The 50-degree air was just this side of still, barely moving the freeze-dried field grass atop the dwindling Laurel Ridge. Looking across the clearing to the west, I watched steamy smoke rising largely undisturbed from the electrical generating stations, sitting in the northern end of the Ligonier Valley.
From this vantage point, Chestnut Ridge stood in sharp relief thanks to the sinking sun. The ridge marched steadily to the southwest, its line broken only by Packsaddle Gap, where the Conemaugh River leaves the valley on its meandering journey northwestward.
State Game Land 079 was deserted, peaceful, and a very pleasant place to be on the Sunday before the first day of rifleseason for deer here in the Alleghenies.
But distant, muffled reports, followed by repeated popping sounds, hinted at what would be happening here in a few more hours. Hunters were sighting in their rifle scopes and getting in some final target practice.
Not a hunter myself, I tend to avoid most woods – especially the game lands themselves – atthis time of year in deference to the hunting fraternity. While quasi-public, the game lands have been purchased by and are maintained mostly through fees from hunters.
However, hikers are welcome on state game lands on Sundays, when most hunting is disallowed.Because this Sunday was the eve of Pennsylvania hunters’ biggest holiday, a bit of wanderlust prompted me to visit and see what hunters would be looking at during the days to come.
Snow, the hunters’ best friend, wouldn’t be greeting them at the start of this rifle season.
Now, all that remained from the snowfall of a couple of weeks earlier were hints of iton the north faces of larger rocks and in the furrows of downed trees, places where the departing sun no longer visits.
Most of the landscape was a study in browns. Now stripped of their leaves, the hardwoods were dressed for the winter season.
Yet a pleasing amount of green remained. Forest ferns, while flattened by the season’s first snowfall, still appeared as fresh as a spring day. Green moss clothed rocks.
Ground pine and other clubmosses were ever-present along the access road upon which I walked. Curiously, while clubmosses don’t flower, some featured tiny red flower-likeappendages that made me wish I was more knowledgeable about such plantlife.
Because it was mid-afternoon and Iwas walking rather than sitting, there was little evidence of wildlife – just a few small, solitary birds and, somewhat surprisingly (at least to me), a couple of dusty colored moths.
Unlike the hunters who soon would be fanning out through these woods and sitting still for long hours in the days to come, my quarry wasn’t wildlife – just the experience of being here during this time of year.
Most hunters readily will admit that at least some of the joy of their pastime comes from the place itself, in learning about the patterns of life there and experiencing its rhythms. Long after the exhilaration of the hunt and the harvest evaporates, hunters will return to reexperience the joy of these places and, perhaps, to share it with others – a child or grandchild, spouse, or longtime friend.
In that way, I wanted to share their experience – not of the harvest, but of the field; not of the pursuit but of the walk; not of the quest but of the escape from daily life. In such ways we can share common joys while respecting the other and staying out of each other’s way.
If you are a hunter, enjoy your special days in the state game lands, and thank you for your part in making these places available. The rest of us should know that we are permitted in the game lands on Sundays and that no gun is needed to experience some of the joys of the hunt.
To respond to this column – or read other columns by Dave Hurst – visit.