The days gone by. Where did they go? Each memory as precious as a diamond. Those are the memories of my boyhood before the magical adventures of two wheeled freedom.
There were days when a friend or two would gather and we would live out those days, running through the woods, pretending to be soldiers fighting an imaginary foe as ruthless as any. Or we would follow the creek up and down pretending to be treasure hunters seeking out a fortune buried somewhere along the creek bed. It had never occurred to us that the treasure we seek was in the day itself. Those magic adventures that lay in our memories are a pleasant retreat in times of quiet reflection.
It has been a ritual for Judy and I to take one weekend day in the middle of winter, and retrace one of our motorcycle routes commonly taken in the summer months. This weekend was the one we picked. We call our yearly winter journey our “Pretend Motorcycle Trip”. It gets us out of the house at a time when winter is at its worse and the time till spring seems furthest away.
During each of our yearly trips it is an unspoken goal to look for new roads to travel or eateries to dine at once the weather has broken and we are, once again, on two wheels.
As per our usual summertime motorcycle departure, a time was set for 10 AM sharp. And so, we left exactly at our usual time of 10:30 AM.
I picked a route that we both enjoy on our summertime excursions. A route that has some history as well as scenery.
We headed north to our first stop at the Kinzua Viaduct, or the more common moniker the “Kinzua Bridge”. Built in 1881 to better move lumber and oil by train, the viaduct, or bridge, was in service until 1959. From then on it sat unused until 2003 when a F-1 tornado toppled the steel wonder.
In 2011it was turned into a historic attraction and the remaining standing structure was reinforced and became a skywalk for tourists to venture out on and take in the breath-taking view.
Judy and I have ventured out on the skywalk many times. But never in the middle of winter with an outside temperature of just nineteen degrees, not counting the windchill factor at 300 plus feet high.
The trip out to the point of the skywalk was a comic icy folly and the entire length was traveled by shuffling along holding on to the handrail.
To say it was cold would be a gross understatement. Judy and I both agreed that any future crossings would be done at a more appropriate time of year.
After thawing, we headed for our next stopping point. The Kinzua Dam. It’s another point of interest for us to stop at during times of travel on our iron horse in the summer months.
Much of the way to the dam from the viaduct is through heavily wooded areas and through sections of the Allegheny National Forest. Which in summer are lush green forest. Beautiful and calming.
But during the winter months our journey through this part of Pennsylvania is bleak and cold. I do not enjoy the winter though I have tried. Hiking is a struggle when one is bundled up and falling in the cold snow, packing snow in places you tried so hard to keep it out of, is just not fun. So, we were a bit amazed and intrigued when we got to the dam, we saw a pair of ice climbers scaling the frozen waterfalls that formed across from the dam on the high banks and cliffs next to the roadway.
A two-person team of man and women would send one team member up the frozen rock face and secure the ropes for the other team member to ascend. Once the other member had reached the climbable summit, he or she, would gather the secured equipment while descending. I don’t know how many times this was done but it sort of reminded me of someone digging a hole and filling it back in for no reason. I voiced myself to those around us that also gathered to watch the two climbers that “And people think we’re crazy riding a motorcycle!”
A conversation was struck up between my wife and I and another onlooking couple. We talked the usual small talk and when it was time to part our ways the gentlemen and myself exchanged a handshake in which we were reminded of the potential for the exchange of a virus. It has even been suggested, by some of those overseeing this whole COVID-19 thing, that the handshake should be a thing of the past as far as greetings go. BULLKAKA!! I will *NEVER* give up the handshake and I will never trust those who do or might do. The handshake is a greeting, it is an instrument of trust, it is a deal maker greater than the pen to me, it is a sign of friendship.
After watching the second climber descend, it was getting cold and our next destination was to be a restaurant just south of a little town called Tionesta. About thirty miles south of the dam.
The restaurant we seek has been a planned stop for us on many of our motorcycle sojourn. The reason we never stopped there is unknown. But today it is a focal point, and we are determined to sample the cuisine.
The culinary oasis we seek is in the middle of nowhere a few miles south of Tionesta on Route 62 and our trip there has us following the Allegheny River for several miles.
Again, the contrast between the winter and summer river is bleak and stark. In summer times the river is full of canoes or flotilla of some sort and people fishing or attending to their campsites along the riverbank. Now the ice flows down a cold waterway and only a very few hearty ducks attend to it.
Once we entered the town of Tionesta we stayed on our southern route and followed Route 62 over the river and for a few miles more where we found our objective. “The Hills in the Forest” is a bar/restaurant and upon entering is clean but plain.
We were not expecting much in the way of culinary delights, but boy, were we wrong. The food was excellent and homemade. We sampled the chile, the wings that were crispy and generously soaked in a sauce whose name escapes me but one that I never heard of before, a fresh cut French fry mixture topped with what they called the “Garbage Can” and a BLT sandwich, which we split, made with what Judy thought to be, pizza dough. By the time Judy and I walked out we were happy that we made the stop and remarked to each other that all we had eaten was wonderful and that we were glad we split everything. We will return on the bike when the weather is warm.
It was another fifty or so miles before we returned home. The road seemed longer, and time seemed quicker. Our pretend time was nearing an end. Though we made the journey in the comfort of four wheels and a heater and the radio playing all the songs from the past, I will remember this pretend journey above all the other pretend journeys.
Long Lonesome Highway 