16/10/2018
Sensing some may be exploring options this month where to ride for a fall trip, fewer journeys this time of year have been as indelible as ours was to Ohiopyle Falls, PA four years ago. Click the "album" link for the pics and story. Enjoy!
From our trip to Ohiopyle Falls, PA, earlier this month. Please enjoy!
Pennsylvania was calling. We had been up to Porcupine Falls earlier in the spring and rode past the falls at Ohiopyle on that trip. There was a construction project going on, so we couldnât get a good look and made a mental note to return when we could. Wednesday and Thursday were looking like great days for an overnighter, with highs near 60 and no rain until Friday. According to the almanac everyone seems to be referring to, it wouldnât be long before the sounds of motorcycles would be replaced by the eager echoes of snowmobiles and ATVs. It seemed to be a golden window for couple carpe diems.
I was navigating with my android and its GPS app. We rolled through Romney and once past Keyser and the Potomac River, it vectored us along Rt. 135 to Luke. I immediately detected a note in the air, similar to the Covington, VA area, as if a paper mill was nearby. It wasnât long before we saw a tall smoke stack surrounded by industrial buildings, like something out of a Half-Life video game. It was later determined that this was the NewPage Luke Paper Mill, but there was no sign of Gordon Freeman.
In a few miles, we were instructed to turn right on Rt. 495. Unlike the notorious Capital Beltway, that shares the same route number, this heavenly road was the complete opposite of the hellish stress pot, the loop around our Nationsâ Capital, has become. Farm after farm, homestead after homestead, this rolling ribbon, of fifth gear hills, valleys and sweepers, was everything a cruiser was made for. It was one of those roads where shifting and braking were seldom needed, and with the non-existent traffic, the roll on power of our V-Twin, made it feel like soaring through the air at times.
Rush shuffled four in a row on my android, as I noticed the leaves popping on the trees. In their autumnal brilliance, the complexity of colors was enhanced by the perfectly timed fills, of one of the most inspiring percussionists, lyricists, and authors of our time. Itâs only fitting, he rides a motorcycle too. If only âThe Treesâ was one of the songs that played. That would have been truly extraordinary.
Riding in October has a very unique flavor. In addition to the leaves changing, the lawn art takes on a new, dark twist in anticipation of Halloween. Laughter could sometimes be heard, over the music, as the over the top displays, were seen as we passed by.
A sign for the Youghiogheny (Pronounced 'LÄh-'nĂ©rd 'Skin-'nĂ©rd), Dam pointed to the left. I immediately obliged. I canât seem to pass them up. They usually provide great picture fodder, and this one didnât disappoint. It was a 1610 foot long, 184 feet high, earthen structure built in 1944, and like so many in the mountains, helped the hills act like hands scooping the water from their basin below, and turning it into a picturesque lake. This setting would soon require a frame and a wall.
We arrived at the Yough Plaza Motel, our base camp for the night. It was very inviting with its stained wood siding, and cozy, clean rooms. It was also within walking distance to the falls and a pub. At $110/night though, it was a little pricey, especially in October on a weeknight, but its location made everything convenient. There would be no cab fares and I donât mind supporting small, local businesses. They had flat screens, but a frig, microwave and coffee maker would have made it more palatable.
We were pleasantly surprised how much water was flowing over the falls. The roar of water could be heard from our room, so, by the time we got there, everything crescendoed in a timeless splash. There were three viewing decks linked by stairs, intimately sparced by a few people. This is what we came to see and it was fantastic! There were cascades nearly everywhere upriver. The rising mist, seemed to metaphorically lift the weight of the world, off our shoulders. And in those moments of serene clarity, we stood a while, together in each otherâs arms, alone in our thoughts, experiencing creation in motion.
We were hungry, so we walked over the bridge to the Falls River Pub, across the street a short ways from a river rafting outfitter. A couple of employees were stacking rafts in a trailer for the next dayâs trip. A sign said they would provide tours through October. Brrrrr! We spent the rest of the evening enjoying the local atmosphere, sampling the eclectic selection of craft beers, including âMamaâs Little Yella Pilsâ, and playing pool. The beer marinated, steamed shrimp was a hit, unlike the 8-ball continuously finding the pocket prematurely.
We walked a block to the Falls Market for breakfast the next day. They had a cozy dining room and a tasty and inexpensive breakfast. An obligatory TV was showing morning programing featuring Michael Thtrahan, the retired football player. Fortunately, the sound was muted. Elsewhere, my gaze caught a rack of postcards, mostly of the falls. They reminded me of my late Father, who would often send them to me on his trips. The apple, I thought, hadnât fallen far from the tree. We both have and had, a real lust for travel. His often involved planes, trains and automobiles. Mine have some wheels missing, and the only altitude, is gained or lost in mountains. I silently thanked him. I canât imagine any other lifestyle that Iâd rather be living.
With Nauti loaded, we parked by the falls for one last glimpse, before we made our way home. We found ourselves entranced again, as if it were yesterday, wishing we could do it all over. Like the waters flowing downstream, I realized these would soon be memories on the fond banks of the past. Parting such beauty, is always sweet sorrow. Sorrow, because itâs time to get back to reality. Sweet, because it would involve another motorcycle ride on awesome roads with great scenery. It beats standing around, waiting for a suitcase.
We took a different route, passing through the scenic resort of Deep Creek Lake. It was in the 50s and there were a few boats out, mainly fishing. The ski area was visible on the mountain across the water, its green trails, quietly resisting, its inevitable white winter blanket, in the weeks to come. Fallâs grip, on this October day, however, was firmly in control. The distinctive black ribbon with yellow striping on routes 38 and 42, stretching over natureâs autumnal wrapping paper, made for a fantastic gift. As magic filled the air once again, it became abundantly clear, experiences like these, can only be truly appreciated, on a motorcycle. Itâs something I donât take for granted. Out of all the lives that have ever lived, and of all the planets in solar systems, in galaxies in our universe, Iâve chosen this one, right here, right now. The odds for this occurring are nearly astronomically impossible, yet here we are. And like so many enthusiasts, Iâve realized riding on two wheels, is about as close to heaven, as one gets.
Cheers and thanks for reading!
