Reflections - Driving Pennsylvania Hills and Florida Flatlands
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| Clarion River at Clear Creek State Park |
Dear Addy,
On June 1, your uncle Spence kept saying, “Addy would call this an adventure.”
We wanted to hike through the Forest Cathedral in Cook Forest State Park, but we were riding and riding in his red pickup. He drove. I read directions. When he saw the sign, Cook Forest 11 miles, he followed the arrow. I put the directions away. He spied another sign, Scenic Cook Forest Drive. “That sounds good,” he said and made a sharp right. We were lost.
After wandering along roads with no signs for miles, we stopped by the Clarion River for a picnic lunch. Then we found a town with a traffic light, pizza shop, and post office. In the post office I asked, “How do we get to the Log Cabin Environmental Classroom in Cook Forest?’’ The young woman scrunched her nose so I said, “We want to hike the Longfellow Trail.” Her face smoothed. “I don’t know the environmental center, but turn left at the light. Follow route thirty-six till you cross a bridge. The park office is on the right. They’ll help you.”
The kind park officer told us to take a right at the Y. We saw three Ys and got lost on River Road. People floated on rafts in Toms Run’s lazy current. Turning around, we studied the park map, took the correct Y, and finally found the trail—six miles down the road from where Spence had turned off for the scenic drive.
It took 143 miles, 3 hours and 48 minutes (not counting stops) to find Longfellow Trail. It took 66 miles, 1 hour and 35 minutes (not counting stops) to go home. You do the math. Were we lost longer than we were on track going to Cook Forest?
Love,
Aunt Janet
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| Longfellow Trail |
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| Palma Sola Bay |
Dear Lori and Eliza,
I hope you are well and enjoying your special pets. Do you still have your pig?
Spence and I visited my brother Bob so I could drive him to his colonoscopy—one excuse for a Florida vacation. Tuesday, June 6, I drove Bob to Bradenton Surgery Center in his Chevy Bolt, signed papers as his designated driver, and watched him fill out his forms. Then he shooed me. “I can handle it from here. You might as well go to the beach.”
If traffic cooperated, Spence and I would have time to wade in the Gulf of Mexico. Back at Bob’s, I picked up gear, and Spence drove the rental car to the beach. Traffic cooperated. The parking lot didn’t. We circled in vain. Only getting a glimpse of the gulf, I said, “Head back.”
We stopped at a boat launch on Palma Sola Bay. This “beach” had a stretch of Bermuda grass, a foot of sand, and warm, shallow water. Rolling down the windows, I ate a picnic lunch while a lady carried her dachshund into the water and let him paddle back. Next, Spence strolled on the sand. Wearing Bob’s old slippers, I waded. Inch long translucent fish darted past. Wading further, I discovered 2 to 3 inch husky fish with yellow noses and black stripes. Four inch, skinny fish with long noses, silver bodies, and black stripes zipped super fast. Later Bob said the skinny ones could have been barracudas or mackerels. “Any kind of fish is common in Florida.”
Heading back, my cell phone rang—Bob would be ready in thirty minutes. I wiped sand from between my toes and changed into shoes. At Bob’s house, I hopped into his Chevy Bolt and drove to the surgery center. I arrived for him with ten minutes to spare and stories to share.
Love,
Janet
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| Fish in Palma Sola Bay |
If you want to see all thirteen postcards in the Pennsylvania Hills and Florida Flatlands Postcard Journal, use this link:
https://sites.google.com/site/wellswoodpa/vacations/pennsylvania-hills-and-florida-flatlands
