilliputian marks on the Ents of Cook Forest.  One can readily imagine what might befall (literally) the Longfellow Pine were its precise location widely advertised. 

But it is not only the towering evergreens which ought to trigger that “sense of awe at things outside our control” in Cook Forest.   A small chunk of wood lying among the giants felled by a 1956 micro-burst reveals a riot of swirling graining patterns of such incredible delicacy as to be worthy of any art museum – patterns no doubt endlessly mimicked but never quite duplicated in the tens of millions of board feet surrounding the Forest Cathedral.

Imagine the time and natural forces necessary to create such exquisite work.  Imagine further that it sprang from a seed that was, in turn, nurtured, shaped and – finally – brought crashing down by the sun, rains, snows and winds of two hundred or more springs, summers, fall and winters.   And that white pines, hemlocks, oaks, beech, maples, cherry and white ash almost beyond number have already taken its place and continue to thrive in this special corner of Pennsylvania called Cook Forest.