Volume 7, Issue 1 (Fall 2013)
In This Issue...
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"Levi J. Ulmer, Nature Study & the Nature Trail" by Joby
Topper
"Ecological Loss" by Lynn Bruner
"History" by Carroll Rhodes
"Did You Get the Message" by Marchal Rote
"Reduce, Reuse, & Be Thrifty" by Melissa Eldridge
"I Love the Light" by Guy Graybill
"Stalking the Scottish Highlands" by Barrie Overton
"Shipyard Up Deep Creek" by Laurie Cannady
"Leisure's Natural Home!" by Jeff Walsh
"Hike of the Month" by Bob Myers

Then away to the heart of the deep
unknown,
Where the trout and the wild moose
are-Where the fire burns bright, and tent
gleams white
Under the northern star.
~ Albert Bigelow Paine, The Tent
Dwellers (1908)

Introduction
Welcome back to another year and another issue of The Hemlock. If you're new to LHU, The
Hemlock is an online journal that features articles on the environment, outdoor recreation, and the
culture of Pennsylvania. This issue is typical in that it includes articles on a wide variety of
topics, written by faculty, students, staff, and members of the community. If you're interested in
writing for the spring issue, please contact Bob Myers.

Levi J. Ulmer, Nature Study, and the Nature Trail
~ Joby Topper (Director of Library and Information Services)
A few months ago, I wrote a short essay for the Spring 2013 issue of The Hemlock called “Campus
History as a Lesson in Stewardship.” I included a few sentences about Levi J. Ulmer, professor of
science and geography from 1918 to 1942, who, in 1923, founded our school’s Naturalist Club and
served as its first faculty advisor. I mentioned that Ulmer and the Naturalist Club blazed a
“Nature Trail” through the woods on campus during the 1930s; and I referred to President
Parsons’ decree in December 1942, just a few weeks after Ulmer had died, that the woods around
the Nature Trail would henceforth be known
as “Ulmer Memorial Forest.”
Today, few people are aware that these
woods were ever called by that name. As a
member of the Environmental Focus Group,
I’ve hiked what is left of the Nature Trail, and
I’ve seen the ruins of the old Club Cabin near
the Jewish Cemetery. We want to restore the
Nature Trail to its former glory. But this is a
big project, and we need support. I’m hoping
that this essay on Levi J. Ulmer as a teacher
and naturalist will pique your interest in

restoring the Trail that he and his students did so much to build and maintain.
Born on April 27, 1875, about six miles from Williamsport, Ulmer was trained as an elementary
school teacher at Muncy Normal School and began his career in 1893 in the rural schools of
Lycoming County. In 1903, shortly after earning his A.B. at Bucknell, he was hired to teach
science at Williamsport High School.
Ulmer was part of a Progressive movement in public education called “Nature Study.” Nature
Study was a blend of science, art, and conservationism. It was first and foremost a hands-on
learning theory in the spirit of Louis Agassiz and John Dewey. Ulmer led his students out of the
classroom and into the great outdoors as often as possible. He would ask his students to plant
flowers and vegetable gardens on the school grounds in order to beautify school property, to
teach the phases of plant growth, and, more importantly, to foster a sense of stewardship in the
students, who were expected to nurture and protect their gardens after the initial
planting. Ulmer would often lead field trips to nearby farms or into the hills, where he and his
students would plant trees and observe and record the behaviors of animals
Ulmer wanted his students to approach the study of nature scientifically and
sympathetically. This balance of science and sympathy is a signature element of the Nature
Study movement. It was not enough to simply go outdoors, apply the scientific method, and
acquire new knowledge. Ulmer encouraged his students to use their imaginations as they looked
at nature. “What is called the scientific method,” wrote L. H. Bailey, a pioneer of the Nature
Study movement, “is only imagination trained and set within bounds." Ulmer would often read
nature poetry and nature essays to his students, before and during their field trips, from the
works of writers such as Henry Van Dyke and John Burroughs. Ulmer wanted his students not
just to be informed by nature, but to be inspired by nature. He hoped to instill a genuine love for
nature in his students, the theory being that a person conditioned to love nature as a child would
protect nature as an adult. This was the link between Nature Study teachers like Ulmer and
prominent conservationists like John Muir, Gifford Pinchot, and Theodore Roosevelt. A diehard
Progressive, Ulmer believed wholeheartedly that public education was the key to the success of
America’s conservation efforts.

By 1910, while Ulmer was still teaching at Williamsport High School, some prominent educators
who had once supported Nature Study as an educational theory—men like Harvard President
Charles Eliot—began to publicly question its effectiveness in actual practice. “The real reason for
the unsatisfactory condition of nature-study in American schools,” said Eliot, “is that it is
practically impossible in many places to find teachers who are competent to direct the study in an
intelligent manner.”
Ulmer’s response to this critique speaks volumes about his commitment to Nature Study and
conservation education. Rather than confine himself to Williamsport and watch from a distance
as Nature Study faded into oblivion, Ulmer volunteered to lead Nature Study Round Table
discussions and present Nature Study lectures at the annual conferences of the Pennsylvania
State Education Association (PSEA). He spoke at community club meetings and presented slide
shows at local elementary schools. In 1916, to stimulate and improve his own work, he
completed a graduate course in Nature Study in the College of Agriculture at Cornell, where he
studied under Anna Botsford Comstock, one of the great pioneers in the field.
It seems likely that his move to the Central State Normal School (CSNS) in Lock Haven in August
1918 was yet another step in his effort to improve the teaching of Nature Study. The students he
taught at Williamsport High School were bound for many different careers; but nearly all of the
students he would teach at a Normal School were set on careers in public education. By
accepting the job at Lock Haven, Ulmer was in a good position from which to extend and
improve the teaching of Nature Study in Pennsylvania.
Ulmer was recruited to Lock Haven by his former boss in the Williamsport city school system,
Charles Lose, who had come to Lock Haven in 1914 to be Principal of the CSNS. Lose, like
Ulmer, was an avid outdoorsman and conservationist, and he was quite familiar with Ulmer’s
stellar reputation as a high school teacher and naturalist.
Ulmer was also fortunate to have as his immediate predecessor Blanche Balliet, a former
colleague in the Williamsport school system and a fellow Nature Study enthusiast. Like Ulmer,
she was a former graduate student of Anna Botsford Comstock at Cornell. Thanks largely to
Balliet, Ulmer inherited a solid foundation of Nature Study coursework at the CSNS on which to

build.
In March 1923, Ulmer did something that his predecessors had left undone—he founded the
school’s first “Naturalist Club.” He had formed a similar student club at Williamsport High
School about fifteen years earlier, and he still believed in its value as an extracurricular
supplement to his Nature Study course. It was also a way for Ulmer to show his teachers-intraining how to form and guide such a club at
the schools where they would someday teach.
It was no accident that Ulmer invited
Professor Thomas Wayne Trembath and his
wife Mary Shellenberger Trembath to coadvise the fledgling Naturalist Club. The
Trembaths were nature-lovers and naturewriters. T. W. Trembath was in fact the
English professor at the Normal School, and
Mary was a faithful student of bird behavior
and a gifted essayist. As mentioned above,
Nature Study was a mix of science and
sympathy, of the acquisition of information
and the experience of inspiration, so having the Trembaths on board was part of Ulmer’s
conscious effort to maintain this balanced approach to the study of nature.
Ulmer also ensured that Nature Study at the CSNS would remain focused on
conservation. Before taking his class on a field trip to the sawmills between Lock Haven and
Flemington, he showed his students a series of “lantern slides” comparing the forests and
lumbering methods of Germany, India, Japan, and China with those of the United States. “The
class is certainly better prepared,” wrote one of his students in the school newspaper, “to teach
the lumbering industry and the conservation of forests after seeing the real conditions of the U.S.
forests.”
A big fan of Arbor Day, Ulmer organized many tree plantings on campus. For this alone, we owe

him a tremendous debt of gratitude. It was said, probably with little exaggeration, that, before
Ulmer arrived in Lock Haven, the hillside behind Robinson Hall was “treeless.” It is a sad fact
that, during the late-19th and early-20th centuries, lumber companies tended to strip rather than
selectively cut the woodlands of this part of Pennsylvania. Ulmer and his students planted
thousands of trees on campus during the 1920s and 30s. “Won’t it be wonderful,” wrote a member
of the Naturalist Club in 1928, “to come back for the 25th anniversary of your graduation and hold
your reunion under the trees you helped to plant? … When your children and grandchildren are
coming to Teachers College, they will look with pride on those trees for your sake.”
Ulmer’s students created a special column in the school newspaper called “Our Nature
Corner.” The column was “meant to be especially useful to those of our friends who are now
teaching.” It included a list of observations on a given topic and invited teachers to use these
basic observations to frame their Nature Study assignments. For example—“Worms that turn
into moths spin cocoons; those that turn into butterflies spin chrysalids. Watch this
change. What happens to yours?” Teachers were asked to send the best of their students’ written
observations to “the Nature Study Department of the CSNS” so that they could be reprinted in
“Our Nature Corner.”
Ulmer was not satisfied to teach Nature Study in Lock Haven alone. It is worth noting that
Ulmer conducted extension courses in Nature Study at Clearfield, and in Philipsburg, as early as
1923. Clearly, Ulmer was committed to expanding and improving the teaching of Nature Study
in central Pennsylvania.
Ulmer occasionally led his students on field trips off campus—to McElhattan, Woolrich,
Farrandsville, and Wellsboro, for example—but he more often led his classes into the hills around
campus. One of the usual hikes was “up the Boys’ Glen and over the old road to the reservoir,”
where they would stop to enjoy a picnic. The “boys’ glen” is the small valley through which Glen
Road runs. (The “girls’ glen” was the Lusk Run valley that started behind what is now Thomas
Fieldhouse and continued up through the area around Jack Stadium. ) The “old road to the
reservoir” was one of the narrow access roads that now connect Glen Road to McEntire Hall. The
“old reservoir,” built in 1893 and filled-in in November 1968, was at the top of the hill next to
what is now McEntire Hall.

During Ulmer’s early years at Lock Haven, most of the campus property was green space. The
only school buildings on campus were on the grounds now occupied by Stevenson Library,
Russell Hall, Rogers Gym, Thomas Annex, Himes Hall, and the Durrwachter Alumni
Center. The campus landscape began to change quickly, however, in 1928, when ground was
cleared in the old “girls’ glen” for the construction of a new Training School (Akeley) and a new
athletic field (Smith). The Training School was built in the old Price Orchard, and the athletic
field was built along the lower end of Lusk Run, which, at that time, flowed down the valley
from above the present site of Jack Stadium through what is now Smith Field, under
Susquehanna Avenue and the railroad tracks, and into the river.
In 1929 and 1930, workers excavated the hill on the north side of Lusk Run in order to create a
large level space for the athletic field. (This is the hill adjacent to what is now Zimmerli
Hall.) The exposed rock strata on the hillside provided the 3 rd grade students at the (Akeley)
Training School with a handy venue for nature study—in fact, the class sent its collection of rock
and soil samples to the “Nature Study Exhibit” at Harrisburg, along with a photograph of the
class standing in front of the excavated hillside next to the new field—but this excavation work in
the girls’ glen may not have been universally welcomed. The girls’ glen was, after all, a starting
point and an ending point of many hikes. It is possible, though far from certain, that members of
the Naturalist Club saw the excavation of the Lusk Run valley as an encroachment on campus
wilderness. With that said, it may indeed be mere coincidence that the plan to blaze a Nature
Trail was announced just a few months after the Training School and field were completed (CT,
15 Jan 1931):
The Naturalist Club is this year undertaking a project—a nature trail—which, when
completed, will make for the enjoyment and advantage of the entire student body. The club
plans to begin a path directly back of the gymnasium which will continue to wind over the hill
to the boys’ glen, around to the girls’ glen, and down to the college, covering at least two and
one half miles.
There was only one gymnasium on campus in 1931—Rogers Gym—so the beginning of this path
was most likely on or near the concrete steps that lead from the back of Robinson up the hill to

McEntire. The trail was cleared to the old reservoir and over the hill into the “boys’ glen,” past
the Jewish Cemetery, and around the hill to the upper part of the “girls’ glen” (the Lusk Run
valley) near what is now Jack Stadium, then back down to campus through the valley now
occupied by Lawrence and Smith athletic fields.
It was an ambitious project. Guided by Ulmer, the students labeled “most of the trees, shrubs,
flowers, mosses, and other growths so that one not trained in the facts of nature will learn to
recognize them.” They believed that “more students would become acquainted with the ways of
nature if they had a special hill where they could loiter after the day’s classes are over.” The Club
also built "rustic chairs and benches for the weary hikers" and posted signs along the trail
"bearing quotations of famous Naturalists." As predicted, construction of the Trail and the
addition of signs and benches took several years.
During rainy days and the coldest days of winter, the old reservoir on the hill—always a favorite
picnic spot for Nature Trail hikers—provided little cover and no warmth. In 1940, the Club
acquired a cabin that stood on Baker’s Run between Lock Haven and Renovo. Members of the
Club, with help from the local chapter of the National Youth Administration (NYA), carefully
took the cabin apart, hauled all of its pieces to campus, and reconstructed it on the Nature Trail,
next to the Jewish Cemetery. On April 26, 1941, at the Naturalist Club’s homecoming event, the
cabin was dedicated to Ulmer and club co-advisor Lillian Russell.
Ulmer retired exactly one year later, in April 1942, having taught for 48 years, the last 22 here at
Lock Haven. At their homecoming picnic, the Naturalist Club presented him with a pair of acorn
bookends, “a symbol of his love for trees and books.”
Just six months later, on November 25, 1942, Ulmer died suddenly of a heart attack at his home
on Susquehanna Avenue. He was 67. President Parsons named the campus woodlands “Ulmer
Memorial Forest” in his honor on December 1st. In the 1943 yearbook, Ulmer’s former students
wrote a touching eulogy. Its final words appear below:
Mr. Ulmer has left his work in Lock Haven State Teachers College. New students and
visitors invariably are impressed by the warm, friendly spirit that they find at Lock Haven. It

has been personalities like Mr. Ulmer’s that have helped to build up that spirit. And to all of
us who were fortunate enough to be associated with him in the Naturalist Club he has left a
part of himself—a living, growing appreciation for the beauties and mysteries of nature. We
only hope that we will be able to pass that deep appreciation on to others in the same
enthusiastic radiating way it was given to us.
The Naturalist Club remained active in the years immediately following Ulmer’s death thanks
mainly to Lillian Russell. But after she retired in 1945, the Club gradually became less
active. The Club dissolved in 1958; and by the early 1960s, the Club Cabin was little more than a
chimney. As demand for additional dorms, classroom buildings, and athletic fields skyrocketed
during the late-60s and early-70s, much of the woodland on the hill and in the two glens
disappeared to make way for Glennon and North (1967); McEntire (1969); Zimmerli (1970); High
(1971); Gross (1973); Lawrence Field (1973); and Jack Stadium (1975).
During the summer of 1977, the college maintenance department restored portions of the old
Nature Trail. Without their work, I doubt that we would be able to see any traces of the old trail
today. I believe it’s time to continue what our maintenance staff started back in ’77. I believe that
the student Environmental Club, along with the staff, faculty, and administrators of the
Environmental Focus Group, should take the lead in this restoration project as a way to show our
respect to Ulmer and the hundreds of Naturalist Club alumni, living and dead, who worked so
hard to preserve the natural beauty of this campus. But the environmental clubs cannot, and
should not, do it alone. This campus belongs to all of us, and someday it will belong to our
descendants. Like Ulmer did for us, let’s pass on a legacy of good stewardship to posterity.
For more information on nature study, see Kevin C. Armitage, The Nature Study Movement (Univ.
Press of Kansas, 2009).
Ecological Loss: Grieving into Change
~Lynn Bruner (LHU Psychology Professor)
This summer, I hired a crew to cut down my favorite tree, a beautiful, relatively healthy tree in
the back yard. It was a huge tree, the species of which I’m embarrassed to say I never determined.

Not a pine, it had cones and short needles: an evergreen. Its long limbs were a safe harbor for the
nests of many birds: one memorable spring, that tree housed mourning doves, robins, chipping
sparrows, and house finches. It provided perfect cover for any birds checking out the feeders.
And one fall, a pair of great horned owls, calling and calling and gradually bringing their hooting
courtship closer and closer to my house, shared a prolonged series of conversational hoots,
chirps, and chortles (and presumably some more intimate moments) in that tree, right outside my
bedroom window. I cut that tree down, and it broke my heart to do it. I kept saying how much I
loved it, and I took it down. Why did I destroy that habitat, that life, that tree I’d spent so much
time admiring and observing? To take care of the “problem” that the tree presented, because it
had been planted too close to the house, and was starting to damage siding, roof, and sewer
pipes. But I also cut down the tree to build a screened porch…so that the indoor cats and I could
spend more time outside.
I really struggled with the decision to remove that tree.
And notice the language I’m using there: the word
“remove” is giving me some distance from what I really
did. I chose to cut down a life, and to change the small
ecosystem of my yard, for my convenience. Because of
that, I’m sitting with some shame, and I’m sitting with
loss. The real impact of that loss has been hard to face,
however, because the shame came first. I kept justifying
the decision to myself, telling myself how nice the
screened porch would be, and that eventually I would
put in new cover for the birds. As fall approaches,
though, the absence of that tree has grown. The empty
space keeps getting larger. I’m worried about the birds
that once sheltered in that tree during winter storms. I’m
wondering where my eyes will rest this winter, when
the world is looking bleak and exhausted, and I long for
the solace of something living and green.

In her essay “The ecology of grief,” Phyllis Windle suggested that finding a way to mourn
environmental losses – both large and small – may be an essential part of creating environmental
change. A hospital chaplain who was no stranger to grief, Windle also studied ecology. She
realized that “almost all literature on grief regards human death” (1992, p. 363), yet grief is a
normal reaction to losing anything that one loves. People grieve when a beloved animal
companion dies. They grieve the loss of a beloved home, when financial change or divorce forces
a move. They also grieve the losses they observe in the natural world. Windle deeply grieved the
death of dogwood trees along Skyline Drive in Virginia, when the disease dogwood anthracnose
devastated that species. Yet she realized that many of us tend to downplay or belittle our own
emotional responses to environmental losses we see around us. In a way, she suggested, we may
be reluctant to admit how much we love the natural world, because once we admit to our love,
we have to fear its loss and our subsequent devastating grief. She quoted Bill McKibben, “The
end of nature probably…makes us reluctant to attach ourselves to its remnants, for the same
reason that we usually don’t choose friends from among the terminally ill. I love the mountain
outside my back door…But I know that some part of me resists getting to know it better—for
fear, weak-kneed as it sounds, of getting hurt” (1989, p. 211).
We grieve the loss of what we know: We grieve the loss of what we love. What could be more
reasonable, but to grieve ecological losses? In fact, why aren’t we on our knees, sobbing at what’s
happening to this earth? Windle reminds us that “ambiguity and ambivalence make for a
particularly difficult period of mourning” (1992, p. 365). Many losses in the environment are
slow, piecemeal, and uncertain. We don’t always have the information we need to realize that a
loss has occurred. But perhaps, too, we seal ourselves off from knowing, as McKibben described,
because we are so fearful of our own grief.
In her book “Mindfully Green: A Personal and Spiritual Guide to Whole Earth Thinking,”
Stephanie Kaza suggests that “being with the suffering” (2008, p. 15) of the earth is a necessary
component to moving forward and creating environmental change. That is, we need to be
personally present with the pain and suffering of the environment, in order to be motivated to
make changes in our own lives, and to make changes on a greater scale. To walk along the Pine
Creek Rails to Trails, and hear the water trucks roaring by; to look deeply into the Tiadaghton
woods, and really examine the damage around the well pads; to feel the pain of what could be

lost, and what has already been lost: all of this may be necessary if one is to feel motivated to take
action regarding the Marcellus Shale hydrofracturing industry. For me to recognize that I chose
to take the life of one tree because it served my needs, and to grieve that loss, may be necessary to
motivate me to look beyond my smugness about being a birder, a recycler, and an organic/local
eater, and start paying attention to how I am continuing to be wasteful about the earth’s
resources. In her many works on eco-consciousness and change, Joanna Macy suggests using
deliberate ritual to touch both gratitude and grief for the environment, thus building the energy
for creating change. Tuning into our sorrow regarding ecological loss may be truly painful, and
even frightening. But it may also help us move out of hopelessness and powerlessness, into
movement and change.
References and Further Readings:
Kaza, S. (2008). Mindfully green: A personal and spiritual guide to whole earth thinking. Boston, MA:
Shambala.
Macy, J., & Brown, M. Y. (1998). Coming back to life: Practices to reconnect our lives, our world.
Gabriola Island, BC, Canada: New Society Publishers.
Macy, J., & Johnstone, C. (2012). Active hope: How to face the mess we’re in without going crazy.
Novato, CA: New World Library.
McKibben, B. (1989). The end of nature. New York, NY: Random House.
Windle, P. (1992). The ecology of grief. BioScience, 42(5), 363-366.
History
~ Carroll Rhodes (Director, TRiO Student Support
Services)
The coal came from a hole
Where a man spent his soul
And his whole working life
Even died from the dust that he breathed
Mining made a family’s income

Available to newcomers
Italian and Polish
And the whole Molly Maquire’s clan
The profits and progress
Revolutionizing East and West
And put the U.S. of A.
On top of all of the rest

Tempus fugit, and it’s Marcellus
But this time we do question it
The costs and the benefits –
So far, the profit motive wins out
Ruin the water ‘tho we can’t take it back
Didn’t we learn from the mines
That we’re blotting the sun
For daughters, sons and theirs?
Did You Get the Message?
~ Marchal Rote (Faculities Planning and
Scheduling Coordinator)

It was a little after 7 p.m. on Sunday evening,
September 22, 2013: it was our son, Josh
calling from Philadelphia. He wanted to
know if we had heard about his friend
Adam’s mom who was missing in Zindel

Park.
Zindel Park is the gateway to miles and miles of pristine Clinton County Pa Wilds hiking
trails. Home of the Megatransect and Eagle Trek races in McElhattan.
Josh said Noah had posted a message on Facebook looking for additional volunteers to help look
for his mom, Maryann, who had gone for a walk earlier in the day and never came home. She
left around 1:30 p.m. and approximately two hours later a call was placed to 911 from her cell
phone. At first, the cell phone number was not able to be located, but eventually the police were
able to pin point an approximate location. When they got to Zindel Park, her vehicle was in the
parking lot. Volunteers, emergency responders and rescue personnel began to comb the woods
to see if she could be found, but hours later, they were still not able to find her so Adam asked for
additional help.
Brad and I didn’t hesitate to go. We called our other son, Zach for advice on which trail to take
since he is very familiar with these trails. He said he would meet us, and he and his friend,
Shawn would help us look for Maryann.
Twenty minutes later the four of us had a game plan in place. Brad and I would take the left trail
off of Pine Loganton Mt. Zach and Shawn would take the right trail since it was a little more
challenging. We would meet up at the bottom of the mountain whenever we could, and continue
until we ran into other volunteers or heard that she was found.
By the time we started, it was very dark and starting to get cold. We would walk a couple of
minutes, stop, and call out her name. The only sounds were the fading voices from Zach and
Shawn, the wind, and this very annoying bird chirping. Every time I called out Maryann’s name,
this darn bird would chirp some more. I asked my husband if he heard it, but he said he
didn’t. How could he not, it was loud, and it kept following us. Finally, I said, “Brad, don’t you
hear that damn bird? It’s been following us the whole time.” Thank goodness he did. I thought
maybe I was going mad. He said maybe the bird is a sign—a messenger of sorts and that the bird
is not following us, but leading us!

At about 8:35 p.m. my cell phone rang. It was Zach wanting to know where we were. I told him
we had come upon a dead end in the path, but having come this far, we were just going to
continue down over the mountain and would meet them at the bottom. We continued on for
another few minutes, calling out Maryann’s name. Suddenly, we heard a sound. It was muffled
and a great distance away. I called out again, and again we got a response. It was just too far
away to decipher though. It could be other rescuers down over the side of the mountain. We
had a decision to make. Do we follow the path that seems to take a gradual decline off to the
right or do we veer off to the left and investigate the unknown sound? We didn’t have long to
decide because after calling out to Maryann again, the bird started chirping its head off to the
left. The decision was made. We would follow that bird!
By this time, the mountain was becoming very steep. Going off the trail into the unknown was a
little stupid, but we were committed at this point. I called out again, and this time, the voice
seemed closer and also seemed to actually be responding to us. Another few yards trying to stay
on our feet and I called out again. This time, it was clear as day: "HELP!" Hearing that was like a
shot of adrenaline pumped right into our bodies. We couldn’t make it to the bottom of the
mountain fast enough. The terrain was steep and treacherous, but we kept going. It was hard to
walk, hold the flashlight and try to keep a grip on rocks and trees to keep us from toppling over
the edge. I called out that we were coming—just before I took a tumble. Thank goodness I
caught myself on a tree or I may have ended up at the bottom a lot quicker than I had wanted
to. As we got closer the sound from the creek got louder and louder, so that when I called out to
Maryann, there was no response.
After making it across the water and up over a bank, I called out again. This time Maryann
replied, “I am here.” We knew we were close now, but being so dark and the ground covered in
mt. laurel, it was still hard to determine where she was. I told her to keep calling out until we
could find her exact location. Just as we went around a huge bush, we shined our lights, and
there she was leaning against a tree. The relief on her face was priceless. I told her that we were
there to help her, and we gave her a drink of water.
Brad told her that Adam sent us through his message on Facebook and asked if she seemed to
have any broken bones. She didn’t think so but that she could not get up. Her head, back of her

neck and back hurt from falling. She was shaking so badly that I was very fearful of her
condition. I got down on the ground with her and threw my extra sweatshirt over her lap and
chest.
Brad decided he would be the one to go for help and I would stay with Maryann. He handed me
his winter hat to put on her head to help warm her up. Maryann was very calm and relieved to
not be alone in the dark any longer. She asked me if I would help her to lay down. She wanted
to close her eyes and sleep. I asked her if she could move her body without too much pain. I
really didn’t want her to lie completely on the ground so I asked her if she could move away
from the tree just enough so that I could sit behind her. I took the reflective vest I had on the
sweatshirt and hung it in the tree beside us so that if a flashlight were pointed on it, it would help
the rescue team find us.
As I sat down onto the ground in behind Maryann, I took the extra sweatshirt and cocooned us
both in. I had her lean back against my chest so she could rest and we could use each other’s
body heat to help get her warmer. I wrapped my arms around her and held her close. I tried to
keep her talking so she would stay awake as much as possible. I didn’t know the extent of her
injuries and was afraid she could go into shock. I asked about her work and kids and just
random things—probably to help me too not think about being alone in the dark and defenseless
against any animal that may decide to visit us. Maryann mentioned seeing a bobcat earlier in the
day, but I was more concerned about bear or coyotes or even a skunk. I didn’t know how long
we were going to be alone together so talking also kept me from worrying about Brad and
hoping he hadn’t fallen on his way for help. I needed to remain calm and focused. If Maryann
could handle being alone in the dark and unable to move for hours, then I needed to stay strong
for her.
I asked her if she remembered how she hit her head, but she wasn’t sure. She did remember
hearing the four-wheelers coming in behind her, but by then, she was not able to stand up to get
their attention and the sound of the engines were just enough to drown out the sound of her
calling out. I told her that there were hundreds of people out looking for her. I told her a call for
help came out from her phone, but she didn’t remember calling 911. By this time, Maryann was
exhausted and I really couldn’t keep her from sleeping so I just held her close, kept her warm and

safe and let her rest while we waited for Brad to come back with help
Brad knew when he left us behind to follow the water and that it would eventually bring him out
to the reservoir above Zindel Park. He was not sure where the actual road was, and it was too
dark to find it so he followed a deer trail and hoped he could get his cell phone to work. About
50 minutes after leaving us, he was able to see that he had enough bars to get out a message, but
because he had no glasses with him, he could not see the keypad. Fortunately he was able to
make out his contacts list and called Josh back in Philly. When Josh answered, Brad went
crazy! “Josh, we found her!! Your mom and I found her!! Please call for help, I can’t see the
damn keyboard to call 911.” Shortly after the message was relayed, a rescue worker arrived on
his four-wheeler, picked up Brad, and they sped up the mountain.
About an hour and 15 minutes after Brad left, I could see the trees become aglow with light in the
distance and heard the sound of approaching motors. As the four-wheeler lights came in to view,
I took my flashlight and shined it in their direction—hoping they could see it and the reflective
vest from the distance. As they got closer I could hear them call out. I yelled to them that we
were “here,” and then I squeezed Maryann and told her the cavalry had arrived and that it was
time to get her out of here—that her kids were waiting.
The rescue team took such great care with Maryann. They loaded her onto a stretcher, and Brad
and three firemen carried the stretcher up over a bank and onto the back of a Kabota with a
bed. After being the ground behind Maryann, I was unable to get up without help. After
everyone was loaded in the Kabota and four-wheelers, together we drove down the mountain at
about 1-2 miles per hour trying not to jar Maryann too much.
When we finally made it to the command center, quite a crowd was gathered. Tthere was utter
silence as if they were not sure of her condition. The American Rescue Workers were there with
blankets for her. These people never gave up… all day they looked for her and now they took
care of her.
As Brad and I stood there among the throngs of people with tears in our eyes, I felt someone
come up behind me and put their hands on my shoulder. It was Zach who had heard from his

brother Josh that we found Maryann. So he and Shawn waited for us along with Maryann’s
family to give us hugs and congratulate us on being there for her. “Great job, mom! You and
dad were awesome!.” But, it wasn’t just me and Brad. It was all of us. It was all of the pieces
falling into place.
I talked to her son the next day and he told me that nothing was broken, but Maryann had
memory loss from the concussion and was dizzy. Later in the day, I called her hospital room to
see how she was and she answered. I told her who I was and she said, “My guardian angel. I
can’t thank you and your husband enough for coming to my rescue.” She said she doesn’t
remember a lot about the time she was alone and ultimately with me, only that she was freezing
and thirsty.
Five days after Maryann’s experience in the woods, she was able to go back to work. On the sixth
day afterwards, she and her family and friends ran in the PSU Color Race. I am so glad to know
that her life is back to normal and that she is ok.
As I hung up the phone with a smile on my face and tears in my eyes, I recollected the
conversations I had with her as we waited for help. One of them was the story of the annoying
bird and us coming to the fork in the road and the bird guiding us to go left. Maryann said, “I
know about the bird. I sent the bird! The bird landed near me as I sat against the tree. It was
gray. It brought me immediate comfort. I said hello and asked him to get me help. I then must
have fallen asleep because when I woke up, it was dark, and I heard the sound of your voice
calling out for me!”
I am not very religious but I am extremely spiritual and this experience may have helped save a
woman from a night in the cold dark woods, but it also renewed my own faith. Don’t be afraid to
reach out and help. Sometimes the message isn’t always clear and sometimes you have to follow
your heart, your instincts and allow even a bird to guide your path.
Reduce, Reuse, and Be Thrifty!
~ Melissa Eldridge (LHU Recreation Management Major)

We are a nation of consumers. We look forward to buying the newest and coolest clothing,
technology, sports equipment, toys, and household decor. But what happens to these items when
they no longer fit or they are not considered the newest and coolest items to have? They most
likely end up in the trash. There is no longer a need for these items, and the initial thought is to
throw them away. But there is no “away.” These unwanted items wind up in a landfill
somewhere, out of sight and out of mind. But landfill space is exhaustible; we will eventually run
out of space to put these items.
There is a simple solution to the never-ending cycle of
buying and throwing away: reusing. Instead of throwing
“away” jeans that no longer fit, books that have no
intention of being read, toys that will no longer be played
with, and old sports equipment, you can donate them to a
thrift store. Also, instead of buying items new, you can
reuse the items found in thrift stores.
Thrift stores are an overlooked, eco-friendly business that
is beneficial to both people and the environment, yet they
are given the reputation of being dirty, having unwanted,
broken items, and being contaminated with other people’s germs. According to Gina Johnson, the
store manager of the American Rescue Workers Thrift Store located on Main Street in downtown
Lock Haven, these negative views are completely inaccurate.
Ms. Johnson points out that the thrift store receives donations of clothing, furniture, books, shoes,
kitchen items, purses, toys, collectibles, and other kinds of items, but will only sell them if they
are considered “sellable”—that is, in good, usable condition. For example, the employees will test
all lights, kitchen items, and other electrical items to make sure they are in working condition
before they end up on the shelves.
All items are disinfected before they are sold in the store. Clothing, furniture, pillows, shoes, and
bedding are taken to the American Rescue Workers’ Warehouse to be sprayed with a disinfectant
and toys and other items are wiped down with a disinfectant in the store before they are put on

the shelves. You can be assured that all of the items that are sold in the thrift store are in usable,
clean condition.
So instead of throwing away the books and toys you no longer want or the jeans and sweaters
that no longer fit, donate them to a thrift store. Likewise, if you happen to be looking for some
books to read, some more clothes to wear, or toys for a child you know, free your mind of the
negative connotations and shop at a thrift store; they are cheap and eco-friendly and help the
never-ending cycle of buying and throwing away become a cycle of buying and reusing.
I Love the Light
~ Guy Graybill, from his 2013 book, Whimsy and Wry
I love the light when shadows stretch
Across the fields, as Dawn’s begun;
Before receding, hastily,
Beneath the awesome, rising Sun.
I love the light the shower brings,
Reflecting on the dampened leaves,
Or sparkling in the droplets of
The webbing which the spider weaves.
I love the light when fog descends
To rest within the narrow vale,
Embracing weathered country sheds:
Obscuring rustic pump and pail.
I love the light which filters through
The haze of Autumn’s dewy morn;
The light which shimmers on the pond
And plays across the sheaves of corn.
I love the light when early flakes

Give hint that winter has begun;
A light that’s dim upon the land,
As though a chill o’ercame the Sun.
No matter how the Sun’s revealed:
In all its forms, I love the light.
Yet, just as much, when day has gone…
I love the darkness of the night.
Stalking the Scottish Highlands in a Quest to become a “Macnabber”
~ Barrie E. Overton (LHU Biology Professor)
What is a Macnabber? In order to
understand you must drop any
Pennsylvanian notion of hunting and
familiarize yourself with hunting as it exists
in Scotland.
Hunting is precious in Scotland, but trees are
even more important, so the government has
adopted a deer extermination program on
forest land, to keep deer from hindering
forest regeneration by over-browsing. The
dichotomy between private land owners with
long family histories of hunting (referred to
as a stalking), and the government extermination of deer is palpable and ever-present.
The 1925 novel by John Buchan titled John Macnab is considered by some to have revitalized
hunting traditions in Scotland and spawned a major conservation effort by private land owners
to continue the tradition of stalking in Scotland. John Macnab follows three friends that have lost
the luster of life. Stuck in the mundane movements of their lives, they seek excitement and do so
under the assumed name of John Macnab. Their plan is devilish and simple—under the name of

John Macnab they send warnings to estates (private land owners) that they plan to poach animals
from the estate grounds, specifically salmon and red stag, without detection. Their challenge was
to return the poached animals to the estate front door without being detected.
The story is cherished in Scotland so much that it has generated renewed interest in preserving
Scottish stalking traditions on estate grounds and has even spawned a modern day sequel, titled
the Return of John Macnab, written by Andrew Greig. In fact, there are official Macnab challenges
in Scotland, falling under 11 different categories: the Real Macnab, the Classic Macnab, the
Southern Macnab, the Macmarsh, the Macnorfolk, the Macvermin, the Macscandi, the
Macargentinian, the Macafrican, the Maccharlie, and the Corinthian Macnab. It has been said
that there are as many Macnab challenges as there are clans in Scotland. All of the challenges are
variations on the original theme of the novel—you must successfully stalk and capture animals in
a specific combination by species in a specified time period from a hunting estate. The Classic
Macnab consists of the successful stalking of a stag, hooking a salmon, and bagging a grouse in a
single day. In Macnab tradition harvested game animals can be sold to official “game handlers”
associated with the estate that then sell these animals to the finest dining establishments in
Scotland and the United Kingdom. Some of the meat is retained by the estate and served in fine
meals at the hunting lodge and of course stalkers are able to take home trophies from their
hunts.
I can relate to the “pains” the major characters of John Macnab were feeling in the mid 1920’s, so I
set out to become a Macnabber. I used the internet to find an outfitter in Scotland and explained I
wanted to attempt a Macnab challenge. I was able to find a wonderful outfitter in Steven Wade,
owner and operator of an agricultural business and a stalker with a fine reputation on the
Hunting UK blogs. His hunting business is called Woodmillshootings. Red stag were not in rut
during my visit to Scotland but Steven said I could still give the Macnab challenge, or some
variation of it, a good try.
I arrived in Edinburgh and was greeted by Steven. We proceeded to Woodmill Estate, and I
started hunting that evening. The next day I traveled with my guide to a large Scottish estate
called Straloch, situated just south of the Cairngorm National Park. Straloch Estate is on the edge
of a beautiful wilderness consisting of nothing but heather moor and mountains for 70 miles. At

Straloch, I was able to stalk up to within 50 meters of a large herd of red stag hinds, but there
were no large stags with the herd. I bagged two roe buck while on Straloch estate but failed to
get the stag I wanted to complete the Macnab challenge.
Steven took me salmon fishing on the river Tay the next day to begin the challenge all over
again—this time starting with the salmon. We fished for several hours enjoying a dram of Scotch
Whiskey mixed with Tay river water, but I failed to catch a Salmon on a fly, so we went back to
hunting stag again. This time we were able to stalk up to a small spike red stag which I decided
not to take. Instead, I was able to bag a third roe buck on Lomond Hill later that day. It was a
unique animal, what they refer to in Scotland as a malform, in that one of its antlers was not
typical of the species, but a highly prized trophy in Scotland none the less.
I failed at my attempt to become a Macnabber, but I enjoyed hiking and stalking the Scottish
country side, fishing its beautiful streams, and enjoying the beautiful lodgings at Woodmill
Estate. Steven was a wonderful host, a gourmet chef, and I enjoyed wild game every
evening. Every aspect of the novel, from the large estates that employ conservation measures, to
game keepers, game handlers, and gourmet meals satisfied my expectations. I even was able to
garner a copy of John Macnab before I left Scotland. I understand Steven’s optimism—every
failed Macnab is another day to enjoy stalking, another day to enjoy the heather moors and
Scottish countryside, another day to breathe and learn to enjoy life, to celebrate it in its
fullest. There are valuable lessons to be learned by reading John Buchan’s novel John Macnab—
but even more from a stay at Woodmill house with Steven Wade as I gained a friend that is far
from ordinary but exceptional in all that he does. I can’t wait to attempt the Macnab again—a
quest for a successful Macnab is a quest for something out of the ordinary that after all is the
essence of a Macnabber.
Shipyard Up Deep Creek
~ Laurie Cannady (LHU English Professor)
[“Shipyard Up Deep Creek” is an excerpt from a chapter in Laurie Cannady's memoir, “Have a
Little Piece of Me.” With an emphasis on place and space, “Shipyard Up Deep Creek” chronicles
Laurie's childhood memories of her grandfather's land in Deep Creek, Virginia. “Have a Little

Piece of Me” is a book of personal essays, grouped into chapters by themes related to sustenance.]
By the time she was six, most of Momma’s eleven brothers and sisters had left just like her
mother. Less mouths to feed usually means more, but poverty has a way of wrapping itself
around those who occupy it. Despite the many difficulties, the main one being a home with no
wife and mother, Granddaddy had provided his children with a solid house to live in. With no
plumbing, no electricity, it offered minimal protection from stifling Virginia summers and wintry
gales swooping from the Chesapeake Bay. It was a two-bedroom hovel, which at one time fit
eleven children and two adults. One might imagine the home swelled as bodies packed into it,
but I believe it was the demanded silence
which made the Boone children seem small
enough for the house to feel big.
That’s how I felt when Momma took us to
visit on Saturdays and Sundays of my
childhood—small—in a big space. I looked
forward to traveling that dirt road,
protected by the ranks of trees that
bordered it. I always felt relief when we
turned the corner and that box of a home,
sitting on a red foundation, under a red
roof, still sat there.
Whenever we went, we found cousins
searching for the same thing we were: adventure. And there was much adventure to be had in
just the yard alone. It was the size of a football field, covered in grass so green and thick, I’d yank
fistfuls and never create a dent. Elms crowded the yard’s perimeter. We had been warned never
to venture past that majestic line, lest the witch who’d tortured our adolescent parents eat us
all. So, we stood dangerously at the edge, staring into darkness, hoping to catch a glimpse of her
floating through the trees. Any Boone grand who got too focused on witch surveillance was in
danger of being pushed into the woods, unwillingly offered as proof of the witch’s existence.
When we grew tired of surveillance, we found our way to the fire pit that usually held one of the

whole pigs Granddaddy roasted during family reunions. And our family reunions were not kin
to reunions people hold today in posh hotels, with catered food, and t-shirts donning the names
of family members just in case they forget who they are. Our reunions began on any day with a
phone call from Granddaddy to one of his eleven kids. If a Boone girl didn’t have a phone, she
received a visit. If a Boone boy didn’t have a car, he and his family were stuffed into the car of a
brother or sister. Somehow, we all found our way to Granddaddy’s with bowls of potato salad,
macaroni and cheese, green beans, pork and beans, and coleslaw. We carried tubs of ice topped
off with soda and beer for the adults and plastic Little Hugs for us children. As our parents,
aunts, uncles, and Granddaddy cooked, we congregated around the large, grey, propane tank
that sat in the back yard. We mounted and rode it like a wild steed trying to buck us off. We
stood on it, waving imaginary American flags, having transformed it into the naval ships we
often saw on the Waterfront. We tapped beats on it as the boys attempted to rap and the girls
choreographed routines to the music. Those performances often ended after one of our mothers
or fathers ordered us to get off or be blown to pieces if we punctured the tank’s metal skin.
Even though I was young, no older than ten, I often thought about Momma in that space that I
adored, carting buckets of water into the house. Journeying to the outhouse on the coldest days
and the darkest nights, fearing the witch’s red eyes. I saw Momma cutting grass with a push
mower, raking leaves with a toothless rake, watching her brothers chop wood to heat the house
on winter mornings. There was no propane tank then, no line pushing gas into the house, no light
bulbs making it look like the home we journeyed to those Saturdays and Sundays of our lives.
For Momma and her brothers and sisters, our playground, our land of adventure had been a
place of work, a place of rule, a place of silence.
Despite the busyness of the backyard, Granddaddy’s house maintained that silence. We Grands
were only allowed inside when Granddaddy or one of our parents needed a bottle of liquor or a
can of grapefruit juice. There were also those occasions during the week when Granddaddy
charged one of our mothers with cleaning and we worked alongside her, quietly dusting walls
and washing baseboards. Granddaddy paid our efforts with fifty-cent penny rolls and butter
cookies, which we ate outside, ensuring not a crumb sullied the work we’d completed.
On those quiet cleaning days, that little house held much intrigue. As I scrubbed, I imagined

Momma growing up there. Candles replaced light fixtures. The bathroom, with its pedestal sink,
wobbly toilet, and rust-stained tub was a younger version of itself, just a closet with a urine-filled
pot pushed in the corner. The porcelain sink reverted to a steel washbasin that doubled as a
bathing tub, and when coupled with a washboard, became the family washing machine.
The kitchen with its stove, refrigerator, and cabinets stood naked, just four walls with a cast-iron
stove and a wood icebox that held a block of ice, milk, and the meager amounts of food the
family shared. Cupboards of dishes and drawers filled with forks, spoons, and knives vanished.
What appeared was a thin stack of plates, some cracked, some misshapen, and there were barely
enough for four people to eat at a time. I imagined Momma and her brothers and sisters licking
their lips as they prayed a plate and fork would become available before all of the food had been
devoured. The living room, with Granddaddy’s chair, television, and overstuffed green sofa,
back then was not a living room at all. The Boone children weren’t allowed in unless they were
reporting to or doing something for their daddy, and it too was bare, until it was filled with
Granddaddy’s bootlegging customers, who found seating wherever their backs and butts fit. The
bedrooms were just rooms, no frilly bed sheets, no comforters, no curtains. They were not
intended to be an oasis for sleep. Their only function, to suspend battered, worn bodies between
the work which had occupied the previous day and the work which would occupy the next.
By building a home, Granddaddy had lived up to his end of the bargain with his children. Their
end was to take care of it, themselves, and him. It didn’t matter that he doled out more beatings
than hugs, and his words were meant to deconstruct rather than build. The world didn’t love
them. Trees didn’t bend in reverence when they walked by. Grass didn’t thank them for walking
on it. Lightning didn’t apologize for setting fires and rain never feared its pouring would drown
them to death. The world tolerated them, as did he. Love had nothing to do with things being as
God made them.
But he had loved them, fiercely. He may have beaten them, but that was only to teach how hard
the world could be. He may have screamed at them, but he was a man of few words. Screaming
ensured he was heard right the first time. He’d raised all of his children to look out for one
another, to keep a clean house, and to be resourceful when necessary.

And resourcefulness was always necessary. That’s what Granddaddy taught his children and
that’s what they taught us children. Granddaddy’s house held answers to questions I could never
ask Momma. Like, why she rationed food, even if we were still hungry. And why we washed
clothes in the tub with a washboard when there was a laundromat across the street. Or why she
had no sympathy when I complained about sharing a bed with my sister. According to Momma,
we had it better than she ever had, so there would be no complaining, just doing. Doing got
things done and that was all that mattered in any Boone household.

Leisure’s Natural Home!
~ Jeff Walsh (LHU Recreation Management Professor)

Have you ever been out for a walk or hike and decided that an old
logging road or old trace could serve as an expedient route to the
vista you wanted to visit, only to later discover that the road was
not as convenient as you thought it would be? Perhaps you have
chosen to follow an animal trail, only to discover that animals don’t
struggle through briar patches, multifloral rose bramble, and nearly
impenetrable thickets of Autumn olive quite the way humans do? In
many ways, writing this article has been analogous to the
aforementioned scenarios. I knew where I want to go, but getting to
that point has proven to be much more of a struggle than I had
anticipated.
To begin this metaphorical “hike”, I want to point out that the
underpinning of this article is not solely mine; rather it originates
from a 1989 article written by Dr. Wayne Stormann, retired
professor in the Recreation, Parks and Leisure Studies Department
at S.U.N.Y Cortland. The focus of my diatribe originates from

Stormann’s 1989 hypothesis that true leisure “will only exist in the realm of the transcendental” (p. 29).
In his article, “Work: true leisure’s home?” Stormann presented a central treatise that most work
in modern society has undergone a paradigm shift--from being the center of reasonable
adulthood, to essentially being a meaningless source of revenue. Stormann meticulously outlined
the case that work in modern societies has been transformed from a stronghold of craftsmanship
to a vestige of drudgery, from the meaningful to the meaningless, from purposeful, self-defining
tasks to demeaning, mindless routines. He proclaimed that work has evolved from being a source
of personal satisfaction to being an unsavory necessity that many people try to avoid most of the
time.
According to Stormann, faced with the reality of work devoid of personal dignity, meaning and
satisfaction, alienated workers in industrial societies fervently search for personal meaning and
self-definition in recreation and leisure activities. He also contended that not only is most work in
industrial societies is meaningless, but that leisure in those societies is also purposeless ―
characterizing it as “structureless, aimless, and irresponsible.”
So far, so good! Thus far on our “walk”, we have been able to follow a recognizable, established path, like an
old logging road through a mature stand of white pine. But now we emerge into a clearing, perhaps this
was a staging area for loggers. This south-facing side of the mountain is a habitat where ample sunlight,
moisture, and soil have natured the propagation of new growth vegetation, a place where, over time, the
understory has flourished and thrived. The path is now clogged and choked with briars, brambles, young
saplings, and mounds of decaying tree tops ─ the leftovers from an ancient logging operation. We are now
forced to find our own way; to meander and wander around by some circuitous route that will hopeful lead
us on towards our final destination.
Stormann ultimately called for the transformation of modern work to true leisure experiences, to
meaningful, transcendental acts of self-discovery where individuals have “the capacity to find oneself
while losing oneself” (p. 30), where work is “an avenue by which people discover their true
identity ” (p. 31). True leisure ― “activity that is artful, transcendental, and serious” (p. 30) ―
serves as the main tenor of the remainder of this article.
There is a long well established litany of research and literature supporting the idea that leisure is

a receptive attitude of contemplation (e.g. Pieper, 1952). Pieper’s notion was that leisure is a
spiritual attitude like worship, an inward calm of silence and peaceful concentration, a receptive
occasion of steeping oneself in the thoughtful consideration of things greater than oneself (Pieper,
1963). Essentially, Pieper believed that it is only in leisure, and an escape from daily life and
duties, that humans can reach a contemplative state where can we philosophically consider
things such as the meaning of life, where we fit in, and to begin to see our true worth and value.
Hey, is that the logging road up ahead! Happy days are here again! We will have to hurry if we are going to
get there.
Stormann’s description of true leisure uncannily mirrors parts of both the Romantic’s perception of
nature and the Transcendentalist’s view of nature. Those who subscribed to Romanticism (e.g. the
Hudson River School of Art) believed that a person’s happiness and well-being increases as that
person’s association with nature increases (Nash, 1982). The core of Romantic primitivism
celebrated a belief that being in nature could allow a person to be in the “primitive state of man,
peaceable, contented, and sociable” (Bartram in Nash, 2008, p. 55). On the other hand, the
Transcendentalist’s view of nature was that nature often serves as a “vehicle to inspire intuitive
thought that lifted [one’s] consciousness to greater spiritual wisdom” (Ibrahim & Cordes, 2002, p.
33). Each of these views contend that experiences in nature can transform humans, raise us above
daily concerns to contemplative states where we are more likely to reflect on the meaning of our
lives and universal truths. Such transcendental experiences are what Stormann has called true
leisure ― a condition of the soul, a receptive attitude of contemplation, an inward calm of letting
things happen, a contemplative celebration of life (c.f. Pieper, 1963).
How many times, while immersed in nature, have you suddenly recognized such a state? The
sense that all is well, that life is good and, that is it great to be alive. In his 1865 report for the
establishment of Yosemite Park, Fredrick Olmstead called for the preservation of natural areas
because they offer people the opportunity to “…disengage from getting tasks done, and to
engage instead on thoughts removed from the confinement of duty and achievement” (Sax, 1980,
p. 20). It was his contention that such areas provided the provocation for people to be
contemplative. In fact, “his goal was to get the visitor outside the usual influences where his
agenda was preset, and to leave him on his own, to react distinctively in his own way and at his

own pace” (p. 24).
We are here! There it is ─ what a view! Look at the sky, the setting sun is creating colors that defy
description. So brilliant and yet sublime, that one must be here to know them.
While many of us do not exactly what it is, there is an unmistakable force that lures us – at times
with considerable force – to spend time rooted in the natural world. Perhaps it is a biological
thing, some genetic factor passed down generation to generation, an innate affinity for life and
nature (e.g. E.O Wilson). It may be some sort of intuitive, unconscious reaction to a deep-seated
drive to satisfy a latent need to search for universal truths about the meaning of life and the
reasons for our individual existence. Is this what nature promises us ― experiences that inspire us
to transcend daily concerns? To have faith that through nature we will find “true leisure”
experiences ― momentary glimpses of freedom “to find oneself while losing oneself”. To be who
we are meant to be. If so, then nature is indeed leisure’s true home.
For further reading, see:
Ibrahim, H. & Cordes, K.A. (2002). Visionaries and pioneers. Outdoor Recreation: Enrichment for a
Lifetime. (2nd ed.) (pp. 33-59). Champaign, IL: Sagamore.
Pieper, J. (1952). Leisure: The basis of culture. New York, New York: Pantheon Books, Inc.
Sax, J. L. (1980). Mountains without handrails. Ann Arbor, MI: The University of Michigan Press.
Stormann, W. (1989). Work: True leisure’s home? Leisure Studies, 8(1): 25-33.
Hike of the Month: Brown's Run Trail
~Bob Myers
I have to admit that I'm reluctant to introduce this hike. I discovered this trail by accident a few
months ago, and since then, it's become one of my favorites. In all the times I've hiked it, I've
never seen anyone, so one of its appeals is the solitude. But I'm not a misanthrope and would
love to see you while I was hiking, so here it is.

To get to the trailhead, begin at the Clinton County Courthouse (Water and Jay), cross the bridge,
and follow Route 664 North for 17.8 miles. At the stop sign, continue straight on 44 North for .7
mile. Take a right onto Francis Farm Road (there is a wooden sign for the Tiadaghton
Sportsman's Club). Go .2 mile, and at the Y, bear left onto Browns Run Road. Go .7 mile and pull
over on the left, just before the bridge over Brown's Run. To the left, the yellow blazes follow the
stream for about 1.5 miles to Route 44. My preferred hike is to follow the trail to the right, down
over the bank, which continues for about 4.5 miles to Route 414, just about 2 miles north of the
intersection with Route 44. If you wanted to do the entire trail, it would be easy to drop a car at
the Route 414 trailhead, and then drive
south on 414 and then follow 44 North to
the northern trailhead.
The path follows a beautiful small stream
through groves of hemlocks, yellow
birch, and white pines. Some of the
white pines are four feet in diameter,
indicating that they were spared during
the logging boom of the late nineteenth
century. Occasionally, the yellow-blazed
trail climbs away from the stream for a short distance, and at times the sidehill trail is tricky, so
boots are a good idea. Hike downstream as far as you want, and then return the same way to
your car. As you travel downstream, there are several valleys on either side, and some of them
have paths that lead you back to roads that would enable a loop (if you do this, I recommend the
Tiagdaghton State Forest map).
During the summer the trail was "decorated" with the surveyor ribbons and wooden stakes of the
crews doing seismic testing for the natural gas companies. I think after hiking this trail, you'll
agree with me that gas wells would not represent an improvement.
Environmental Focus Group
Bob Myers (Chair), Md. Khalequzzaman, Lenny Long, Jeff Walsh, Lee Putt, Ralph Harnishfeger,
Barrie Overton, Melissa Becker, Todd Nesbitt, Sharon Stringer, Jamie Walker, Colleen Meyer,

Steve Guthrie, John Reid, Lynn Bruner, Elisabeth Lynch, Kevin Hamilton, Keith Roush, Laxman
Satya, Steve Seiler, Elizabeth Gruber, Joby Topper, Ray Steele, Michael McSkimming, Mark Jones,
and Allison Fritts. The committee is charged with promoting and supporting activities,
experiences, and structures that encourage students, faculty, and staff to develop a stronger sense
of place for Lock Haven University and central Pennsylvania. Such a sense of place involves a
stewardship of natural resources (environmentalism), meaningful outdoor experiences, and
appreciation for the heritage of the region.