Whenever I come upon a stream or creek, it immediately takes me back to all the summers my three brothers and I spent at our family cabin in the Laurel Mountains of Somerset, PA. On the last day of the school year, we returned home only to find our bags packed knowing we would spend the majority of the next 12 weeks scouting out crawfish, salamanders and tadpoles, hidden in plain sight or under rocks in creek beds, thick in the woods.
Without a care in the world and having only each other as pals to occupy our days, we ventured daily into the thickets and briars in search of every and anything our woodlands had to offer us. With damp, dirty sneakers that never dried out from the prior days' adventures, we returned back to our cabin only when our stomachs gnawed away with hunger pangs. There were several occasions when we became befuddled and lost deep in the forest, but together with our instinctive, good sense of direction we always found our way back home.
Our cabin was situated on a rural road with a farm at one end and Chippawa Lake at the other. It was a sparsely populated area with but a few neighbors along the road which gave us freedom to ride our mini bike with little fear of traffic. And ride we did! Hour upon hour, up and down the road we flew like Easy Rider until one day the engine stopped. My dad was working an hour away in Pittsburgh and my mom knew nothing about engines, so it was up to Jimbo to figure it out. In no time, we were once again up and running as he realized it simply ran out of gas! But as time went on and we over-used the bike, Jim became efficient in repairing small engines and kept us on the rode. As the boys got older, the toys got bigger and my ever-loving, fun dad bought two dirt bikes-- a 1970's Honda 100 and a Suzuki 250. And I was red as the Honda, with fury, that I wasn't allowed to ride!
One afternoon, the boys had been out most of the day on the wooded paths behind our cabin and I moseyed on down to see what they were up to. One thing lead to another and I begged my brother Jimbo to let me try out his motorcycle. His look told me he thought I was crazy, but I knew this guy better than anyone and was hedging my bets that my hair would be flying in the wind in no time.
After what seemed like an eternity of negotiations, he finally relented and said I could take it for a spin. Having watched from the sidelines numerous times, I was sure there wasn't much to it and told him to just give me a brief rundown about how to drive it. Clutch, Check. Brake, Check. Throttle, Check. With trepidation in his eyes and the thrill of victory on my face, I hopped on, turned the key, throttled up the engine, popped the clutch and drove his motorcycle 4 feet up a tree. Then the bike simply fell over and I jumped off. To this day I have no clue why, but I laughed. Not just a chuckle, but a full on guffaw. Clearly there was nothing to laugh about. The gas tank was dinged, the handlebar bent and the throttle torn. All the while Harry just stood there like a deer staring into headlights and didn't say a word-- he just looked. And boy was Jimbo mad. I never asked to ride the bikes again but to this this day it still brings on hysterical laughter just thinking or talking about it and I haven't a clue why.
We had a lot of freedom roaming around the woods near the cottage and our ventures sometime lead to other mishaps. A few incidents that come to mind involved deer, snakes and bees.
There was an A-frame cottage deep in the woods behind us that we passed on our way to the creek. One day Harry and I happened to be walking down the path near the A-frame when we noticed a young fawn laying just under a tree. Within seconds, the large buck guarding it noticed us and began pacing back and forth while loudly snorting as we ever so slowly back away while never turning our backs to it. As soon as we were far enough away, we took off like there was no tomorrow and I'm sure we didn't make it to the creek that day.
Another morning while out on a nature hunt, Jimbo spied a snake's nest and decided to try and pick up the mother. He reached in and grabbed her by the tail, but within seconds her fangs were in a full-on strike. Narrowly missed being bit, he immediately dropped the snake realizing it was a Copperhead and told us all to run like the wind. Having escaped the venomous jaws, we were all relieved to have not been bitten, but Jim seemed to have a death wish for the slithery creatures.
One afternoon while venturing around the state park a few miles from the cabin, my brothers were walking across the dam when, out of the corner of his eye, Jim spied a large brownish-black water snake sunning itself on the rocks. He decided to take a closer look. Known to be the largest, nastiest and most aggressive snake in PA, this Northern Water snake did not want to hang around to meet my brother and attempted to slink down a hole. It's head was all that made it into the rocks, and the thick, four foot body struggled hard to escape my brother's firm grasp of it's tail. In an instant, the fury of the snake took full vengeance as it's head quickly sprung from the rocks and swung up to Jim's hand. The strike served it's purpose and my brother instantly dropped the snake while turning fearfully to Harry to ask if it was poisonous. Harry, seemingly the family wildlife guru, assured him it wasn't, but with tongue-in-cheek added coyly, that he knew the 2 inch bite really hurt. I don't remember any medical intervention being needed, and I'm sure Jim learned to be more cautious in nature.
Or did he?
Giving snakes the day off, the boys as boys often do, had other ideas and were walking through the woods across from our cabin with a wiffle ball bat in hand. Now I must admit I wasn't with them for this brainy idea, but in my minds' eye, they were walking around talking, swatting at tree leaves and clearing brush to make a path when an enticing opportunity presented itself. A softball sized object hanging from a low tree branch. Harry assures me that there was discussion after which he decided to back away 30 yards. My cousin, Clint maintained a 20 yard distance as Jimbo decided he was going to try and hit a home run with the object in the tree. Up on deck and taking a batter's stance, he choked up on the bat and then swung with gusto! The bat struck the nest with a crack, the nest took a bad hop and the angry hornets flew everywhere. The only one not stung that day was Harry who was not caught napping and was already running on Jim's wind up.
It brings a hearty laugh and an infectious smile to my face as I reminisce about these perilous escapades the we lived to tell about. Rural life in the mountains was rustic and carefree but most days were innocuous. We had acres on which to run, endless paths to explore and unlimited energy to expend. Such great lessons we all learned through these terrific woodland adventures and the bonds we formed through these years would forever cement our loyalty and love for one another.
Like a scent whiffing by me, I felt propelled to the past as I looked at picture above that was taken so many, many years ago.
Without a care in the world and having only each other as pals to occupy our days, we ventured daily into the thickets and briars in search of every and anything our woodlands had to offer us. With damp, dirty sneakers that never dried out from the prior days' adventures, we returned back to our cabin only when our stomachs gnawed away with hunger pangs. There were several occasions when we became befuddled and lost deep in the forest, but together with our instinctive, good sense of direction we always found our way back home.
Our cabin was situated on a rural road with a farm at one end and Chippawa Lake at the other. It was a sparsely populated area with but a few neighbors along the road which gave us freedom to ride our mini bike with little fear of traffic. And ride we did! Hour upon hour, up and down the road we flew like Easy Rider until one day the engine stopped. My dad was working an hour away in Pittsburgh and my mom knew nothing about engines, so it was up to Jimbo to figure it out. In no time, we were once again up and running as he realized it simply ran out of gas! But as time went on and we over-used the bike, Jim became efficient in repairing small engines and kept us on the rode. As the boys got older, the toys got bigger and my ever-loving, fun dad bought two dirt bikes-- a 1970's Honda 100 and a Suzuki 250. And I was red as the Honda, with fury, that I wasn't allowed to ride!
One afternoon, the boys had been out most of the day on the wooded paths behind our cabin and I moseyed on down to see what they were up to. One thing lead to another and I begged my brother Jimbo to let me try out his motorcycle. His look told me he thought I was crazy, but I knew this guy better than anyone and was hedging my bets that my hair would be flying in the wind in no time.
After what seemed like an eternity of negotiations, he finally relented and said I could take it for a spin. Having watched from the sidelines numerous times, I was sure there wasn't much to it and told him to just give me a brief rundown about how to drive it. Clutch, Check. Brake, Check. Throttle, Check. With trepidation in his eyes and the thrill of victory on my face, I hopped on, turned the key, throttled up the engine, popped the clutch and drove his motorcycle 4 feet up a tree. Then the bike simply fell over and I jumped off. To this day I have no clue why, but I laughed. Not just a chuckle, but a full on guffaw. Clearly there was nothing to laugh about. The gas tank was dinged, the handlebar bent and the throttle torn. All the while Harry just stood there like a deer staring into headlights and didn't say a word-- he just looked. And boy was Jimbo mad. I never asked to ride the bikes again but to this this day it still brings on hysterical laughter just thinking or talking about it and I haven't a clue why.
We had a lot of freedom roaming around the woods near the cottage and our ventures sometime lead to other mishaps. A few incidents that come to mind involved deer, snakes and bees.
There was an A-frame cottage deep in the woods behind us that we passed on our way to the creek. One day Harry and I happened to be walking down the path near the A-frame when we noticed a young fawn laying just under a tree. Within seconds, the large buck guarding it noticed us and began pacing back and forth while loudly snorting as we ever so slowly back away while never turning our backs to it. As soon as we were far enough away, we took off like there was no tomorrow and I'm sure we didn't make it to the creek that day.
Another morning while out on a nature hunt, Jimbo spied a snake's nest and decided to try and pick up the mother. He reached in and grabbed her by the tail, but within seconds her fangs were in a full-on strike. Narrowly missed being bit, he immediately dropped the snake realizing it was a Copperhead and told us all to run like the wind. Having escaped the venomous jaws, we were all relieved to have not been bitten, but Jim seemed to have a death wish for the slithery creatures.
One afternoon while venturing around the state park a few miles from the cabin, my brothers were walking across the dam when, out of the corner of his eye, Jim spied a large brownish-black water snake sunning itself on the rocks. He decided to take a closer look. Known to be the largest, nastiest and most aggressive snake in PA, this Northern Water snake did not want to hang around to meet my brother and attempted to slink down a hole. It's head was all that made it into the rocks, and the thick, four foot body struggled hard to escape my brother's firm grasp of it's tail. In an instant, the fury of the snake took full vengeance as it's head quickly sprung from the rocks and swung up to Jim's hand. The strike served it's purpose and my brother instantly dropped the snake while turning fearfully to Harry to ask if it was poisonous. Harry, seemingly the family wildlife guru, assured him it wasn't, but with tongue-in-cheek added coyly, that he knew the 2 inch bite really hurt. I don't remember any medical intervention being needed, and I'm sure Jim learned to be more cautious in nature.
Or did he?
Giving snakes the day off, the boys as boys often do, had other ideas and were walking through the woods across from our cabin with a wiffle ball bat in hand. Now I must admit I wasn't with them for this brainy idea, but in my minds' eye, they were walking around talking, swatting at tree leaves and clearing brush to make a path when an enticing opportunity presented itself. A softball sized object hanging from a low tree branch. Harry assures me that there was discussion after which he decided to back away 30 yards. My cousin, Clint maintained a 20 yard distance as Jimbo decided he was going to try and hit a home run with the object in the tree. Up on deck and taking a batter's stance, he choked up on the bat and then swung with gusto! The bat struck the nest with a crack, the nest took a bad hop and the angry hornets flew everywhere. The only one not stung that day was Harry who was not caught napping and was already running on Jim's wind up.
It brings a hearty laugh and an infectious smile to my face as I reminisce about these perilous escapades the we lived to tell about. Rural life in the mountains was rustic and carefree but most days were innocuous. We had acres on which to run, endless paths to explore and unlimited energy to expend. Such great lessons we all learned through these terrific woodland adventures and the bonds we formed through these years would forever cement our loyalty and love for one another.
Like a scent whiffing by me, I felt propelled to the past as I looked at picture above that was taken so many, many years ago.
Great memories! ❤️
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