Where the Streets Have No Names

If you drive north from DC and keep going until you are in the middle of no-where, then go a little further to where the power lines end, the roads turn to gravel and on every side you are surrounded by trees, you’ll reach Kettle Creek State Park.  That’s where I was this past weekend.

We left on Friday a little before rush-hour, our truck headed north like a determined bee pushing through the swarm that envelopes the capital that time every day, each mile taking us further from the hive, further from the din and chaos until eventually we were speeding down quiet roads with the sun starting to set.  Our pick-up was piled with gear for the weekend, a cooler stuffed with food,  fishing rods hanging out the back, a canoe and kayak strapped on top.  We had four people crammed into the cab singing country songs at the top of our lungs for the five and a half hour trip.

Lock Haven marks the last blink of cell phone reception.  If you go another 30 miles you reach Renovo which is the last town on the way.  From there you wind upwards on little roads that amble all over the mountain in different, intersecting directions with names like Sugar Camp, Kettle Creek, Spicewood.  Set a little ways off one of these roads is our cabin– a place Tim’s parents, uncles and aunts, grandparents and cousins have been going for decades.  There’s no electricity and the only “running water” is a spring just below his grandfather’s camp that constantly pumps out clear, cold water.

It was pitch black when we arrived.  The first thing Tim did was to turn on the gas tank outside and light the lamps inside.  The cabin appeared exactly the same as when I last visited 2 years ago.  There’s always a funny, un-lived-in  smell when you first open the door.  Downstairs there are three upholstered chairs– relics from 1960, a gas stove, two sinks that drain directly to the underside of the house.  The floor had been swept clean and the dining table sat anxiously with all it’s chairs resting upside-down on top of it, awaiting the next visitors.  Red and white checkered curtains, the only hint of decoration in the cabin, hang around each window.  Upstairs there are three double-bed sized bunks and a very worn-out oriental rug.  I had forgotten how cozy it was with the gas lamps glowing.

We each made up our bed upstairs, I think the guys may have decided to smoke a cigar on the front porch, and shortly after we went to bed.

In the morning Tim and Stephen got up early to try to get a little shooting in (although they found nothing to shoot at), breakfast was a very relaxed affair and took all morning followed by a trip down the mountain to Kettle Creek to do some fishing.  Mari-Scarlett and I sunbathed on the beach along the reservoir drinking wine and eating Sunchips.  Eventually we decided to take a canoe trip down the river– Stephen in his kayak and Mari-Scarlett enthroned between Tim and I on a lawn chair set on the bottom of the boat.  Three and a half miles and several cliff-jumps later, we beached the boats and Tim and Stephen hitch-hiked back to the truck.

That evening after dinner we decided to head to the Green Lantern– a local bar in Renovo with about 12 pick-up trucks parked outside, a juke-box and pool table inside and a sign promising “Happy Hour: 25 cents off all drinks”.  Tim played the classic new-comer’s game of pool, missing everything and sinking the white ball repeatedly to begin with, then winning the game with 5 shots in a row, sometimes sinking two balls at a time.  Someone put lipstick on the guy and a big zero on the forehead of the girl who lost.  We didn’t exactly close the place down, but we left late after making friends with everyone, two rounds of drinks and several spontaneous sing-alongs to the jukebox.

The next day after shooting targets and clay pigeons off the front porch we loaded up, swept out the cabin, and headed south following the river back to the hive.