Picking My Nose in the Poconos

Looking down from the prop-driven airplane, we were flying low, giving one a nice view of the Pennsylvania landscape from Philadelphia to Scranton. The low, soft mountains are almost completely covered in trees. It looked like the head of broccoli below. Occasionally, you will see a break caused by the checker-board green of farmlands, the snakey dark lines of rivers, and paths made by powerline swaths. At the top of many of these mountains spun the vanes of white windmills. The blades, like so many toothpicks, drew power from the windy perch.

Automatically upgraded to a Ford Explorer (I won't complain!) I popped off to the village of Waymart.

The roads through these low mountains seem to be mostly narrow two-lanes. They weave and drop and rise through the many forests. Pennsylvania, meaning "Penn's Woods" was given to William Penn by Charles II. As I wound my way through the deciduous haven, the name began to have a bit more significance.

I can't overstate the number of farms you see along the way. Old barns, painted the color of iron-base red, sit snug in hidden valleys. Rows of stone fences, picked from the fields decades ago, corale small herds of cattle or horses. Houses have been built in similar niches and fields of goldenrod have reclaimed older farm fields.

It is beautiful. The sun warmed the scene and the lack of busy traffic made me feel like I had some private time to take it in. Save the animals, it made me feel like I was all alone. The problem? The problem was the fact that the road was narrow and there was no good place to pull off. Most of my search was in vain. I saw so many places that I had to go explore, but no good place to venture off from!

Honesdale was where I found the most civilization. This small town was the county seat and had much of the old, late 1800's architecture you want in a nostalgic place. I decided to go eat at Elegante, one of many Italian-American joints you find out here. The veal and pepper sandwich hit the spot. Capicola, veal, and peppers seem pretty common on the menus out here. You don't see 'dagos,' a fact one my Italian friends from Philly once noted. The mystery remains = why do Italian joints in the midwest and some places elsewhere, use the derogatory term for the respective Italian sandwich?

Tuesday, with shoots being done, I stopped at Lake Wallypaupak. The shoreline was full of loose rock, much of it the blue stone so famous in this region. People had made piles of precariously placed rocks upon the beach. This neo-lithic gesture seemed appropriate in a land once inhabited by the Delaware Indians.

As my lodging Monday evening consisted of yet another musty house, it helped to sour the mood a tad bit. It didn't help that they had neglected to put sheets on the beds either. However, Tuesday's abode sits on the opposite side of that spectrum.

Built as a mountain-escape by millionaire Joseph Hirshhorn, when the rest of the country was living through the depression, this French-style manor sits atop the mountains. Usually a place for honeymooners and the like, the view is one of an Appalachian valley below.

It was refreshing to check in, sip a glass of golden Madeira (a sweet wine made popular during the colonial period) and gaze out at the Appalachian valley below.

The current owner told me how Hirshorn made inroads for the Jewish community in the region. As many of the establishments did not serve Jews, his children would pick Huckleberries in the surrounding woods and sell them to the inhabitants below. The proceeds would then go back to the Jewish community. Would could all learn a lot from that take on a crummy deal. When life gives you Huckleberries...

The evening before the shoot I had decided to take dinner. I sat alone outside as the chill mountain air moved in. I was given a creamy peach and ginger potage, compliments of the chef. It was fresh and peachy and I relished each miniature spoonful. After my salad I was given a light sorbet to cleanse the palate. With my duck I had the light house red wine. As far as the duck, the presentation was very nice. The medalions splayed out like a deck of cards and covered with sweet sauce. The vegetables were equally artistic. The taste? Umm, the duck was like a fatty, crusty pork covered in grape jelly. Imagine that and you'll now how it tasted. The night grew cold and I returned to my fireplace.

The morning shoot was bright and sunny. A more beautiful day could not be asked for. I left that Hirshorn chateau (his art collection once displayed there now resides in the Smithsonian, anyoo...) and head to Skytop.

Skytop Lodge is of equal stature but on a larger scale. This mighty lodge resembles something out of Rhode Island or better yet, a little Versailles. It dates back to the 20's and has an immense ground and gardens. An American estate house.

The shoot lasted forever, but I was able to dawdle on the green before the lodge. I remarked at the fact that their was high occupancy but no other people on the grounds. The flowers in the gardens were kept company by busy bees and the flap of Monarch butterflies.

After a sub par Italian dinner in the valley below, I returned to the lower level of the lodge for a chocolate malt. The girl behind the counter shared some of the lodges ghost stories. The ambiance could not be better! Here we were in the basement of the lodge, in the 'Tea Room' which was nothing more than a little ice cream bar and small shop, up a few steps and extending down into a narrow room. The lower level ran the entire span of the lodge containing a billards room, a bar, many adjacent curious rooms and at the furthest end, through winding corridors, the 20's style swimming pool.

She mentioned being with the manager at closing and hearing a loud woman's sigh in the very room they were standing. The night auditor reports receiving calls from the attic and from the library, immediately across the way. There are ghosts that have favorite seats in the dining room and a perpetually cold spot there as well. Most stories concern room 409.

After our chat I decided to head to spooky places. Down a basement corridor I stared at old photographs mounted on the walls and the longer I stayed, the more I realized I had hightened my senses. I'm sure I could imagine up any ghost at that point. But I went up staircases and down hallways. This was very reminiscent of the Shining. I ran in to no one until I went up to room 409. I small-talked to relieve our mutual anxiety as I passed. It must of been an employee, turning the beds down. I kicked myself for not asking to see the inside of the room!

So, those are the stories thus far from the Poconos. Look for your some of your own ghost stories this week!