Tuesday, June 9th

Cheating

The barely-Pennsylvania morning started still very cloudy. But the sun was shining optimistically through breaks in the clouds and the temperature hovered at rather agreeable seventy degrees. The planning session over coffee resulted in aiming south-west. About eight miles south, a fitting road was branching off the main highway in the village of Milan. It wasn’t numbered nor, as I found out when I arrived in Milan, signed. I only found it because I had to stop at the local post office which, online maps had shown, was right smack on that intersection.

Since the southern highway had followed the river valley, the new road had to climb out. It arrived on a mountain plateau. Ahead were dramatic looking clouds. There even may have been a few craven rain drops on the wind shield.

The next village had a direction sign with names at an intersection. Considering myself on a continuous road, I whirred past, but then got suspicious, stopped and checked the map. Indeed, I would have had to turn right. I buried the plan to follow small routes there and then. Navigation by place names is a tedious and ultimately futile method if you are travelling alone. It is surprisingly hard to remember those names. But then, you never know which village was deemed sign-worthy nor whether it is even on the map. Stopping at each intersection to pore over the map and rule out name after name isn’t exactly fun, even if the American love for stop signs allow you to just stop right there and then if you are reasonably quick.

I returned to numbered main roads near Troy, a cute if somewhat dusty and worn off town. South for a bit, then onto another sideways road. It wound through a very very busy landscape with constant houses and farms. The dramatic clouds had their way; it soon started raining rather heavily.

The road became narrower and narrower. The houses became less and less. Forests started to dominate. After Morris, the road finally picked a valley and stream to follow. After Blackwell, it crossed the stream on a one-lane bridge and entered into complete wilderness. This was Pine Creek Valley. It was rather narrow at points but never too cramped, always overflowing with trees. There seemed to be a former railway line converted into a cycling trail which, around here, actually seemed a rather nice idea.

The next county line turned the road into an even narrower affair. The centre line was gone and the asphalt in a sorrow state. A construction side was announced at a bit of road that ran along a rock cliff. There wasn’t really construction, though. The road had broken off a little and had to be secured by traffic cones and a one-lane regime. Ravens where sitting on the warning sign, eyeing passing motorists. The rain had softened into a lazy drizzle. It was quite wonderful.

Another stream joined leaving the joint valley more open with a proper, flat valley floor. The stream, now more a river, really, wound along the floor, flat and wide, leaving enough space for some farming and the village of Slate Run: a bunch of houses, a petrol station and general store, a parking lot by the river.

These parking lots were announced as ‘recreational parking.’ Presumably, that was parking with no strings attached. Or possibly parking with benefits.

By now, the sun had come out, bathing the whole valley in a post-rain glory. The road slowly returned to normal conditions and houses started to appear again here and there. Eventually, the road ended and I turned south.

I reached Lock Haven, busy river crossing and home of a large white church with two towers: the left one was tall and housed a clock, the right one stubby and time-less. Downtown was surprisingly large, complete with its very own mini-maze of one-way streets.

Whether my motivation had waned after four thousand miles or whether it was the prospect of an entire map page criss-crossed with unnumbered roads, but when I left Lock Haven I readily accepted the offer of a southbound motorway. I didn’t even feel guilty about it.

I drove through the property of another prision—emergency stopping only!— before arriving at Penn State University at lazily named State College. From the motorway I could see the ridiculously large stadium. The huge attraction of college sports might be one of those aspects of America that is hard to really get as a foreigner. The stadium stood on top a hill, visible for miles. The university’s mandatory hideous concrete buildings hid in the surrounding valleys, obviously aware of their nature.

Beyond, the motorway chose a mountain valley of its own and stuck to the upper end of its left side, providing wonderful views into the mountainscape beyond. Every once in a while, the valley served as the scene for a town. Tyrone seemed a pretty little city crammed where the valley was still narrow. Altoona, further on, had more space but still had grown over several ridges and thus was rather up and down.

After reaching the main east-west Interstate, the motorway turned into a regular road. It stuck to the valley side for a while but eventually moved to the centre. Houses and farms appeared and things returned to normal. It went over a hilltop and suddenly: Welcome to Maryland. I had seen the state line on the map but still was rather surprised to find Maryland this far west. But no time to wonder or research as Cumberland appeared rather suddenly, too. It had to be crossed by yet another east-west Interstate. Since the city occupied yet another cramped river valley, the motorway needed to resort to rather hairy turns, leaving no time to admire the city.

I left both city and motorway, southbound again. A sign pointed to Potomac Park. Could the river really be the Potomac on the shores of which Washington had been built? Clearly a stop for some map studies was in order. Conveniently, I also needed petrol. But, as these things go, while there was plenty of places to buy entire cars, there was no petrol station for miles. Eventually, I found one and pulled up next to a white Suburban fuelled by a gentleman wearing a bullet proof vest.

The map explained that this indeed was the Potomac, more precisely the North Fork Potomac River. More yet, it served as the southern border of Maryland all the way down to Chesapeake Bay—with one short exception for D.C.—which explained why Maryland. The northern border, meanwhile, is relatively straight line known as the Mason-Dixon Line. Both of them come rather close about thirty miles east of Cumberland, less than two miles apart, and thus give Maryland’s west a rather funny shape.

Having finally plenty of fuel, petrol stations abounded with, naturally, lower prices everywhere. I passed by yet another prison, quite a big one, too, with a high school right next door.

Unsurprisingly the road is rather busy. It follows the river in a south-westerly direction through an equally unsurprisingly busy valley. Shortly before reaching Keyser, the river turned west and so did I. The turn also narrowed the valley. It became ever so more narrow and when it nearly reached its end, a factory appeared. Not a small factory either. There were plenty of grey buildings, smoke stacks and steam vents. Because of the lack of space, it went on forever. The factory proper was followed by storage spaces for wood and wood pellets. The complex really filled all available space. When the last fence was finally passed, the road immediately started to climb.

It was a serious climb, too, with an armada of warning signs and runaway truck lanes for the other direction. It was rather busy with trucks, too, must of them carrying wood and carefully creeping downhill. When things calm down, trees abound. This must be some serious mountain land, but I can’t really see it for all the trees. Folk becomes mountain-dwelling, too. A man on horseback is patiently waiting by the side of a grocery store for a gap in traffic to cross.

Oakland, then, was a typical mountain town where two or possibly more rivers met. It seemed rather agreeably real, though, hardly any lodges or resorts.

Beyond Oakland, back into forests, I had finally reached the far western end of Maryland and crossed into West Virginia. The road became rather bendy with determining speed left to the driver once again. The first village in West Virginia was Terra Alta, rather aptly named. The road picked a mountain ridge and kept running along that, twisting madly in the process. This somehow reminded me of the mountains where I had grown up, only there the hubbub was limited to the villages with quiet stretches in between. No quiet stretches here.

This went on for, well, ever. Traffic was heavy and I was starting to get tired. So I was rather happy when finally the outskirts of Morgantown appeared. I cruised around town, busy during evening rush, looking for a hotel. There was a downtown hotel, yet, again and I jumped at the option.

A brewpub was around the corner, too. After slightly too many beers I wandered around town for a while. It started down by the river and ran up the hill. Being home of West Virginia University, Morgantown’s centre would normally have been buzzing. But it was holiday season and instead it was slumbering lazily and deserted in the warm June evening sun. Most of the clubs and pubs were closed, as was the PRT, the fancy if a little weathered looking ‘personal rapid transit’ system connecting downtown with the various university campuses. So, I, too, decided to go back and slumber.