Descending northward, the Schuylkill trail accesses terrain on the north side of Elk Mountain.
The slope gently runs along a ridge from which the steep pitches of the Wyalusing, Chippewa, and Tecumseh descend.
Whether one chooses to veer right down the gentle Tioga back toward the lodge, or careen down one of the expert slopes farther along the trail, the Schuylkill affords some of the most beautiful scenery on the mountain!
It’s not uncommon for limbs and twigs to wear a coating of ice when a rain is followed close on by freezing air.
Sometimes, even after seemingly clear weather, the cold causes the last bit of humidity in the air to cling to any exposed surface.
Such the case last week when temperatures fluctuated above freezing, then plummeted to near zero. The cold air has allowed an extraordinary amount of snow to be made on The Big and Friendly; skiing this week has been spectacular.
The road leading out of Elkdale follows the Tunkhannock creek along the valley floor before beginning its climb on Lyon Street toward Elk Mountain.
As it is not part of any convenient route from from the outside world to The Hill, this side of the neighborhood, one of the most picturesque, is often unseen by visitors to the area.
Growing up near Clifford, this was the path brother and his friends drove to go skiing. Most times, even if reluctantly, I’d be allowed to go up on the mountain with the ‘big kids’.
At that time, countless blissful days were spent skiing in blue jeans that, if new enough, would scuff out a patch of blue dye on the snow when gravity got the best of you.
Even though young, our legs would ache after a full day of adventure and exploration skiing with friends on the mountain’s cold, snowy slopes.
Near dark, we’d careen home along this ‘back way’ to the mountain. With “Mountain” rock and roll blaring too loud, from the back seat I’d watch through tired eyes as brother’s little convertible nearly skimmed off the deep walls of snow cut by the snowplow through impossibly deep snowpacks.
To home, home at last.
We’d peel off our soggy blue jeans, and be allowed to wear our long johns to the dinner table.
The warmth and comfort of a big steaming bowl of pasta served up by Mother would conspire with the fatigue of our growing bodies, causing our eyelids to droop as we barely made it from the table to under the covers, tired, joyful, contented.