In Between Places
Driving dirt roads, failed fishing, and what’s left of the life we remember
Fishy, fishy in the brook,
Come and jump on my little hook.
Let me throw you in the pan,
Let me eat you, man oh man.
On Wednesday my dad and I spontaneously decided to drive back up to the camp in Potter County. No real reason. Just to get away. We both love it up here in the mountains.
He had a VA appointment in Morgantown, WV. After his appointment we headed east to Cumberland, MD, then due north to the cabin. All in all it was an eight hour driving day. Somewhere along the drive my dad sang that little fishy, fishy ditty. Not to me. Just… out loud. Like it had been sitting somewhere in him for years and decided to come out right then. I guess fishing was on his mind.
This morning we woke up early. By early, I mean 7am. My dad made his weak coffee in the coffee maker and I made my coffee concentrate in the French press. We made pancakes with fresh blueberries and maple syrup for breakfast while listening to Nat King Cole.
My dad’s been wanting to go fishing, but it’s an old idea that comes from his past. I can feel the memory of his old fishing days brushing up against the reality of his current state. We got out the poles and walked the twenty five feet to the cold mountain stream that curves next to the camp. There’s a small island of rocks and low hanging trees that split the water for a short stretch.
We put mealworms on the hooks and tossed our lines. The sun wasn’t quite above the mountains yet and it was still in the 30s. I didn’t mind, but I could tell he did. The current was moving too fast. He lost his bait almost immediately and my line got tangled on a log.
Five minutes later we were back inside.
He suggested going for a drive, and I thought that was a great idea. A good diversion from the failed fishing attempt. He made coffee to go. He doesn’t go anywhere without a cup in his hand. We headed out, up East Fork Road a few miles, then turned onto Horton Run, a dirt road that climbs fast.
At the top there’s a vista that opens up over the mountain range. It’s almost too expansive to take in all at once. We stood there for a while, not saying much. Huge black birds circled overhead, riding the wind. It didn’t look like they were hunting. It looked like they were just up there because they could be.
The mountains aren’t green yet. There’s a reddish cast to them. Almost purple in places, burnt orange in others depending on how the light hits. It’s one of those things that doesn’t quite register at first. You think you’re imagining it. Like your eyes are adjusting.
But it’s real.
The trees don’t move from winter brown to green all at once. The buds come first, and they come out carrying this faint red tint. Not bright or obvious. You don’t really see it when you’re standing next to a tree. But step back and millions of those tiny edges add up.
I went down a bit of a rabbit hole on it. That red color is actually doing something important in early stages of spring. The leaves are fragile when they first push out. Cold nights, bright spring light that’s stronger than winter light. So the tree builds in a kind of protection. Anthocyanins. A word I keep forgetting and then looking up again. Basically a kind of built in sunscreen.
It doesn’t last long. A couple of weeks maybe. Then the green takes over and it disappears. But if you look closely, even after the leaves open, the edges still carry that red.
We got back in the car and kept going without really knowing where we were headed.
The little Nissan hatchback is not made for those roads. We took it slow. The loose gravel roads are narrow enough for one car and the steep grades can give you a kind of vertigo if you look down. It’s the kind of driving that keeps you paying attention. At every fork we made a choice without knowing where it would lead or if we’d have to turn around.
Horton Run to McConnell Road to Junction Road along the ridge, then eventually Upper Ridge until we hit pavement again. About twelve miles of rugged dirt road. No cell service. No signs. Just us figuring it out as we went.
And then you start noticing what those roads actually are.
Logging roads. Some older, worn in. Some newer cuts that feel more abrupt. There are whole sections of the mountain that just open up into stumps and scattered debris. It’s jarring. You go from being surrounded by trees to suddenly seeing too far.
I couldn’t quite settle on how I felt about it.
Part of me understands it. This is how people make a living here. It’s been happening for a long time. Another part of me feels the loss of it immediately. The absence of what was there. And then another part of me recognizes that even this, the roads we’re on, the access we have, is tied into that same system.
We kept driving.
Somewhere along the way I noticed a sign that read Susquehannock State Forest. I started thinking about the people who moved through these mountains long before any of this was here. The Susquehannock. Later the Seneca, part of the Haudenosaunee.
I kept trying to picture what this place looked like then. Not as untouched wilderness, but as something known. Trails that weren’t marked but remembered and handed down. Routes along ridgelines. Rivers and waterways used for travel and carrying goods.
This wasn’t really a place you settled in the way we think about it now. Not up here. It was a place people moved through. Hunting. Trapping. Following game. Deer, elk, bear. Moving with the seasons, knowing when to be here and when not to be.
Especially in the harsh winters.
We tossed a coin and made a right onto Route 44, ending up in Germania, a tiny town that feels like it’s just holding on to its place on the map. We stumbled on Waldheim Restaurant and Bar. A sign out front says Welcome Hunters. We went in and sat at the bar. It was noon. We were the only ones there.
We ordered hot wings and a chicken quesadilla to split. Deer heads on the wall and a huge taxidermy black bear that just seemed part of the place.
We ate. Drank our Pepsi. Talked about our dirt road adventure. Took our time. Boxed up what we didn’t finish for later. Then got back in the car and headed toward camp, stopping at the little market in Cherry Springs to pick up milk.
Later, sitting out on the porch, I kept circling back to the color on the mountains. That in between moment before everything turns.
My dad remembering what it felt like to do things that used to come easy. Fishing. Being out in the cold. Moving through the day without thinking about it. Not just remembering it, but still reaching for it, like it might still be there if he steps into it the right way. And then the realization that it isn’t. Or at least not in the same way.
I know something about that in between place, too. My life used to be full in a certain way. A thriving teaching schedule. Close friends and community. Activities and culture. And now this quieter version. Smaller. Slower. Reaching for what used to be and realizing it isn’t available in the same way. Or at all.
We spent the day driving roads we didn’t know, making turns without a plan, trusting we’d end up somewhere that made sense eventually.
Might make sense eventually.
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