Article 3 - “CROSSING TO PENNSYLVANIA” May 2006 edition of First Church of The Streets

    So, we were crossing another state border, entering into the state of Pennsylvania. Our first planned destination was in that state, a place called Bushkill Falls. Originally, going with our National Parks itinerary, we were going to go to the Delaware Water Gap. But as plans go, which is pretty much is expect the unexpected, that wasn't where we were heading. At least, not exactly. As we prepared our trip, it seemed the Delaware Water Gap was one long park. Nothing suggested a specific destination. So instead, to represent the region, we were heading to nearby Bushkill Falls. As we approached the state border, my thoughts were on the state itself, and my limited association with it.

    Considering how close a neighbor the state was to me, I hadn't had much experience with it. There had been a couple of trips to the Amish country as a kid that I barely remembered. A family crisis that took place in that state somewhat marred my image of the place. The clearest memory I had of that time was getting room service in a hotel. Otherwise, I didn't really have many recollections of this place. Not the most auspicious memories of this great state. And while I knew my memories were subjective and not representative of any collective, they were what I knew, so it was real to me. To change reality, I had to make new memories. But of course, that was the point of this trip: to see the world as something more than the limited experience I carried. And so, the lesson began.

    Interstate 80, the highway we drove on, crossed directly over the river. Like most bridges, it had a toll, due to the fact that federal funds weren't enough to maintain the upkeep. The overpass went on for awhile, and after awhile, it was easy for me to tune out my surroundings and just think to what was ahead. Being a passenger seemed to do that to me. I was supposed to be all absorbed in the moment, but the mind had a way of drifting and taking me further down my journey than it really was. I looked back at my dog MacGyver looking out his window on the backseat. He had no such problem as projection.

    Soon enough, we'd crossed the river. The sign "Welcome to Pennsylvania" bestowed a cheery greeting upon us. We'd crossed 112 miles so far, more distance than between some countries. It had only been four hours since we left our home, and home was becoming more and more distant to me, like it was part of some movie I'd seen a long time ago. It was like I was living a whole new life.

    The main people that shared the road with us now were truckers. Occasionally, we heard one or two of them on the CB radio, warning each other of speed traps and the token idiot on the road to avoid. Compared to the bustle of the bigger cities, this area of Pennsylvania was silent. I hadn't experienced this much silence on the road in a long time. Considering that we were so near a recreational area, I was surprised. I thought there would be campers trudging along each other, waiting to spend a late spring day by the river. But they either had already gotten there or had some other destination in mind, because we were the only non-commercial vehicle on the road. Or so it seemed.

    This was a sense of quiet that held its own secrets, allowing me the visitor to witness this bucolic mystery but not partake of it. It was a brief moment in which the highway told me this secret, its mountains whispering past me. Then, too soon, we left the highway to make our way to Bushkill Falls. A new layer of knowing had been added to my experience of Pennsylvania, a new layer which taught me that what I knew was nothing but the peak of the mountains that surrounded me.