On the Trail

Little Juniata Natural Area, Rothrock State Forest

Oct. 2016

The little Juniata River Natural Area is a non-loop trail in Rothrock State Forest just outside the quaint village of Barree about 5 miles Northeast of Alexandria, PA in Huntingdon County. The Little “J” is the smaller branch of the Juniata river and is a part of the Susquehanna watershed.  After the recent days of 40 mph wind gusts, most of the bright fall foliage along the banks is gone and the bare limbs overhanging the banks look like November. But we didn’t come for the trees; we have come for the taste of Autumn on the tongue. Breathe deeply through the nose and hold that breath at the back and top of the mouth like a good whiskey… it, too, flavors of aged wood.

The stream finally looks full and healthy after the weekend rains: the smoky green rapids of good trout water. In fact, we pass more than one fly fisher coming out the trail head. Fall signals our favorite hiking weather, in part, because we tend to have most trails to ourselves. Although we aren’t in true wilderness, one catches a glimpse when footprints fade and the sound of boot and paw in thick leaves and humus echoes off the bluffs of limestone overhanging the narrowest bends of the trail. There is some speculation as to the Native American translation of “Juniata.” The rough translation from Iroquoian is “standing stone.” Rumor has it that there was a giant standing stone where the town of Huntingdon now sits and which disappeared when the tribe was pushed out by white settlers. Some of the limestone boulders are large as houses, some in groups like giants squatting round in a circle; others lonely pillars like ancient monoliths from some long-gone stone age ring.

One would never guess that Rothrock State Forest (named after the famed conservationist, Joseph Rockrock) was created in direct response to the deforestation occurring in PA in 19^th century: trees march up from the trail over scree to the summit of each ridge— a myriad of oak, beech, maple, birch, ash, hemlock, and spruce; however, to the naturalist’s trained eye, the absence of abundant dead fall marks this forest as rather new.  At this time of year, the leaf mold is thick, but one can find the stray mushroom holding onto the mild afternoons; others are well into rot and smell of roadkill. We had hoped to find the stray hen of the woods or maybe a lingering chanterelle, but the season is well and truly over for mushroom foraging.

Up ahead, Onoko lifts her muzzle to the wind tunneling downstream, funneled through the river gorge, as she is so wont to do. This time her gaze lingers and her head slowly tracks the thermal path of turkey vultures high above, the almost unbalanced bobble of wings giving them away. Up ahead, something is on its way to dust and I muse on the efficiency of nature: nothing is wasted and all gives life, even in death.   Someday, I too, may make my way into some scavenger’s gullet. The thought, as macabre as one might think, is queerly comforting: that I should be so lucky to remain on a trail in perpetuity, cycling through life over and over.

But, here we are, almost at the end of the trail, the “posted” signs a barrier that signals we can go no further:  herein lies the edge of civilization, follow your footsteps back through this tunnel between signposts. We stop when we must, but Onoko pulls against her lead, not understanding why we just can’t keep going round that next bend where some what if waits.  I’m reminded of a line from Galway Kinnell’s, “Dear Stranger, Extant in Memory by the Blue Juniata:”

At dusk, by the blue Juniata-
“a rural America,” the magazine said,
“now vanished, but extant in memory,
a primal garden lost forever . . .”
(“You see,” I told Mama, “we just think we’re here . . .”)

Sometimes I wonder at how my imagination creates histories of places I have not seen: I guess it’s in knowing the what ifs are there, around the bend, held there in some memory yet to happen. Onoko can smell it, just up ahead. She gives one last reluctant tug, then follows, slower. She is no longer concerned with being first to see what’s up ahead; the trail has ended and it’s time to return.

On the Trail

By Amanda Passmore-Ott

Turkey Path, Colton Point State Park, Tioga County, PA

Oct., 2016

“Thousands of tired, nerve-shaken, over-civilized people are beginning to find out going to the mountains is going home; that wilderness is a necessity…”  John Muir

            I had climbed mountains of papers and descended again. This weekend I planned to completely unplug, to become unavailable to any other than myself, my husband, my husky and, yes, the mountains and narrow valleys of the Quehanna Wild Area and Susquehanna National Forest. We all need it, in our own ways: the unfurling hunch of shoulders over the keyboard. I find my recharge exploring a trail, and it is the best holistic medicine. We wound our way north to the plateau of the Quehanna Wild Area where reintroduced elk herds bugle in the rut; there, we finally left the lingering green and found Autumn. If one continues North and East, past the valleys of the Sinnemahoning river and across to Tioga County, the hidden gorge of Pine Creek is found tucked between Colton Point and Leonard-Harrison State Parks. While both parks become crowded between 11-5 during peak foliage season, we found Colton Point’s trail heads nearly abandoned in the morning hours. I hike, in large part, to get as far from other people as possible. As an introverts, my husband and I need alone time to recharge our batteries; introverts tend to gain energy in those quiet moments whereas extroverts gain energy through social interactions. At the end of a teaching week, my batteries are nearly drained.

And so our feet found themselves at the trail head of the Turkey Path trail (not to be confused with the Turkey Path on the Leonard-Harrison side of the gorge, which is the most popular tourist trail in the area and is shored up with railings, steps, and viewing platforms), marked the most difficult hiking trail in the park. There is a sign warning hikers of the dangers of the trail as parts are not maintained, are steep and winding, and that one should wear the proper footwear. Lastly, hikers should proceed at their own risk. We were definitely attracted to the risk, as we knew many tourists would not venture down the switchback to the side gorge below (the path descends not to the main Pine Creek gorge, but to a side gorge and stream that flows out into Pine Creek). Normally, one comes to an 80-foot waterfall less than a half mile down; a series of smaller falls dot the stream at the bottom. Unfortunately, northern PA has had one of the worst droughts in many years and the main fall was almost completely dried up and the stream below was little more than a trickle despite the heavy rains from the day before (mountain run off tends to flow out to main watersheds rather quickly during dry spells).

The trail deceptively hugs the gorge rim and descends rather gently at first. After the rain, the trail was smothered with slippery leaves and mud; there are no railings or safety measures built onto the path. Onoko, as usual, was sure footed and we knew that in hairy spots we should follow her lead (though there were times she thought it might be fun to slide down the mountain side to the next switchback and we’d have to pull her back up). As the sun found pockets of moisture among fallen trees and moss, various fungi sprouted up, including the edible delicacy, “hen of the woods,” Normally, we’d harvest edible mushrooms along our hikes; however, we also don’t believe in wasting and had plenty of the hen’s brighter orange cousin, “chicken of the woods,” in our fridge at home. My husband is well-versed in forest foraging and can often point out edible mushrooms/fungi, ginseng, and other medicinals; we don’t recommend anyone harvesting plants without doing a significant amount of research beforehand or taking along someone who can point out which plants are safe.

After about a quarter mile, the trail falls off steeply into switchbacks to the gorge below. At times, the trail is only a few boot lengths across as it hugs bluffs and rocky outcrops. We stopped at the dried falls ledge to allow Onoko a drink from the remaining pockets of run-off while we dug out our own bottles from my pack (I recommend a good day hiking lumbar pack with drinks, a first aid kit, a pocket knife, tissues, and snacks). As we climbed further down, I felt my shoulders aligning back with my neck; the “grading hunch” was finally seeping out as my eyes swept over trees of ochre, burnt sienna, and vermillion. Even Onoko raised her muzzle in the cool breeze sweeping over the tree tops and breathed deeply; poised there on the corner of a bend on the trail, I thought how like a blue-eyed coyote she looked. Normally, she would wear an orange vest to alert hunters that she was not something to shoot; however, it was Sunday and so we were not worried about misrepresentation (though one tourist on the way back asked if she was a wolf dog; aside from the fact wolf dogs are illegal to own in Pennsylvania, they also are larger and usually have brown or gold eyes).

We finally reached the bottom after about a mile and half down the mountainside. There is a feeling of accomplishment that trumps getting through any “stack” of papers when I reach a trail goal; the climb back up was something I looked forward to, and the burn of calf and sweat on the back was a good struggle (unlike the sometimes seemingly insurmountable pile of essays that often feels more like a pile of Sisyphus rocks). Here, at the bottom of this side gorge, alone on the trail, I am reminded of a quote by Rusty Baille: “In the mountains there are only two grades: You can either do it, or you can’t.” We paused to listen to the tinkling of stream over mossy boulders. I thought the sound quenches thirst almost more than the water itself and thought how I must come back in the spring when the falls and stream are a torrent shifting and shaping the valley floor… how simply the experience of it shapes and shifts the spirit into something more resembling the truer self.