The Pine Creek Gorge

by Matthew Malcolm

The Pine Creek Gorge is one of a glorious brotherhood of canyons. Planned and chiseled by the tireless fingers of the floods and the ancient, heavy tread of the ice-mantle in the landscape of the great Allegheny Plateau. It reposes within the leafy solitudes of western Pennsylvania, twenty miles from where the wild, uncurbed fingers of the wilderness reach out to baptize the fertile lands of the northern state.

Crossing the silver-veined current of the Susquehanna, one bounds a westward direction through pastures and lush meadows. Within thirty miles, Lamb’s Creek must be crossed, and soon thereafter, the very earth begins to heave and swell with the arrival of the Allegheny Mountains. They in turn are merely a shining fragment of the ancient weather-beaten sentinels that were birthed with the continent - the Appalachians. They do not shout to the heavens with the jagged, ice-cold arrogance of granite peaks; instead, they rise with a solemn, moss-shrouded majesty. They are a divine, spine-like divide that severs the Atlantic sea lands from the amber-blazing expanses of the great western plains and beyond.

In the fourth week of last July, I set out upon a grand excursion to explore the sacred significance of this monastery. My routing began near a small dwelling of man’s creations - Mansfield. I then followed major roads westward. I carry with me my faithful satchel, filled  with notebook and pencils within, and a rucksack with a change of garments, a small sheltered tent, and a few days’ supply of simple bread and honey and dried meats.

Entering the vast, unmeasured wilderness, the mountains appear as solemn, prayerful guardians watching over the plunging, shadow-drenched gorges. Standing upon the damp, ferny floor of such a valley, I carry the venerable weight of a thousand centuries flowing down from the heights. Yet, these valleys splinter ten-fold into a hundred glens and gorges. These, in turn, branch again and again ever-wilder into an infinite labyrinth of hemlock and pine. Eventually, these deep-sunken veins narrow and transition into high plateaus. The towering mountains seem to overbear, they observe my every action with a watchful eye, as if to demand I follow an oath that not one man shall leave any scar upon this divine creation.

The site of a state-sheltered park is where I had planned to behold the great chasm face to face. Between the columns of the forest-temple, I begin to catch glimpses of the glory that the gorge foretells. The green-crested waves of the hills dipping down into a profound carve in the earth. Craggy, storm-sculpted ramparts surround a rocky pulpit on the western rim of the gorge. As I hasten toward this ancient podium, directly before me the earth opens suddenly and sublimely. The creek cuts a jagged path through two opposing highlands, the one I stand upon, and another about a mile distant.

Before my view, the river curves sharply to the right and vanishes after some five miles south. To my left, I could see for more than fifteen miles, the blue ribbon of the river gradually fading into the soft, hazy violet of the distant peaks. On the two gorge rims, hemlock and white pines cover the cliffs with a shimmering blanket of God’s own green.

Descent into the Gorge

My urge to explore the gorge floor tugs my heartstrings. I know of a path that scales down the rim I stand upon and can take me straight down to the deepened waterline. This pathway, called the “Turkey Path” is known for sightings of wild turkeys in the later season. Two miles down the upper rim, the green forest canopy covers like a shelter. The sunlight almost does not reach down through the thick crowns of the forest’s heads. Nettles and dirt cover the ground as I walk and the occasional stones and tree roots burrow deep into the Earth.

One of these roots measures six inches wide and three feet long. Imagine how deep it goes into the dirt! Bird songs fill the air as I traverse these green hallways, the pitches are high and repeat in bursts of three. I assume them to be a robin (Turdus migratorius), a very common bird among the trees of the state.

Whilst climbing along the descending ridges, I happen to notice intricate often-passed details. Layers of sediment and rock had created small shelters along the path. White mosses spot such rocks and a green wavering hue glows within the crevasse. It is as if God had forged this shelter for those who pass here. As to say, “Rest here. Yet, do not disturb the silence and serene ambience, as you accord it grace, so shall it render grace upon you.” 

Within the alcoves, the layers of rock present cracks and gaps while the green glow surrounds me as I observe and write. Bright morning light pours into the gorge. It cuts through the trees only leaving my alcove alone. The green leaves and ferns and grasses all illuminate such as miniature beacons - all beckoning me to join their own adventures. Some five or six miles of the path is a sheer drop-off. Six hundred feet below, the creek forges through the landscape with powerful velocity. Twisted tree roots weave in and out of the soils of the sheer cliffside. Boulders and rocks mend the shapes they follow. Up above some five hundred feet, the same occurrence marks just how far I’ve delved.

At the bottom of the gorge, the elevation offset significantly levels out. The tree sentinels grow to sixty feet or more now. It is remarkable how tall these ancients are, and how ancient they really may be. I say, what stories do these immobile giants possess? All the decades or even centuries they have witnessed, and the creatures that call their limbs Home. What could the trees say to us mere visitors? Ferns cover the once nettle-covered dirt in a green sea weaving similar to a sown quilt.

Once out of the great forest canopy, the gorge opens and reveals a divine sight. The silver creek now runs blue here, while reflecting the lights from the heavens above. The surging water is majestic, yet all powerful. I estimate it to be similar in speed to an automobile driving along a residential road, about twenty miles per hour on the slow end. The creek separates the two sides by about three hundred feet. 

The gorge walls tower here even greater than the mountains when in the valleys. Eight hundred foot tree-covered walls surround where I stand. Each tree acts as a guardian, to the soil walls that create a fortress here. A hawk, which I believe to be Astur cooperii or a Cooper’s Hawk,  soars above the tree line. Its golden and brown features glow in the afternoon sunlight. I cross along the small sandy and rocky shoreline, finding a large black and navy feather. It measures almost twelve inches long. I wholly assume a dark feather like this could only belong to a raven (Corvus cora) who passed here.

The creek washes over the sand and the rocks. A well-placed boulder sits some three feet from the water. I sit upon it and observe a small herd of white-tailed deer (Odocoileus virginianus) trudging through a small meadow across the creek. Their brown and white fur glistens gold in the pre-evening sunlight. The buck is a younger fellow. His velvet is still mostly fresh, and yet gives a holy-glow from the backlight. He stands firm and defensive, as a stone tower, to protect the two does with him. All three graze the meadow and soon thereafter, trot back into the wooded brush.

Evening at Camp

I now return to the upper rim. It’s about 8:00 pm and the evening sky is turning into a darkened violet. I set my sheltered tent within a flattened grass patch with a few logs on the ground. My green tent measures six feet and three inches on the long end while one and a half feet wide. It is fairly tall with ample room inside. Just enough for a fine night’s rest. The location is quiet, now that all the birds are migrating to their tree nests for the night. There are very few others near the site now. 

All except two other gentlemen and myself are present at the gorge. All of us approach a cliff face to gaze upon the vast distance. We engage in a conversation, discussing our day here. I talk of the deer in the meadow, and they seem enamored with the thought. The one man, Alexander, is a photographer. He carries a black camera with a powerful zooming telephoto lens, capable of photographing those deer in crystal clear form. He is a taller yet slimmer fellow, with brown hair similar to mine and a fine structured face. His friend David is about my height and bulkier. 

They talk of another beautiful location, Rickett’s Glen. A smaller carving in the Earth that boasts twenty some unique waterfalls, all gleaming with individual character and beauty. He shows me a few photographs of one of the falls. I am in awe of the size as it seems to scale eighty or more feet high.  They leave for their camp, as I stay on the overlook gazing toward the vast distance of the gorge. The surroundings are now totally dark as I walk back to camp.

I illuminate my small lantern as the darkness of the woods starts to overtake me. It is almost terrifying exactly how dark it can get in the wilderness, especially a vast wooded area away from man’s lit homesteads. The clouds have covered the bright stars and moonlight from illuminating the landscape. As I reach my tent, I can only see a mere three feet ahead of me, and once my light goes out, not even two feet. Around 11:00 pm, I settle into the tent and try to get a good night’s rest. What could have been a few hours or only a few minutes, I’m not quite certain. The howls of coyotes echo in the distance some few miles, as the area is silent, their echoes awaken me, but do not frighten me. It is almost calming in a strange way to hear them howl.

A Spectacular Sunrise

In the very early morning, just before the sun rises from the eastern horizon, I pack up camp. Today is when I plan to return home from this magnificent journey. As I return to the cliff near my camp, I sit for a while as the sun begins to rise. The clouds above me cover most of the sky, yet this apparent covering leads to a sunrise I shall never forget for decades.

The grey-blue clouds quickly turn into hues of purples and maroons above. Ahead of me, the weaving shapes of the gorge’s walls glow with a purple then red mist from the creek below. Off some seven miles away, the haze almost swallows the landscape, creating an ethereal veil on the meadows beyond. I can barely make out the shapes of the far mountains as they blend together to make one beautiful mass. 

The sky radiates with reds and oranges, as if a grand fire has spread across the atmosphere. Each cloud textures the sky like a linen or wool cover. It is a spectacular sight. Further down the horizon, pink hues and hazy fog are even more prominent. I watch as the colors dance in the sky, a serenade of dark and light and reds, oranges and pinks. How marvelous it is to watch this performance without a fee! It surpasses any film or stage play. 

The sun now makes an appearance over the mountains. It glows with a brightness I cannot fully describe in writing. The serenade of colors and shadow hits a climax. The dancing makes me tear up. The sounds of mourning doves makes my ears ecstatic. Their coos make this quiet play all the more enticing. Just as it had arrived so quickly, it has also left me the same. The whole scene only lasted at most five minutes, yet, the scene felt like hours in the glory of almighty God.

MATTHEW MALCOLM

January 13, 2026