Mountaineering is a sport that mixes the pristine beauty of the mountains with harsh, deadly weather, and the rush of adrenaline. Every year, many climbers perish in the wilderness, attempting to reach the summits of rugged peaks. Why would anyone want to risk their life for something so trivial? As the British Mountaineer George Mallory once said, “Because it’s there”.

This winter I decided to test my abilities by attempting winter mountaineering in the Adirondack Mountains in New York. The Adirondacks are a subrange of the Laurentian Mountains of Quebec believed to be formed over 1 billion years ago. The mountains are unlike almost any on the East Coast, rising sharply and steeply into the sky from the St. Lawrence Valley. The tiny towns of Lake Placid and Saranac Lake are the only major populated areas in the high peaks region of the Adirondacks, probably because the winters are brutally cold and snowy. During the winter Saranac Lake often has the lowest temperature of any place in the continental U.S.

It just so happened that the week my friends and I decided to go to the high peaks was also one of the coldest weeks of the year, with temperatures rarely peeking above zero during the day and plunging to as low as -27°F at night. We arranged to stay in a hiker hostel in the town of Lake Placid, and we planned to hike 3 of the high peaks. We had hoped to hike Mount Marcy on the last day, the highest mountain in New York State, towering 5,344 feet above sea level. The summit of Marcy lay in the heart of the High Peak Wilderness and hiking it was a 14 mile round trip trek involving over 3,000 feet of elevation gain and a mile long exposed rock scramble to reach the summit. Marcy would certainly be a great feather in our cap if we could make the arduous ascent.

On January 5, I packed my skis, snowshoes and all the warm clothes that I owned into my mom’s minivan, picked up a few friends and began the seven hour drive northward. When we left Philly the thermometer read thirty four degrees, but by the time we finally arrived in Lake Placid the thermometer was flirting with zero. We paid for our room, unpacked our gear and unwound after our long journey. The owner of the hostel, David talked to us about his experiences in the Adirondacks. He was an avid hiker and he had hiked the 46 highest peaks in the Adirondacks in both winter and summer. It turned out there was a club dedicated to those who complete this feat called the ADK 46’ers. The next morning, we rented a few pairs of trekking poles, snowshoes, hiking crampons, and ice axes from a sporting goods store and set out to climb our first ADK 46’er, Cascade Mountain.

The final scramble to Cascade’s summit

Cascade was a formidable beast, a frozen lake on the right side of the road backed up to a nearly vertical 2,000 foot rock face that rose to Cascade’s bald summit. The rocky summit seemed to be otherworldly, obscured by grey clouds. We set off on our journey and soon found ourselves huffing and puffing up the steep, icy trail. A rainstorm 2 days ago had melted snow on the mountain and turned the trail into an ice flow that we had to dig our crampon spikes into to climb. The trail was so steep that we had to get down on all fours in places and use the ice axe to climb up icy waterfalls of snowmelt. The trees abruptly ended and gave way to the barren summit. We excitedly drove onward, practically running up the rock face. No longer sheltered by the trees, we noticed that the temperature dropped substantially. The temperature was around -5°F with a -15°F wind chill factor. We worked our way to the top and exchanged pleasantries with some fellow hikers, took some pictures and got off the exposed summit as quickly as we could. The first 46’er was a success.

The next day was brutally cold. The wind was gusting at 60 mph in the mountains and the temperature in the morning was -5 and dropping. Snow had been continuously falling since we arrived and the roads were atrocious. Because of the cold, we decided to ski Whiteface, the mountain that held the 1980 Winter Olympics. With over 2’000 feet of vertical drop, it is considered to be one of the best ski mountains on the east coast. We had the privilege of skiing on a day where hardly anyone was out. The wind chill on the summit was -30 °F, a temperature that can cause frostbite on uncovered skin within minutes. The summit lift broke down while we were on it and my friend and I got stuck on it for half an hour before the mechanics could fix the problem. When we got to the top we had minor frostbite on our faces. I wasn’t bothered very much by the lift breaking down but we ended up getting a free lift ticket out of it. By the end of the day, the base temperature on the mountain plummeted to -12°F and we could no longer stand the bitter cold and we headed back to the hostel.

The Hostel was interesting because it had a community vibe. Much of the food was shared, including the meals that I cooked. We shared stories, advice and talked about our hiking plans in the common room at night. On the third night we met a thin, bearded French Canadian named Shubert who planned to hike Marcy the next day. We discussed our plans and agreed that the temperature was much too low and hiking up Marcy was far too dangerous because of the exposure. Shubert decided to climb Algonquin, the second highest peak in the state, which was notoriously windier and more difficult than Marcy. Despite warnings of wind chills of 60 below zero, Shubert was adamant that he was going leave at 7 am the following day to solo climb the summit. We settled for the much lower and less exposed Mount Phelps.

When its 35 below

The next morning I woke at 7 am and read the thermometer, 27 below zero. I went back to bed and decided to wait till the sun came up to leave. An hour later it was a balmy -20. To my surprise, I found Shubert in the kitchen eating a pop tart. I asked him about his hike and he mumbled something about the cold. I offered to drive him to the trailhead and let him hike with us. We got dressed and tried to warm up the car. On the third try the engine sputtered to life. On the way to the trailhead, the car thermometer registered -17 °F. Shubert asked what that was in Celsius, so I switched to metric and it read -27 C. When he saw this his jaw dropped and he said a few curse words that for some reason sounded nicer in his Quebec accent.

View from summit of Phelps

Park rangers stationed at the trailhead warned that the exposed summits were too dangerous to hike to. Shubert ignored them and parted with us to hike Algonquin anyway. The hike up Phelps was steep and icy. Trails in the Adirondacks differed from Pennsylvania trails because they did not switchback their way up the mountain, they went straight up the side. As we neared the top, the pitch became steeper and steeper until we reached a pygmy forest on the flat table lands. The cold wind whipped over the mountain and sapped heat from my body. We crouched to stay out of the wind. We made the summit, a single exposed boulder above pygmy trees, took some photos and went for cover. With wind chill, the temp was -35°F we ate our lunch in a snow cave underneath the pine trees. Our water bottles froze almost instantly after we removed them from their insulated sleeves. I scarfed down two frozen turkey sandwiches, some frozen cookies, and some frozen trail mix. I tried to eat my clementine but it was as hard as a baseball. Both of us were losing feeling in our hands and feet so we scrambled back to the base. We thought there was no way that Shubert had made the summit of Algonquin in this weather and we joked that he was dead, fully aware that it was a real possibility. When we returned to the parking lot a few hours later he was there, inexplicably. We practically hugged him when we had found he had made his journey safely.

The Adirondack Mountains are a very humbling place in the winter. They are beautiful, but deadly.

Hiking Glen Onoko falls in winter with my brother

There is an ad for a pickup truck, a Chevy Silverado or something like that, where some friends are driving around in the woods with cell phones held high desperately trying to lose service. Eventually they find the perfect spot, high up in the mountains where there is a grand view and most importantly, no cell service. This ad, as sickeningly cliché as it was, captures the essence of why we escape to the outdoors. We find peace and the simplicity in the backcountry, where one is away from nagging significant others, the stresses of a jobs and school, and the fast paced nonsense of life in civilization.

In the backcountry, a camper can lay out under the stars and only have to worry about two things; food and whether he is going to be eaten by a bear in the night (in that order.) No other thought is important enough to keep a camper awake at night. Having such a simple lifestyle is refreshing. Carrying all of your worldly possessions with you is satisfying, almost spiritual. After all, according to a famous philosopher who lived 2,000 years ago in Judea, what a man binds on earth will be bound in heaven, and what a man looses on earth will be loosed in heaven (Matthew 16:19).

Noodle ramen- a simple pleasure of the trail

Ironically, it seems the less people there are, the more sociable people are with one another. For example on the streets of Philadelphia, pedestrians do not speak to one another. They rush around like ants, avoiding eye contact or any type of interaction. The needy homeless may as well just be inanimate pieces of the landscape lying on the side of the road. Needless to say, the city of brotherly love doesn’t live up to its name. However, the culture of the backcountry is vastly different. Travelers not only acknowledge one another but they converse. Hikers may only see a few people a day, so conversation is one of the favorite pastimes of the trail. Hikers have the shared experience of the difficulties of the trail, which contributes to a certain camaraderie. We share food, water, gear, stories, and companionship with one another.

The Appalachian Trail has a series of crude lean-to shelters that date back to the CCC work projects of the 1930’s. Some are elaborate buildings with running water and bunks while others are rapidly deteriorating log cabins, etched floor to ceiling with hiker graffiti, complete with hay floors. The austere living arrangements of the AT can be very crowded during the snowy winter months, and hikers and up spending long evenings in close quarters with strangers. To those not used to this lifestyle it may seem dangerous or creepy to stay in shelters with people you don’t know very well, but the culture of the the backcountry is one of acceptance and solidarity.

If ever civilization has you down head out into Penn’s Woods. I guarantee you mother nature can heal any wounds you may have. Remember always the words of John Muir, “…Going in the woods is going home”

*THANK YOU FOR READING MY BLOG ITS BEEN A GREAT 10 WEEKS* – Mike

See ya out there!

climbing wheeler peak, the highest mountain in New Mexico, with “Griz”, a hiker I met near Taos. 

Those who have made the drive from State College to Philadelphia know that just east of Penn State University beyond the Nittany ridge is a beautiful forest. Much of the woodland that can be seen from the 322 is part of Rothrock State Forest, a 215,000 acre tract of land purchased by the Pennsylvania Department of Forests and Waters in 1898. Rothrock State forest is considered to be the beginning of the state forest system.

Rothrock was not always densely wooded and pristine like it is today. During the 19^th century, Pennsylvania’s iron industry demanded coke, a form of charcoal, to run the furnaces.  Iron companies cleared most of Central Pennsylvania’s Forests to produce fuel for the blast furnaces. Pennsylvania’s many coke ovens converted the raw lumber into valuable charcoal. The closest blast furnace, Centre Furnace is still standing and is right next to route 26 just north of State College. Ruins of hundreds of coke and iron furnaces still dot the state to this day, a tribute to the days when Penn’s woods fueled one of the most lucrative industries in the United States.

The Old Growth Forests of PA were almost totally elminiated in the 1800s thanks to the iron Industry in our state http://www.jaha.org/edu/flood/why/img/lumber_gallery/images/timber07.jpg

When the hills east of State College were clear cut, only stumps and dried tree tops were left. The dry, brushy land was very susceptible to wildfires. Sparks from passing locomotives set the hills on fire on several occasions, preventing the regrowth of the forests.

Dr. Joseph Rothrock, the commissioner of the Pennsylvania Department of Forests and Waters recognized how important it was to protect our natural resources by allowing the forests to regenerate. An avid outdoorsman, he also had a soft spot for the woods of Pennsylvania, as he spent much of his childhood hiking in the forests near McVeytown, in Mifflin County, Pennsylvania. In 1897, the purchase of both Sproul and Rothrock State Forest was approved, and in 1898 they became the first state forests in the country.

In order to prevent forest fires, during the 1920’s fire towers were built along Tussey Ridge. Some of these towers still exist, although they were replaced several times over the years. In the 1930’s the CCC built infrastructure in the park, including paths roads, and recreational facilities. Some of these are still in use today. 50 years after the purchase of the tract, the forest had regenerated to the point that lumber could be harvested again. A sustainable forestry initiative began in the 1950’s to manage the hardwood timber in the forest.

Rothrock became a popular hiking, camping, fishing, and mountain biking destination for locals, especially Penn State Students. In 1969, the Penn State Outing Club began work on a trail on the ridgeline in Rothrock. This trail, called the Mid State Trail, was expanded over the years and today it stretches hundreds of miles from the Maryland border to the New York Border. It is hailed as PA’s “wildest trail”. In 2006, a wildfire burned a large area of land just east of Tussey, today the land is regenerating, but charred stumps are still visible in the new growth forests.

View of Bear Meadows in Rothrock http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/d/de/View_of_Bear_Meadows,_Pennsylvania_in_Rothrock_State_Forest_from_the_northwest.JPG

Weaving between the rocks on the ruddy path, I found that I had worked myself into a rhythm. As I peddled up the hill, the trail seemed less and less like a path and more like a river of stones that jutted out of the earth haphazardly.  I navigated between the larger rocks and hopped over them where I could. I took a rest and reached for my water bottle to take a sip. Mountain biking up a trail this steep and rocky was hard work. A group of young ladies was meandering down the path and I got the bright idea that I could impress them by showing off some of my maneuvers. As I charged up the hill, I judged that I could hop over a rock about the height of a curb and went for it. Before I knew it I was down in the dirt with my bike on top of me. Feeling pathetic, I hopped up right away and started walking my bike. They asked if I was okay and I said yeah and mumbled something about the trail being rough. Luckily the only thing that was hurt was my pride.

Central Pennsylvania is home to some of the most exciting, challenging mountain bike trails in North America. The Allegrippis trail at Raystown Lake was voted the number one mountain biking trail in Pennsylvania by Singletracks magazine. Other highly rated trails are in Rothrock State Forest, just east of State College. Some of these are Tussey Mountain trail, the Stupid 50, and the Cooper’s Gap trail. This weekend I was at Shingletown Gap in Rothrock State Forest taking a stab at one of the famed trails of Central PA.

The fad of Mountain Biking started in California in the mid 70’s. Cyclists would fix up old beach cruisers and put thick tires on them to make bikes more suited for downhill racing on the mountain fire roads near San Francisco. The sport caught on and eventually, bicycle companies began selling bikes specifically designed for the sport. The first company to commercially make such a bike was Fisher Mountain Bikes, which was bought by Trek and still exists today as the Gary Fisher Collection. In the 1990s the popularity of the sport exploded as ski resorts built trails to attract summer visitors. In 1996 it was made an Olympic sport.

Trails are rated based on how “flowy” (smooth and flowing) or “techy” (technical) they are. The easiest are green circles, followed by blue squares, then black diamonds and double black diamonds. Many trails in the State College area are considered black diamonds are considered very technical because of the abundance of rocks found on Tussey ridge. On Sunday I rode the Lower Trail which is a single track trail that climbs over 500 feet out of Shingletown Gap alongside the creek to the ridgeline before joining with the Mid-State trail. Although the first half mile of the ride was rocky and challenging, after that the trail became a smooth climb up to the ridge. The ride down was quick and exciting, my bike withstood the abuse from rolling over rock after rock on the fast paced ride down to the valley floor.

The petite, fragile looking redhead with a thick Mississippi accent hoisted my pack over her shoulders with an exaggerated effort, made a face as if she were Atlas, set it down and said, “Still too heavy!” I rolled my eyes, dumped out the contents and combed through them deciding what to get rid of to cut weight. It annoyed me that someone was telling me how I should pack my own bag, but I had begrudging respect for audacity. Most of my possessions were absolute necessities: a food bag, a stove, 800 mil of stove fuel, 2 liters of water, my zero degree sleeping bag, a sleeping pad, toiletries, a winter coat, extra socks, camp shoes, and raingear. I tossed my winter jacket aside and some of my toiletries (who needs deodorant anyway?)

I would probably regret leaving my winter jacket as snow was in the forecast and we were camping without tents, “survivalist style”. My fellow Adventure Rec trainees and I were spending the weekend in the woods to learn the best way to teach Penn State students backcountry skills. Our focus was on “leave no trace” the principle that hikers should leave their surroundings, especially their campsites, as pristine as they find them.

We headed out Friday night to backpack the Moss-Hanne trail in Black Moshannon State Forest. By the time we reached the trailhead it was around 9:00 PM and a light rain was falling. We hiked for a short while down an old logging road until we found a suitable campsite. The males in the group claimed the land at the confluence of two creeks, strung up a tarp and dubbed the camp “Fort Pitt” while the girls set up camp in the pines opposite us. We had a riveting discussion that night with our instructors about how to properly defecate in the woods.

The next morning we got an early start and hiked about ten miles through the mud and rain through the swamps of Black Mo the lake where we did some canoeing. A strong wind blew us across the lake and made it difficult to get back. During the ordeal our leader Danny, flipped his canoe (on purpose) to demonstrate a water rescue situation. The lake at Black Moshannon was shallow, swampy, and filled with lily pads. It also had a reddish hue from the tannins leached into the water by plant life.

http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/b/b5/Black_Moshannon_SP_Lake_Panorama.jpg/1500px-Black_Moshannon_SP_Lake_Panorama.jpg

We then feasted on a hearty meal of tortillas, pepperoni, and cheese before continuing our hike to our campground for the night. We chose our campsite, strung up our tarps, and got ready for dinner. A fellow camper and I taught a quick lesson on stove safety and camp cooking before we started to prepare our meal, Kraft mac and cheese. I was promptly relieved of my cooking duty when I burned the first batch of easy mac.

The next morning we woke up in the bitter cold to a pleasant surprise, a light dusting of snow! We broke camp, ate some oatmeal and cocoa and headed for Coonscat Cave, one of Central Pennsylvania’s many limestone caves. I was especially excited for caving because I had never done it before. The cave entrance was surprisingly small, a little bigger than a groundhog hole, and I doubted my ability to fit. It suddenly occurred to me that crawling through tight spaces in an underground hole might be a little bit frightening. I kept my cool and squeezed down into the entrance feeling with my feet into the pitch darkness. When I felt solid ground, I turned my headlamp on and walked into the first room. The air was damp and fairly warm, and the thick scent of mud hung in the air.

The floor of the cave was made up of sticky red clay and the only way to get from room to room was to army crawl through the muck. The deeper into the cave we went, the more pristine the formations were. Large stalactites hung from the ceiling, thousands of years in the making, along with ribbons of “cave bacon” and soda straws – tiny hollow stalactites. The deepest recesses of the cave were accessible through a long narrow passageway scarcely wide enough to fit through. I got my chest stuck in a tight spot which caused me to panic a little. I did not like the thought of being trapped underground. I was eventually able to wriggle my way out by relaxing my and breathing out slowly to reduce the size of my chest cavity. I also got stuck for close to 20 minutes in another tight squeeze called “the window” I pushed my torso through the hole in the rock and discovered my rear end was stuck. After a good bit of struggling I finally had to strip down to my underwear in order to slide through the rock formation.

My weekend trip with Adventure Rec was incredibly tiring and challenging, but it was also rewarding. I pushed myself well outside of my comfort zone and learned valuable new skills that will serve me well as an outdoor guide at Penn State.

The Cliffs of North Fork Mountain, WV

As the days get shorter and the night temperatures begin plummeting into the 30’s and 40’s, the deciduous forests of the eastern United States undergo an amazing transformation. The cold weather and lack of sunlight causes the chlorophyll in the leaves breaks down, leaving behind other pigments carotenoids and anthocyanin, the spectacular fall colors that we know. Around mid-October, the woods reach their peak color, and the hillsides are an amazing mottled variety of reds, greens, yellows, and oranges.

This is my favorite time of year to be in the outdoors. The crisp air is a cool reprieve from the heat and humidity of summer, the insects have died off, and the vistas are even more breathtaking than usual.

The week dragged on as usual and I grew restless. I had this idea in the back of my mind that I wanted to take a road trip. Where to? Anywhere really, just as long as it was wild and scenic. West Virginia came to mind. It was the destination of many childhood family road trips and I knew firsthand the spectacular natural beauty the state had. Vivid memories of watching the lofty mountains, clear mountain streams, and pastoral scenery pass by from the back seat of a cramped minivan filled my head along with recollections of the dingy old hotel in Capon Springs we would stay in when visiting family.

I compiled my camping gear for the weekend and kept my eye on the weather. The weather report for Elkins had a 50% chance of rain on Saturday and a 40% chance on Sunday. I was willing to take a gamble. The trail I had selected was the North Fork Mountain Trail in the Spruce Knob-Seneca Rocks Recreation Area. Fork Mountain is an incredible geological feature, it is a steep, rugged ridge that rises to over 4,500 feet above sea level, and is flanked by the Potomac River. The western side of the ridge is features large outcroppings of Tucarora Quartzite that form spectacular cliffs and rock formations such as the chimney rocks, haystack rocks, and Seneca rocks. These rock formations provide incredible panoramic views of the West Virginia wilds.

On Saturday my girlfriend and I got an early start, packed the car and headed down I-99. All around us the mountains were bursting with color. Dark clouds hung over us and it started to rain shortly after we crossed the Mason-Dixon line into Maryland. Driving through West Virginia was beautiful but the weather was cool and foggy. Mountain peaks were shrouded in clouds and smoky fog rose from the hollows. Our GPS lost signal and we found ourselves lost for a short while so we popped into a local Post Office to ask for directions. The situation seemed like something out of Deliverance. The two women who worked there had never heard of the mountain we were heading to and were utterly confused when I pointed it out on the map. They said something about heading to a place called “Smoke Holler” in broken Appalachian English and we headed back out in search of a place by the name of smoke holler. A few minutes later we located a little dirt road called smoke hole road and headed down it and found the path about a quarter of a mile down the road.

The lot for the trail had two other cars, a fellow hiker and some local hunters. We started up the path. The path was steep and narrow at points and we were surrounded on all sides by rhododendrons. As we climbed higher, the air became cooler and foggier until eventually the visibility was only a few dozen yards. As we neared the top of the ridge, the colorful hardwoods we had seen towards the base were replaced by stunted, gnarly, mountain pines with charred trunks. The groundcover was a springy mixture of sand and pine needles, perfect for camping!

Looking off of the cliffs was dizzying. I couldn’t tell how high I was or see any scenery, only white. It was incredible! We were up in the clouds and the valley below us was totally obscured by a thick white canvas. We set up camp and hiked another mile or so without packs to try and find the famous “chimney rocks” but it started to get dark so we headed back to camp to cook dinner. For dinner I prepared two servings of freeze dried lasagna which we ate ravenously along with beef jerky, trail mix, and cookies. While heating water to clean our bowls and utensils, the stove burst into flames and I doused it in some of our drinking water. The flames only shot higher. I considered hurling it off the cliff, but decided that would not be smart, so I stuck my hand into the flame to turn off the gas (burning my hand in the process) and dumped water on it to stop the flames. As the night settled in the woods were eerily quiet and the air began to cool so we retired to the tent for the night.

“Falcon Cliffs”

Our Camp

The next morning we woke up early to prepare breakfast. As we crawled from the tent we were surprised to see the clouds had settled down into the valley affording us an incredible, if not eerie, view. The clouds looked like a flowing body of water which covered everything except for the peaks of nearby mountains. The air was a frigid 35 degrees so we hastily made ourselves some oatmeal for breakfast, broke camp and set off. At around 7 am we watched the sunrise from our perch high above the clouds and headed down the trail.

On our way home we were pulled over by the Hampshire County Police in the tiny town of Romney for speeding. After making us sweat it out for a while, she let us off with a warning. I got the feeling that us Yankee tourists were not looked upon favorably in the tiny hamlets and hollers of West Virginia. (once again it was like a scene from Deliverance)  While my adventure in West Virginia was fun     I was glad to be headed back to PSU!

Clouds covering the Potomac Water Gap at Dawn

The ancient, misty mountains of the east are iconic. They were the original frontier, the place of the fabled Indian wars of the 17^th and 18^th centuries, the settling place for the Scots-Irish people and the home of the famous Daniel Boone. The mountains remain captivating to the American People to this day. There is a certain aura of mystery that goes along with the Appalachian Mountains.

For hundreds of years the people of Appalachia were isolated from the Easterners. They developed a totally different culture and way of life in the mountains, influenced by Scottish and Irish culture and by their hard frontier lifestyle.  Fighting was a way of life as the threat of native attack was real in in the backcountry. These early frontiersmen laid down the foundation of what came to be known as the American way of life. They were gun-toting, religious, frugal, and hardworking. These were the Scots-Irish, known better as hillbillies.

In the early 20^th century the country saw a revival in interest of the mountain folk, possibly because the Scots-Irish were prolific moonshiners during prohibition. The country also had a new interest in conservation and outdoorsmanship. It seemed only natural that people would want to visit the Appalachians to experience the beautiful scenery of the mountains and its people first hand. Benton MacKaye, a government analyst dreamed up a big idea, a footpath that would stretch thousands of miles through some of the most rugged and scenic country in the east from Mt. Ogelthorpe Georgia, to Baxter Peak in Northern Maine. He called the idea “An Appalachian Trail”

Over the course of about ten years, hundreds of volunteers blazed paths through the backcountry to form the trail. An iconic white mark was painted on trees, rocks, and fenceposts to lead a hiker in the right direction. In 1937 all 2,180 miles of the trail were finished. The trail was not heavily used until after the depression and World War 2 as leisure travel was not common during these times. The first hiker to walk from end to end was Earl V Shaffer, a Pennsylvania veteran who hiked from Georgia to Maine in 1948.

Every year around 2,500 “thru hikers” attempt this daunting trek. Only about one in every four who set out to hike the entire trail in one season actually finishes.

Pennsylvania’s 230 mile section of the trail lies in the middle of the trek. It is jokingly called ‘the place where boots go to die” because it is notoriously rocky. The trail begins in the remote mountains of south central PA where it follows ridgelines to the Susquehanna River. It then climbs steeply up the rocky Kittatinny Ridge and jogs northeast through Pennsylvania’s beautiful farm country before reaching the Delaware Water Gap in Northeast Pennsylvania.

The Appalachian Trail provides a wonderful way for both experienced and novice outdoorsmen to get outside and explore the wilds of Pennsylvania. Some of the best sections of the trail in Pennsylvania are the Delaware Water Gap, The Lehigh Gap, and the Pinnacle on Blue Mountain, all three of which have incredible views.

The Pinnacle

In the loneliest corner of the state, a place called the “Pennsylvania wilds” the frontier lifestyle is still alive and well. Isolated hamlets with odd names like “Ansonia”, “Leetonia”, and “Jersey Shore” dot the map here and there separated by patchwork farmland and vast forests. The roads that connect these towns are long, windy, and for the most part unused. Signs of human inhabitance are few and far between on these roads; a cabin here, a dilapidated barn there – picturesque poverty.

This beautiful region of Pennsylvania is home to many scenic attractions, but probably the most famous of which is the Pine Creek Gorge, “the Grand Canyon of PA”. The Gorge is a 1000 foot deep canyon carved out over thousands of years by the rushing waters of Pine Creek. The Pine Creek Gorge is a haven for kayakers, canoeists, fishermen, mountain bikers and hunters alike, but what drew me here was the famous West Rim Trail. The West Rim trail is largely considered to be the best backpacking trail in Pennsylvania because of its isolation, difficulty, and splendid views of the canyon.

In August of 2013 I set out for Tioga County ready for adventure. My plan was to drive to the northern terminus of the trail and take a shuttle to the start of the trail, then backpack 30 miles over two days back to my car. My forty pound backpack contained everything I needed for the journey, a tent, bedding, a small stove, dehydrated food, a few jugs of water, first aid, and a water filter. This was my first solo backpacking trip so I had to be extra careful, especially because of my isolation.

On the shuttle ride down, the driver gave me the number of the outfitter in case I got lost or wanted to be picked up. When I finally got to the southern trailhead, it was noon and heat and humidity was stifling. I started at the bottom of the canyon and climbed the steep two mile ascent up to the west rim. The views of the gorge were obscured by the increasing humidity. Sweat ran down my face, into my eyes making them burn. The weight of my pack seemed to get heavier with each step. Mud coated my boots and the hems of my pants. After 12 miles of trudging through the tropical heat I reached a suitable campsite.

A stand of white pines at the rim of the canyon was my home for the night. The ground was a soft, springy bed of pine needles, there was plenty of standing dead wood for a fire, and my tent was only a few yards from the canyon rim, a nearly vertical drop to the valley floor. As the forest darkened I lit a fire and tried to dry my sweat-soaked muddy clothes. I sat by the fire and stared absent-mindedly over the rim and out into the canyon. I heard nothing. It didn’t surprise me, I hadn’t seen anyone since leaving and I had no cell service.

Suddenly a furry black head peeked over the rim of the canyon. It took a split second for me to realize what it was. The hefty black bear lumbered over the edge of the canyon, through my campsite and into the bushes like a clumsy dog. I reached down for my combat knife and screamed like a wild animal, trying to sound threatening despite my obvious fear. Needless to say I spent a majority of the night lying sleepless in my tent, one hand on my knife. A heavy thunderstorm blew water into my tent later in the night, ensuring that sleep would be literally impossible.

During the storm, I heard the sound of large sticks breaking in the understory, signaling the return of the bear. My hairs stood on end, adrenaline rushed through my bloodstream and I clutched my knife. All I could think about was the recent news story of a father being dragged from his tent and mauled by an American Black Bear. I said a few rushed prayers for daylight to come soon.

At first light I broke camp and hiked off into the fog, trying to put the past night’s experience behind me. I was graced by beautiful weather and outstanding views of the canyon, along with the peace and solitude that goes along with having the trail all to yourself.

“The PA Grand Canyon”- Pine Creek Gorge

Foster Joseph Sayers Reservoir, known to locals as simply “Bald Eagle Lake”, is a 1,700 acre impoundment of Bald Eagle Creek 30 miles north of campus. The lake is the jewel of Bald Eagle State Park. It is deep and narrow, nestled in a valley between the Appalachian ridges and the Vast Allegheny plateau. On a crisp fall afternoon there are few sights as beautiful as Bald Eagle Lake reflecting the changing foliage of the surrounding mountains and the golden glow of the sunset.

Several times a week, the still of the lake is broken by Penn State’s Crew team. At the command “Waist, Ready, Up!” We hoist the long narrow racing shells onto our shoulders and carry them into knee deep water. The air has a chill but the water is still warm and crystal clear. When we all manage to get into the boat the scene is almost comical, eight large men and a coxswain (the teammate who yells out commands) all sitting in a tiny boat with scarcely enough room to move. Each rower’s feet are strapped into the boat and his rear is situated on a sliding seat. At the command “Ready all, Row!” The simultaneous stroke of the eight rowers jolts the boat to life.

Once the racing shell is underway and all rowers are in sync the feeling of satisfaction is immeasurable. The rhythm of the strokes along with the gentle whoosh of water as the craft moves backwards across the lake puts you in a trance. While in this trance, you only think about keeping in unison. Each stroke is delicately choreographed to match the one of the person to your aft. The concentration of the rowers is broken by the shout of the coxswain beginning drills, “Stern four in two, in one!”

Eventually the last traces of dusk fade from the sky and the team rows blindly through the darkness. Headlamps attract clouds of insects that rise from the surface of the lake along with bats that flit about like phantoms. A million specks of light fill the night sky above us, twinkling in the chilly mountain air. When the practice final ends we look up at this magnificent display and are thankful.

Bald Eagle Lake is one of the most beautiful places in Central Pennsylvania. Its clean water, abundant wildlife and remoteness make it a very special place. Every time I travel to Bald Eagle with the crew team, I am reminded of how beautiful and wild our state is and how lucky we are to have such amazing resources.

A few weeks ago I heard about a job on campus that sounded too good to be true: “adventure recreation guide”. My mind went wild when I thought of the possibilities. As an adventure rec guide I would be paid to be able to do what I love, hike, paddle, bike, camp, and climb. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to learn more about the outdoors and to teach others and maybe even inspire a love of nature in them. I signed up and after weeks of paperwork and red tape, I was finally ready to begin my semester long training class, called ARO (adventure recreation orientation).

Our first destination was Stone Valley Recreation Area, a campus-run park complete with miles of hiking trails, a climbing wall, and a lake all nestled in the wooded valley east of campus. The lake looked a little sad; it was very low because they had just finished repairing the dam after seven years of leaving the lakebed dry. They assured us the lake would be full by April and ready for kayaking and canoeing, but for now the lake was muddy and a little stagnant. An old catboat sat in total disrepair on the bank, looking very out of place. When the sun started to set clouds of mosquitos moved off the lake like fog, making all 11 trainees shake, twitch, and swat uncontrollably.

Our task for the night was to complete the vertical adventure high ropes course, a series of towers connected by steel cables, rope, and wooden platforms. From the ground the contraption was incredibly imposing. We split into two teams and suited up in our comical climbing gear, complete with headlamps, harnesses and “lobster claws” (a climbing device that allows you to clip onto a cable to keep from falling to the ground). Our leader asked us how we felt; we lied and said we felt comfortable.

The next two hours we spent forty feet in the air walking tight ropes, leaping on platforms and gripping ropes. Each 30- yard course had to be done in a group, which in some cases made it harder, and in others made it easier. One course called the Jacob’s latter was simply a series of four tight ropes that had to be crossed. The six in our group formed a single unit, and by leaning on each other’s shoulders for support, were able to safely cross the tight ropes without falling. Another was a series of timbers supported by heavy ropes with large gaps that had to be leapt to safely reach the other side.

Through the high ropes course our adventure rec class learned the importance of teamwork in the outdoors. We worked together to assess situations and come up with plans. The same skills are used all the time in hiking, mountaineering, and paddling. If a dangerous situation arises, the group needs to keep cool and stay together to work as a team. The ropes course at Stone Valley was fun, helpful and challenging, a great way to start training in adventure rec.