Survivor Pennsylvania Style

This is a reprint of an article I wrote for the Pennsylvania Reader shortly after I moved here enjoy:

I moved to my family’s mountain cabin last year to live permanently. My dream started as a small child spending my vacations here and growing to love the land and the animals in the forest. The cabin purchased by my grandfather in the 1940’s was now mine. With my children grown and gone it would be my time to live on the mountain. The cabin is near a small ghost-town called Leetonia along the tumbling waters of Cedar Run, where there are only two other full time residents, both men. Few women come up here except in summer or on snowmobiles flying by in the winter.

Staying here on vacation always left me wanting more. But could I live here full-time? Seven miles from the nearest plowed road, heating mainly with firewood, without television (my choice), 18 miles to the nearest grocery, 30miles to the nearest McDonalds, and 50 miles to the nearest Wal-mart? I did not mind the isolation as my partner-in-adventure Lee came with me, along with my dog, Jack.

Leetonia can be found in the southwest corner of Tioga County, just north of the Lycoming County line and east of Potter County. The cool waters of Cedar Run wander southward through the narrow valley on its way to join Pine Creek and eventually the West Branch of the Susquehanna River.

In 1856, Silas Billings and his brother-in-law, P.S. McNiel erected a steam mill along Cedar Run and engaged extensively in lumbering. Several dwellings were constructed and became known as Billing’s Camp. Even an official U.S. Post Office was established. However, the era of extensive pine lumbering was coming to an end.

In 1879, the Cedar Run Tanning Company erected a large tannery at Billing’s Camp, using the hemlock as tanbark. To accommodate their workers, they erected more than fifty dwellings, a School House, and even opened a store. It was at that time that Billing’s Camp was renamed Leetonia in honor of Mr. William Lee, one of the principal owners of the tannery. Today, the few dwellings that are there are mainly cabins used as summer get-a-ways and hunting cabins.

I am a carpenter by trade and a sort of Jane-of-all-trades. I felt confident with any household repair or maintenance that might arise. I would share the isolation with Lee who also dreamed of living on the mountain. She eagerly volunteered to share in a journey off the beaten path and be my sounding board. My biggest concern was making enough money to pay bills. I hoped to pick up some work on local cabins as my main source of income.

It had been a very long time since the cabin had full-time residents. The cabin had never had a phone; however, it was a necessity that I felt we needed to have in case of an emergency. It took a mile of telephone cable to run from the nearest phone to get our service. The first time I made a call from Leetonia, I felt like I had taken a step on the moon. Then, the cabin went from the 19^th century to the 21^st century overnight with the addition of my computer and the Internet. Now the news, email, and weather can all be accessed from my remote cabin.

It would take planning to live here full-time. I couldn’t run to the store every day - once a week at the most. Receiving mail is an every-other day or longer event. Nine full cords of firewood must be gathered, spilt, stacked, and dried before the cold of winter sets in. Getting in and out of Leetonia depends on being prepared. I needed chains for my car, chains for my chainsaw, and chains to pull logs out of the way or myself out of a hole. In the winter I added the use of a snowmobile to traverse the unplowed roads. Pennsylvania’s Department of Transportation only plows to within about seven miles of Leetonia. When the snow is deep, it is either walk or ride snowmobile. As difficult as traveling is here in the winter it doesn’t compare to the fight the original settlers had in this land in 1808.

After reading what Benjamin Esquire, an early settler in Potter County, wrote about living in the early 1800’s, I am thankful it only takes me one hour to go seven miles. He wrote:

We often had to pack our provisions 80 miles from Jersey Shore. Sixty miles of the road were without house; and in the winter, when deep snows came on and caught us on the road without fire, we should have perished if several of us had not been company to assist each other.

The want of leather, after our first shoes were worn out, was severely felt. Neither tanner nor shoemaker lived in the county. But “necessity is the mother of invention” I made me a trough out of a big pine-tree into which I put the hides of any cattle that died among us. I used ashes for tanning them instead of lime, and bear’s grease for oil. The thickest part served for sole leather, and the thinner ones, dressed with a drawing knife, for upper leather; and thus I made shoes for myself and neighbors.

I had 14 miles to go in winter to mill with an ox team. The weather was cold, and the snow deep; no roads were broken, and no bridges built across streams. I had to wade the streams and carry the bags on my back. The ice was frozen to my coat as heavy as a bushel of corn. I worked hard all day and only got seven miles the first night, when I chained my team to a tree, and walked three miles to the house myself. The second night I reached the mill. My courage often failed, and I had almost resolved to return; but when I thought of my children crying for bread, I took new courage.

As prepared as I thought I was for this adventure, I am finding out my weaknesses and strengths by living here. I am adapting to my environment and finding a way to live on this mountain. This past year I began keeping a journal of my adventures and I give them to you as a common bond that all of us share surviving in the Pennsylvania Woods. My notes start with how my grandfather became the owner of this little piece of heaven.

The winter sky of ‘43 whispered an ice-gray warning as Paul Maholm, my grandfather, set out from the Leetonia hunting camp carrying his deer rifle. His leather boots creaked complaints against the crisp snow already fallen. Paul’s buckshot laden leg reminded him of the dangers involved with snow and loaded guns. As an eager young hunter he had quickly climbed over that wire fence, but stumbling, his finger triggered the gun in a loud and painful lesson in carelessness. Doctors could not remove all the buckshot from his leg and it became a visual reminder of caution. He was no longer a novice hunter and quite familiar with the area he hunted; however, he paid little heed to the sky’s warning.

He started up Cedar Mountain lured by the famous twelve-pointer. The spring-fed creek breathed steam into the frigid air as he stepped over it and threaded his way through the tall cedars. He had done his research well and knew the trail that the deer would take everyday as they moved in and out of the woods at dusk and dawn. Once, he had seen the crafty buck duck his head and move behind the does to hide his rack.

Paul had just reached the peak of the mountain when it started to snow. This would be good cover for him as he tried to blend into the woods to avoid detection. Paul moved to the side of the deer trail to wait and watch. He could hear the snowflakes gently land on the ground one by one. Mesmerized, the forty-four- year-old man stuck out his tongue to catch one. His enjoyment of the sight was short-lived as the wind picked up slapping him in the face like a naughty child. Quickly, his winter wonderland became a blinding blizzard, the kind notorious for taking more than one hunter home early.

The twelve-pointer would live another day. The question was would Paul? He started to backtrack and to his horror found nothing. He could barely see his hand in front of his face. He knew that darkness and dangerously cold temperatures would soon follow. The hunter’s legs became heavy as he pulled them through the snow. He thought how thankful he was that he worked a job in a steel plant that kept him in good shape. He would need every bit of that strength combined with his stubborn Irish spirit to make it back to the hunting cabin. Hours passed as he trudged through his white prison – the snow coming up past his calves. Nothing he could see was familiar. Just as darkness fell, he thought he saw a light flickering in the distance. He labored toward the light and gratefully saw a small cabin, smoke pouring from its chimney.

A sense of relief hit him, and then apprehension. He couldn’t make it any further tonight. But would the sight of a stranger at night with a gun keep him from refuge? Before he knocked, he propped his rifle against the stack of wood that was piled near the door. The door cracked open. Two eyes viewed the snow-covered stranger beaten by the mountain.

”What are you doing out on a night like this?” A man asked, surprised to see someone at his door. “Get in here quick before you freeze solid.”

“Thanks,” Paul responded, grateful for the hospitality. “I was out hunting and, well I hate to admit it, but I got lost.”

“You are lucky to be alive in this kind of weather.” His host said sincerely. “My name is Low.”

“My name is Paul. Paul Maholm.”

Jay Low, along with his wife and kids lived in the cabin, made from wood lumbered right off the property by the loggers who first inhabited it. The only thing keeping the freezing cold outside from bursting indoors were two layers of ship-lapped wood covered with wallpaper patches. This night the wallpaper was loosing its battle to contain the wind. It rippled with every breath of the winter storm.

“Logging was the area’s main source of income and had kept the town of Leetonia near a population of 3000 during boom times,” Low explained to Paul. “Now, it’s like a ghost town and there is talk of closing the school. If that happens,” Low said with a note of despair, “I will have to sell the place and move to where the children can get proper schooling.”

As Paul listened, this bit of information pulled a previously hidden dream out of Paul’s mind. He had always wanted his own hunting cabin in the mountains he loved, and this property would be great. However, sensing Low’s distress over the situation, Paul showed no sign of interest. Instead, they talked about the mountains, hunting, and a bit of local gossip until neither of them could keep alert enough to continue. The wife and children had long since tired of their conversation and gone to bed, knowing they would be up periodically to put more firewood in the stove to keep from freezing.

Upon rising the next morning, Paul made a quick dash to the outhouse and offered to fetch the water from the creek for the morning breakfast. He took the dipper and pail and scooped the water in the bucket being carefully not to touch the bottom of the creek and stir up dirt into the dipper. Paul admired the Lows’ hardiness and thought of how many conveniences he had become accustomed to such as indoor plumbing and bathroom facilities. Electricity and phones were not a part of the Low family’s life.

The storm had blown itself out overnight and Paul was sure the other members of his hunting camp were forming a search party to come looking for him. He was anxious to get back. Thanking his hosts, he left his name and telephone number with Mr. Low and told him, “If you ever have to sell the place, let me know.” Low took the note without a word and hurried Paul on his way.

“You have about a mile and a half to walk just stay on the road and you won’t get lost,” Mr. Low called out as Paul turned up the road.

The mile passed quickly as Paul considered his chances in being able to purchase Low’s 80 acre tract. He didn’t have to wait long for an answer. The last bell at the Leetonia School tolled in May of ‘44 and shortly after Paul received a letter offering to sell him the house and 80 acre tract for $800.00.

His dream began.