Marvelous Geometries, But Alas No Elk

My husband and I went on a long hike in the state forest near the Quehanna Wild Area on this day. It turned out to be a much more difficult hike than I had anticipated, and quite a bit longer (nearly six miles). But then again, what else is new?

I thought it would be worth it, though, because I was promised elk. In the end, it was a promise that did not deliver, though we saw plenty of elk sign - which is to say elk poo - and where there is elk poo, one may be certain there are elk! And based on the volume and freshness of the elk sign, I am certain that elk roam these woods regularly. But we just didn't see them on this day.

I was lured to the woods by my husband's report, about two weeks ago, that when he came here and jogged (yes, he likes to jog in the wilderness on occasion), he had the opportunity to run with elk. He had been jogging along a power line and happened upon one elk, and then had three big bruisers of elk step out to block his pathway.

Strangely enough (and against all common sense, but that was the direction he was going, and he often won't be deterred, as I well know), he ran right AT them. The first one - a female? - disappeared into the woods. But the three males cut off at a tangent, not unlike billiard balls set on a new trajectory when smacked by the eight-ball, and then they ran parallel with him for about a mile before they disappeared as well. Yes, my husband went jogging with elk!

Now, with such a marvelous story to tease me, can you see why I was lured into the woods in search of elk? I even joked with my husband that this time, we'd probably spot the three male elk waiting, wearing their nifty new running shoes they'd ordered online.

And, perhaps, craving yet another bite of the partial banana that my husband had accidentally dropped in the dirt nearby during his last visit. (Where would a wild elk EVER find a banana in the Pennsylvania wilderness otherwise? Hmm?)

So we took our daysacks and our chairs, and we went hiking in the area where he had spotted the elk. The day was variable: warm when the sun was out, chilly when the clouds came or when the wind blew. And when the wind DID blow, it made strange, haunting sounds as it passed through the power lines.

We hiked out the power line, and it was relatively easy at first. Long flat fields of green with woods on either side, a clearing about a hundred yards wide. But then it became much more uppy-hilly-downy-hilly, with some areas covered by a loose and crumbly layer of scree, and the hiking became much more difficult.

I would tell you that the hiking uphill was the hardest part, but I would be lying. It was hard in the puff-and-pant exhaustion sort of way, but for pain, the downhill hiking wins toes-down. Some of the hills were so steep and so long that my toes were crying out by the time we got to the bottom.

For when you hike DOWNhill, your knees do all the work and take the impact, and your toes press against the front of your boot. On a short hike, it can be uncomfortable; on a long one, excruciating. (Hey, somebody's gotta speak the truth about hiking; some parts of it kinda suck!)

But it was a beautiful day, and we did make the most of it. As is our custom, we also had some fun adventures. We drank from a crystal clear spring that was bubbling up out of the rocks. By then, I was parched and we both drank big gulping draughts of "just-wa" (which is to say, water with nothing in it) and took a break before continuing on.

We found a tiny skull that was most likely from a white-tailed dear, and a small snake sunning itself on the path, and some huge rocks that we hadn't known were there. So the reconnaissance mission was successful: we now have a much better idea of how everything fits together, and what parts we might wish to explore further (and perhaps even more important, which ones we will SKIP next time).

We had been hiking along the power lines for most of the time, and this is a picture I took at the terminus of our walk. The civilized, cleared portion of the power line sort of petered out nearby, and the trail disappeared downhill into brush and an even steeper grade than we'd come upon before.

So we decided this was the end of the road; we weren't going any further. We set our chairs up beneath the last electric pylon and settled in to relax a bit before making the demanding trip back the way we came.

As I sat down, I looked up, and I thought what marvelous geometries were represented there (but clearly you can see there are no elk climbing the pylon). And so this was my shot for the day.

You can see the sky through the pylon, and you may take note that it is a beautiful blue swirling with clouds. My husband said, "Don't those look like rain clouds?" And minutes later, he proved to be right, as the sky opened up and the rain began to fall. (No rain had been forecast on this day.)

The rain didn't really last long or amount to much, but we had a few more scatters of showers throughout the afternoon. One needs a camera strategy for such situations, and I wrapped my camera in two plastic bags and then placed it in another container. It never really rained enough to become an issue.

As we hiked along the electric line, we marveled at how much work had gone into it, and what difficulties they had encountered in bringing such vestiges of civilization into the wilderness. The mind simply boggles.

How could they even get equipment back into these mountains to do all of this? It's a tremendous amount of work, just to bring us all power. And we are grateful, of course, as whatever keeps the lights on keeps civilization rolling right along.

Now, for a song to accompany this image. The power lines we walked had the big pylons all in a row; they were not really the domestic electric poles that are much more common on the landscape and that are mentioned in this song. But I think it will do. Here's to those who keep the power on, no matter what (elk or no elk): Glen Campbell, with Wichita Lineman.