Illustration by James Arnold.
Watching from the deck as Lucy chases falling oak, maple and birch leaves, the stillness of Pine Creek and the mountains captures my every thought, canceling all of the noise running through my brain. Chris is unpacking the Subaru for our picturesque, L.L. Bean-cover-shoot-worthy fall getaway. We’re spoiled. A luxurious log home complete with all of the amenities outdoor enthusiasts could ask for has been at our disposal for nearly a decade. Lucy’s twirling in sync with the leaves, lost in her joy—I want a pause button to stay in this moment forever. I’ll miss the little things most.
Easter dinner, my father-in-law announces he’s contacted a realtor to put the cabin on the market. No one thought he’d go through with it. We built this place; polyurethane lingers under my nails and in my hair even years later. It was his dream, to build this house in the shadow of the mountain along the West Rim. A monument to his childhood spent in this valley. The Horace Hand paintings commissioned by his parents hang on either side of the sliding glass doors, framing visitors’ first views of the creek in perfect balance. Where will they hang when the cabin is sold?
“It’s been a tough decision, but it’s one I had to make,” he says, clearing his throat to get everyone’s attention. “I didn’t want to sell, but I didn’t have a choice; Tom Corbett made it for me. You can thank our fearless governor in chief for destroying the land and water.”
In a few short years, the natural gas industry has turned the area that the website Pennsylvania Tourism notes as offering spectacular views, abundant wildlife and beautiful foliage that promise brilliant fall displays of deep reds, yellows and purples in early October into an area of increased erosion, contaminated wells and collapsed roads. The state’s official tourism promotion website, visitpa.com, even notes, “The drive along the West Rim of the gorge provides beautiful scenery and an impressive density of northern PA birds and other wildlife.” On many occasions with Audubon app in hand, we’ve spotted woodpeckers, warblers, wild turkey and thrushes. We’ve encountered black bear, whitetail deer and even a lynx. The diverse and fragile ecosystem in which these creatures exist is being tampered with for the sake of the almighty dollar and political gain.
The narrow, loose gravel roads, open grate bridges and trail crossings signal our entrance into a place that time has forgotten. Held still in Mother Nature’s hand as a testament to beauty and wonder that still exist. After the loss of the once-thriving logging industry at the turn of the last century, Lycoming and Tioga counties now rely heavily on the draw of hunters, fishermen and outdoor recreationalists. The rocky hillsides and small pastures are trying even for the most dedicated farmers, and finding sustainable water sources is increasingly difficult. Those who carve out a living in Pine Creek Valley are rough-around-the-edges sorts like Deb and Tom, who run Wolfe’s General Store in Slate Run.
The bell dings, marking our entrance into a shop that’s also the post office, an Orvis dealer, a stop for bikers and hikers on the rail trail and a respite for creek paddlers and fishermen. The hum of the industrial bread machine is music to my ears, as it ensures fresh cinnamon rolls or pecan sticky buns with Saturday’s breakfast. Before I can even get a hello in, Deb’s waving from behind the deli case. “Half or whole pound of the valley sharp wheel cheese for yas?” she asks in her signature raspy voice. It’s the charm of the owner knowing your order, the familiar camaraderie of a general store that makes it feel like home. I’ll miss chatting with Deb and talking to her husband Tom about how many bear they’ve seen on their property or how the Penn State football team looks for the upcoming season.
“This little valley has a whole lotta heart,” reads a graphic T-shirt from the clearance bin that Chris holds up against his chest with a mocking look on his face. I know what he’s really after, a new, fleece-lined, black-and-red flannel checkered hunting cap. They’re much more expensive to buy here from Deb and Tom than on Amazon, but we like supporting their business. We take misplaced pride in supporting people that, despite the odds, trudge on and make a living the way their family has been for nearly 80 years. Chris walks down the three steps to the fishing and hunting section of the store, where I hear Tom greet him in his chipper, top-of-the-morning style. It was Tom who told Chris about the time his grandparents’ plane almost didn’t stop and nearly hit the store. Tom was only a boy, but the incident made quite an impression.
The story takes place on a snowy January day with low visibility. Ben Smolinski was making his normal trek from Philadelphia to Slate Run in his single-engine plane with his wife and two young children. The landing in non-snowy conditions would be a breeze, Ben being a veteran WWII training pilot and part owner of the Conshohocken airport he ran with his eldest brother Tony. But with the low visibility and slick conditions, Ben overshot the landing and the plane’s skis slid the small aircraft 100-plus feet past its intended landing, nearly hitting Wolfe’s General Store head-on.
Everyone on board was unhurt, and only a small field was affected in the skid landing. As Tom tells it, Ben emerged from the aircraft, immediately lit a cigarette and laughed off the whole incident. His wife and children emerged a little less casually but, as I’m told, that was Ben.
My father-in-law’s and husband’s connection to this place is rooted in Ben’s fascination with Pine Creek, which brought him here in the 1950s. Not a lot of other Poles camped in these parts, and I have it on good authority from those who run the General Store that Ben’s larger-than-life personality annoyed a lot of the locals. “Who the hell does this Philadelphia city boy think he is flying in on his plane for the weekend? Who cares if he’s a great shot, throws lively parties and saved the Ole’ Mill House from demolition? He’s an asshole, especially when he drinks, and he’s always drinking.”
Ben has long passed away, but his spirited love for Pine Creek lives on in his son, grandson and great-granddaughter. When my husband and I were first dating, Chris told me about a plot of land his father bought in order to build a large log home with creekside access. We immediately started camping on the site. After a few years, the cabin on Pine Creek was a reality thanks to many weekends of hard labor by the family, enthusiastically led by my father-in-law. Chris’ sister was married on the property, next to the small waterfall on a scorching June day. Chris asked me to marry him from the Big Ridge Vista along the southern portion of the West Rim Trail.
The five-mile trek past Lloyd and Boehn Runs winds through the natural gorge unfolding atop the pines and cedars, which reveals the spectacular beauty below. It was in this very spot that Chris knelt down, pretending to tie his shoe, and pulled out my great-grandmother’s sapphire-and-diamond ring. That tabletop diamond, although not the largest, is the only ring I ever wanted to wear, pining over it since childhood. The deco-style, New York 1920s-era gem adorns my tiny hand and, one day, I hope to continue the family tradition of passing it to my eldest granddaughter.
Five years after the proposal, we attempt to return to our beloved vista, this time with our baby girl in hopes of sharing another special moment together, this time as a family.
In the parking lot of Rattlesnake Rock, Chris assembles the complicated baby-carrying backpack that we’ve borrowed from his sister. We begin the arduous trek, but this time slower than before. A lot happened in the five years since we’ve made the climb. I’ve survived a near-fatal car accident. Now without a right kneecap and with several pieces of metal embedded in my legs and feet, I don’t move as nimbly as the avid hiker and backpacker I once was. We make it to the intersection at Blackwell Trail, and there is a DCED sign that reads—“DANGER: Trail Closed Due to Active Fracking.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Chris yells, waking Lucy from her slumber on his back.
“This place,” I stammer, holding back tears. “Why did they have to pick this place?” Yelling into the chilled March air, I repeat my sentiment with my arms above my head looking for a divine answer.
“We knew it was happening here. We knew we’d see it sooner or later but here,” Chris pauses in awe of the situation. “It’s gone, babe. Lost to the crazy, crack-like thirst fueling this mess.”
Then we hear the noise in the distance. The sound of heavy machinery, trucks, rigs, the sound of industry invading the forest. The sounds of foreign objects attacking a serene place, it’s what I imagine Ben heard during WWII when his plane went down over France and he hid outside Bastogne, embedded with an American paratrooper unit for two months awaiting airlift. Uncle Tony saved Ben’s letters from the front. My husband is proud of his grandfather’s cunning, intelligence, luck, for surviving a hard crash landing and escaping Nazi detection and capture.
As a first generation Polish-American, Ben longed to aid in Germany’s defeat. He later told his wife about regret over not serving in an intelligence unit he’d been selected for, instead taking a training pilot position that stationed him in Britain for most of the war. They wanted him to spy within Poland; he had family fighting for the Polish Resistance Movement. Ben died when Chris was seven, from an undetermined illness—Chris feels closest to Ben in this valley, along this creek, in these mountains, where he hangs on to the few memories he has of his grandfather. Ben’s ashes were scattered from the Slate Run open grate bridge so he could always be part of this place he loved.
Without saying a word to each other, we turn around and head south. Lucy coos melodiously, snapping us out of our fog. We stop at Lloyd Run to rest and let Lucy out of the carrier. The serene spot next to the babbling, flowing water allows us to forget for just a moment that we’ve lost a part of our shared experience. In one swift movement, Lucy reaches her hand into the icy water and pulls it out again. Instead of crying, she smiles in a way that’s reserved only for babies. I look at Chris. “I think we found our new spot,” I say, hoping he’ll see the wonder in her eyes and let go of the anger he feels.
“It’s not Big Ridge. It’s not where we started our new journey but, for now, we can enjoy this spot, before they take it too,” he says.
We put Lucy back in her carrier and head down the southern face of the ridge toward Rattlesnake Rock. It is more than a hike. It is an awakening, a reality to what we’ve been reading about. No amount of New York Timesarticles on the pros and cons of fracking can prepare you for the sinking feeling in your heart when you realize a place you love is gone.
“Frackers Get the FUCK Out” reads a sign along Old Mountain Road, just a few miles from the cabin. That evening, as we head to dinner at the Slate Run Hotel, Chris’ grandmother spots the sign and, without missing a beat, slyly says, “They’ve got that right, and who the hell asked them to destroy everything anyway?”
Dinner at the hotel is typical, with one caveat—a group of natural gas workers parked at the bar. There are a group of hunters squarely on the opposite side of the bar. The natural gas dummies don’t realize it, but they’re being watched. The avid outdoorsmen have their number and are ready to take names. We leave before any words are exchanged between the opposing sides, but we’ll certainly inquire with Deb and Tom to see if anything ensues. Apparently, in the parking lot shortly before last call, a few of the hunters deflated the tires of the Range Resources vehicles and wrote some profanities on the windscreen. When the workers went back into the bar to inquire about the culprits, they were met with complete obliviousness by the bartender and hostess, who, locals themselves, would never rat out their loyal customers.
The tension is thick in these parts; hunters and fishermen are protective of this valley. No one wants to see it disappear or be compromised, but there seems little can be done to stop the industrial methodology of the natural gas industry. The wheels of so-called progress are in motion, and those who love the natural landscape are powerless to stop the destruction happening all around them. Simple forms of protest continue to pop up, but there’s no collective resistance, not yet anyway.
I am not old enough to remember the environmental movement of the 1970s. Both of my parents, while in their 20s, participated in protests and campaigns related to environmental issues. Being a New Englander, my mother, while at Simmonds College in Boston, participated in Hudson River cleanup initiatives. She was involved in lying down in front of the car of an executive from the largest polluter of the river, her one and only arrest. My father was a bit more militant; he helped document how a large automaker was involved in illegal dumping into the Potomac River near the Maryland and Virginia line. His personal count of his arrests from this period, mostly for trespassing or illegal documentation (filming/photographing) stands at four. Whether or not the youth of today and their baby boomer, former hippie protestor parents will organize and stand up to the weight of the natural gas industry remains to be seen, but there is little time to waste. There are a few glimmers of hope in the fight against fracking, including New York State’s recent announcement to ban fracking outright.
According to the article, “Here’s the grassroots political story behind the New York fracking ban,” by Steven Mufson, Democratic governor Andrew Cuomo, by supporting the court ruling for the small town of Dryden to ban Anschutz Exploration Corp. and any other fracker, has, for now, halted the boom from the Marcellus Shale formation. This formationjuts out from Pennsylvania, where oil and gas companies have drilled more than 13,000 wells using fracking techniques to unlock gas trapped in shale rock.
“It can take up to 7 million gallons of water to frack a single well,” reports Seamus McGraw in his Popular Mechanics’ article “Is Fracking Safe? The 10 Most Controversial Claims About Natural Gas Drilling.” McGraw goes on to report that, in the past two years, “Wells operated by Chesapeake Energy and EOG Resources, two of the largest companies of record, were responsible for spills of 8,000 gallons of fracking liquid in Dimrock, Pa., that contaminated the groundwater.” But, with all the water contamination, erosion and road collapses aside, the silver lining is the natural gas industry estimates the development of the Marcellus Shale could create 111,000 [temporary] jobs, a number reported by energyfactspa.com.
Pennsylvania was hard hit by the economic downward spiral over the last five years, and the once-powerful manufacturing hub has not fully recovered, despite whatever job numbers the government wants to spew at Americans as they eat at the dinner table. Many of those jobs that were lost are never coming back. Instead of investing in clean energy sources like solar and wind, Gov. Tom Corbett and his cabinet, in the pocket of the oil and natural gas industry, decided to go in the direction of tapping finite resources at unevaluated costs to water and wildlife.
When industry destroys culture, people’s lives change in irreversible and unexpected ways. The unthinkable, like selling a dream home, now becomes an imminent reality.
My daughter will never ride her bike along the rail trail after a huge Sunday breakfast enjoyed around the solid oak picnic table my brother-in-law made for the cabin. I will never watch my son crawl along the banks of the creek while he watches his dad and sister float by on inner tubes. We will never share another family Thanksgiving or New Year’s Eve around the large stone fireplace, drinking and laughing into the early morning.
During my father-in-law’s announcement at Easter, he commented that we could still rent a house if we wanted to, every few years in the valley, to which my mother-in-law quickly chimed in, “Why? So we can drive by our beautiful home with someone else living there? If we’re selling, I don’t think I can ever go back. I can’t watch something I love be destroyed.”
Alison Smolinski is a communications graduate student at Penn State Harrisburg.
