Leg Three

CLEAR CREEK, PA

Arrived in Clear Creek, PA, 9:30 P.M.
Jeep Odometer: 191, 611 mi.
Trip Odometer: 602 mi.

The only thing worse than a four-hour drive turning in to a six and a half hour drive (thanks American Recovery Act!) is arriving at the campground just as the rain starts falling. First it was just a sprinkle, then it was a light drizzle, and finally it was a steady downpour. I had one moment where I lost my temper. I won’t share what I said, but it involved wanting to sit by a fire and a four-letter word turned into an adjective. Momentarily I thought about turning around, heading back to the highway, and driving another ninety minutes to Dad’s house. But in that same moment I had to question my manhood. I can live with other people thinking I “gave up” because I don’t really care what other people think about anything, but I can’t live with myself thinking, “I gave up” or “I’m a __” (I’ll let you fill in the blank).

So I drove to my campsite (32) and found a slightly dry spot under a large pine tree. Then I debated what was worse: sleeping on a dry tree roots or wet grass? I went with the tree roots and set up the tent in a matter of minutes. Then I made a run to the “wood shed” that everyone RAVED about, and the d*mn thing was locked! It’s a really good thing they keep it wide-open mid-day when it’s seventy degrees and sunny, but fastened with a heavy duty/Hurt Locker deadbolt when it’s cold, dark, and steadily raining. So I sifted through the stacks of wood that were next to it, attempting to find the driest logs possible. I tossed about fifteen in the back of the Jeep and shunned the “honor code” drop box. I wanted to see how “honorable” their wet logs would be before dropping any cash in the box.

When I got back to the site I tried building a fire. It appeared to be roaring after a few minutes, despite the rain, and so I cracked a celebratory Yuengling…okay, my fourth celebratory Yuengling by that point. Five minutes later I realized the “roaring” part was the newspaper, church bulletins, and fire starting chips. I must admit, it was quite deceiving. Maybe the Lord wasn’t happy about the bulletin part, but I’ve never seen a paper fire sustain through a rainstorm for ten solid minutes. Time after time I tried getting the logs to ignite but with no success. Around midnight I decided to build the best paper fire possible and cook the grass-fed sirloin Sean gave me. I roasted that sucker on a steak knife to a perfect medium-rare. Then I took it down to the bank of the Clarion River and I devoured it with my bare hands. It was truly the most animalistic moment of my life.

Finally I decided to take a walk “around the Circle”. I had never done it alone. So I grabbed the flashlight, tucked an extra brew in my fleece pocket, and started the 1 A.M. trek into the darkness. I won’t describe the walk; I wouldn’t want to scare you, but it was SPOOKY indeed. I also learned that a great weapon in defending fear is inebriation. But no matter how many brews you put down, you sober up immediately when a 10-point buck thunders across the pavement at the darkest stretch of the walk. I was lucky the six or seven Yuenglings didn’t go from “down the hatch” to “down my leg”…or perhaps they did; I was already soaked from the rain, how could I decipher which was which? When I got back to the tent the fire was completely out. So I set up my bed and called it a night.

In the morning I went for a walk and took some good pictures. I packed the Jeep and prepared to leave. But before I did, I wrote the following:

10/22/10
1:40 P.M.

I was going to wake up and just leave so I could make it to Columbus by four o’clock, but I decided against it. I went for a walk with my camera in hand and I talked to myself about the recurring childhood memories of this place and the times I spent here with my family. It’s a place that’s locked in time, nestled so far down in the Allegheny Mountains that either no one knows about it, or they do, and they wish to keep it as it is—a secret.

There is no cell phone reception, no internet, no television, and only a faint chance of catching a radio signal. When people pass one another it’s with a “hello” and a smile. Even the river seems to whisper secrets as it meanders over and through the moss-covered rocks. And in between the chirping of the birds, there it is—the beautiful sound of silence.

I don’t know if it’s the multitude of fond memories, memories of youth and now memories of adulthood, the nostalgia of Marnie and Boompa first making the trek down Route 739 almost sixty years ago, or the echoes of children playing both then and now, but I hear it all, I soak it all in, with each autumn breeze that sifts past my eyes.

Sometimes I think I could sit here forever, like the kid in me who once vowed to live here when he was “grown up”, but I think it is the brevity of the visits only so often, which keeps this well of joy from ever running dry.

Now I must go.

Love and GOD Forever,
Anthony Paul