Wandering Home: The Old Loggers Path

 

Old Logger's Path signage crafted from an old saw

We were slated to head home after the Allegheny Front Trail. I hadn't set out on this wander with any firm intentions of how many miles we would hike or how many loops we would complete. For when I had planned our journey, I had been so busy, so mentally fatigued that I couldn't contemplate detailed itineraries or too many goals. Also, right before we began Amos had developed a skin condition that required a medicated wash and mousse and antibiotics. I didn't know how dealing with this condition while hiking was going to pan out. However, with each day my mental clutter lessened, and his skin condition improved. By the time we were done with the Quehanna Trail, we were stronger and my remaining miles on the Susquehannock Trail System breezed by despite the week of rain that settled in upon us. The rain had been logistically tricky. We found ourselves repeatedly back at a little cabin in Potter's Family Campground taking shelter. I was eager for the Allegheny Front Trail. We were now in fighting shape, however given the weather that we'd navigated, I felt likely this trail would be our last. However, when I found us camped on what was to be our last night on the AFT, although I felt a tug to return home, I felt a stronger tug to remain on trail. Despite a very heavy backpack, the wilderness had markedly lightened my load and it seemed Amos' too. The quiet of the forest had seeped into my mental state and its beauty coupled with miles of movement daily had buoyed my spirits. I checked in back home, all was well at Wagon Wheel Preserve. Scott was still in Europe. There was no reason why we couldn't do just one more loop. 

Amos walking beautifully graded trail on the Old Loggers Path

I had rough notes on the Old Loggers Path. Like the Allegheny Front Trail, I had no official guide. I didn't even have a sturdy map for this one, although I had printed off a PDF map at home with very tiny print. I also appreciated the work of a fella I found online who had documented his waypoints along the trail: Old Loggers Path Backpacking Guide — Into the Backcountry (intothebackcountryguides.com). After futzing with All Trails on the AFT, I'd finally figured out how to use the map function without active cell service, so I hoped that would be a help. However, what I did know was that this trail was supposed to be easy, a 27-mile route of graded path utilizing old logging roads, forest roads, and railroad grade. I also had a trunk still packed with just enough supplies - dehydrated meals, fuel, water purification - that we could swing it last minute. It seemed like a great way to wrap up our journey.

Rock Run - deemed the "prettiest creek in Pennsylvania"

We began our journey at the Ellenton Road trailhead, that is after realizing a bridge was out on Pleasant Stream Road that forced us to do a sizable detour on forest roads. The Old Loggers Path traverses Loyalsock State Forest, an area I had never before explored. I was amazed at the remote feeling of this region, as I drove winding leafy forest roads through the mountains without service, my trusty PDF map by my side. Had I not seen very official roadside signs welcoming me to LOYALSOCK STATE FOREST, I would have turned back. We parked it later in the day that I would have liked, eight miles ahead of us to the Doe Run lean-to where I planned we'd stay the night.

Lichen on rock - looks a bit like elephant skin does it not?

 Admittedly I don't have many great pictures of this first day. I started off in long pants and sleeves which takes a lot. The temps felt colder than I had expected and once we started the already subdued light was swallowed by grey clouds. We started downhill on, as described, wide well graded path. However, the forest felt dull, lacking in life. The forest floor was rock and leaves. Tree limbs that west of here had still sported showy leaves were already bare. To add to that, all of these trees seemed so young, many were beech and showed signs of disease. I thought about the name of this trail, Old Loggers Path, and was reminded that all these woods had surely been cleared less than a century ago. I carried on and tried to remind myself that this easy trail was a breeze to walk. When we crossed paths with a particularly large yellow birch, towering amidst the hardwoods, its base buttressed so that I felt I could nestle into a crook, I paused. I laid my hands upon her peeling bark. I wanted to let these trees know they were seen. Did they see me too like the hemlock in Hammersly Wild Area. I sensed they did, but the trust didn't come as easy. When we lunched at the beautiful Rock Run, a clear, cold creek that carves between layered rock and the roots of hemlock, falls from stony ledges, and did indeed have a feeling of the ancient, all the forest seemed cold. I sat on a seat that some other human had fashioned lovingly and that too felt cold. The forest was so still I could barely imagine any other humans ever having been here. Amos was eager for lunch, however after was also eager to move on rather than snooze for it was too cold to stall. I questioned for the first time, just why were we out here? I could be home, warm, eating something besides a stale english muffin and old cheese. 

Doe Run Shelter

We pushed on to Doe Run Shelter, which I found to be surprisingly inviting. While making dinner, the sun suddenly began to peek through the clouds. It soon drenched the sky in pink as the clouds thinned into wisps. My bones warmed, a little. I read the trail register inside the lean-to and found dozens of entries. So many people had passed through these woods. Young backpackers on their first journey with a parent, groups of four and five, a number of solo folks doing the loop. Each one spoke of the beauty of this place, the magic, the wonders they had found. This forest was not empty. Devoid of life. Not only were the young trees and clear, cold, running creek evidence of that, but so was this journal, packed full of people who had found joy here. Nor were these woods lonely or not seen. It was all in my perspective, I was comparing this trail rather than appreciating it for what it was. Still it was cold. I decided if there was sun the next day, we'd carry on for the entirety of the loop. If not, we would shorten our journey. This was no one's hike but our own. 

Road crossing on the Old Loggers Path and so much sun!

The next morning brought sun. Cold temps that made my fingers and toes go numb. But sweet, golden, sun, like manna from the Trail Gods. We hiked on, and as we did my extremities warmed. I shed layers. Amos tugged full speed ahead, his tail swinging like a metronome. Leaves crunched underfoot and the scent of autumn emanated. From the ground up, color appeared. 

A kaleidoscope of autumn color

I heard my first bird since starting this trail chirp and spotted large squirrels darting to and fro in the leafy understory. We turned off of wide graded path and onto true trail, climbing upward. Once there, all the sky had cleared. I could see for miles. Winterberry shrubs brushed my shoulders sporting red fruits. 

View from Sullivan Mountain, windmills in the distance - this region is known for its strong winds, hence the wind power

Winterberry (Illex verticilatta) - a native, deciduous holly

Somehow the cold, crisp air no longer felt inhospitable. Now it was enlivening. I thanked the sun, I thanked the trees, I thanked the birds, I thanked Amos for his pep, I was just so grateful to be here. So grateful that I had decided to keep going. There was absolutely nowhere else on this planet I'd rather be. It was as if when the clouds cleared from the sky they had cleared from my own mind as well. I thought to myself, and I think it's a fair question to ask you too: Has there ever been a trail you've hiked where you said, You know I wish I hadn't hiked that trail? 

Wild Ginger

Not only had the sun returned, but midday my beloved plants returned! A healthy, flourishing understory of witch hazel and ironwood and so many precious native herbaceous plants: herb robert, wild ginger, wood nettle, broad-leaved waterleaf, wild anise, asters, and violet leaves. My step grew spritelier with every plant I saw. 

Star-shaped doubly compound leaves of Herb Robert

Asters gone to seed

And mature trees abounded! Great big oaks and beeches and yellow birches and black cherries. Frequently they seemed to be multi-trunked, as if they found more than one way to flourish in these woods. 

An elder oak

A two-trunked black cherry

The views persisted as well. Sullivan Mountain, Sharp Top, Sprout Point. So many vistas packed into one day. Even the road crossings had vistas. While walking another stretch of narrow true trail, I marveled at the ridge visible through the bare-limbed trees paralleling us. Walking one ridge and seeing another through the trees in the far distance, coupled with the brisk air and crunching leaves harkened of my early days on the Appalachian Trail. And I smiled. I remembered the miles my father had walked with me. I thought how he would have loved this well-graded trail rife with views and history. 

Sharp Top vista 

Sullivan Mountain vista

Vista at a road crossing

A ford at Pleasant Stream was a little tricky. Here the trail simply dead ended and I could see no sign of blazing on the other side. Fortunately, my humble PDF map did point to a bridge out, so I at least knew I was still on the right track. I tip toed on rocks while Amos waded, and he led the way once on the other side to where the blazed trail again returned. We also found a lovely place there for lunch and afterwards Amos was quite fine with lingering.

Amos with a full belly thinking deep thoughts 

We hiked 12.5 miles on this second day, each mile better than the one before it. We took a side trail to see Sprout Point vista, reportedly .1 miles off the main trail and thank goodness we did. Here we found our lean-to for the evening and the most stunning view that I'd encountered yet. All the valley spread out before me, layers of mountains on the horizon. I could see where rain showers were coming down in isolated areas on the ridge. I turned round for a selfie, and gasped...

I got my antlers back!

I had grown antlers! I chuckled and started to reposition so as not to have two prongs coming out of my head. Then I realized this image meaningful. In fact, it overflowed with meaning. I smiled coyly and snapped. Then put my phone away and breathed deep, gazing out over the immense beauty, the vastness before me. I raised my hands to my head, making my deer antlers once more. A great gust of wind swept through rattling the dry leaves and blowing stray hairs about my face. These, my antlers, they were my power, my strength, that which had felt subject to so much strain this past year as pancreatic cancer quickly consumed my father. As a family we had remarked on how he had lost his power. I'd dreamed of deer so much during this time. Typically, I was one or exhibited deer-like features. I guided deer to shelter and to safety. In my last dream, a deer's antlers had been severed. Somehow, by doing nothing more than walking and opening to the natural world around me, letting it come in and do its work, quietly and subtly day after day, my antlers were returning. I spread my arms wider overhead, creating elk antlers for my dad. An elk hunt was the last hunt he'd taken before he'd fallen ill. Again, a great wind swept up, blowing hard against my face and tingling my fingertips. He, too, had his power back. He had seen so many vistas with me on this hike, walked steps alongside mine, struggled up mountains, and marveled at tracks in the mud. My father, freed of the constraints of a body that could no longer serve him, now was everywhere. 

Signage on the Old Loggers Path

Our third and final day was one of light steps and fast miles. We walked graded path through spacious sun-dappled woods and between corridors of cut rock. Leafy oaks swayed in the strong wind that swept through the forest. It was surely the coldest day yet, but I hiked with bare arms, letting the cold wind awaken my every cell. Amos thought we should trail run at times and we did, a little. As we walked our last mile through young beech woods, their gray trunks standing slender all around us. I gave thanks to the trees, each one I could think of that had shared this forest with us. I gave thanks to the trail for carrying us. I gave thanks to the sun for warming us. I gave thanks to creeks for their nourishment. I gave thanks to Amos for being my steadfast companion. I gave thanks to my father for imbuing in me a desire for adventure, the unknown. I gave thanks to me for sticking with it and doing what I knew I most needed. For seeking and then surrendering to that which always brought me back to center. I gave thanks for my budding antlers.