Valley Girl Views: The Trip to Ole Bull's Castle, July 29, 1920 by Logue

The Trip to Ole Bull's Castle, July 29, 1920

By Charles T. Logue (David of Happy Valley)

With added postcards, photos, and illustrations depicting the locations mentioned.

Come with me a little while this morning and without leaving your home I will take you out over one of the wildest and most beautiful roadways in the State of Pennsylvania, if not in the United States. Last Thursday afternoon we left with Charles H. Eldon in his car bound for Ole Bull castle, 'way up in Potter County. We crossed the Market Street River Bridge just as the town clock struck "three bells," then up Southern Avenue to DuBoistown, Nisbet and Bastress.

At Bastress we stopped the car for a few minutes and sat looking down over the valley of Nippenose ; and my! how beautiful it did look with its fields in different colors and many hues.

The Main road through Oval, 1909.

H.J. Moore's general store, pharmacy, and post office are on the left, with editor "Jonesy Moore" leaning against a post. Bill Brownlees Meat wagon is on the road, along with the carriage of Adam Eck.

On the right is the valley hearse, with undertaker George Seifrit alongside Lestern Koons in the drivers seat.

Then down we went over its good lime-stone roads, turning west through Oval, the "Capital of Nippenose Valley," as Jonesy Moore, the editor of the paper over there, calls it. As we passed along here, Mr. Eldon called our attention to an old blacksmith shop, where they used to "shod" horses. Now the "smithy" was standing out under a chestnut tree "fixin' a Ford." the owner stood by looking on. Mr. Eldon said jokingly: "David, I Tl bet you a dollar you can't write a 'pome' on that

We thought we could ; and we have made a try at it. Here it is :

Under the spreading chestnut tree

The Oval village smithy stands.

The smith, a mighty man is he

With grease upon his hands.

He crawls beneath the flivver, and

Discovers something loose —

And from the time he finds that out

He's cooked the owner's goose.

For hammering, tapping, making he

Goes on his merry way.

And thus he hammers, taps and mauls

Until the close of day.

Then, when he's finished everything

He starts with might and main

To tear the things to pieces and

Do it all over again.

At last he's through, presents his bill

And watches, while you faint —

You find that all the joy of life

Was once, but lately ain't.

The village smithy's big and fat,

And you are small and lean,

And you're lucky to get away with life

When he starts on your machine.

Continuing through the valley we pass Lochabar, famous for its collection of Indian relics ; then to the right down Antes Creek Pike to Antes Fort on to Jersey Shore (distance here 22 miles ) kept straight ahead westward on Allegheny Street to Pine Creek Bridge which we did not cross.

But here at the old Campbell Homestead we turned to the right up the Pine Creek Road, which by the way, we found in most excellent condition. Alongside of the roads, dotted here and there, were great clumps of tall meadow rue in flower. We soon reached "Safe Harbor," where we pointed out the old "Wilhelm tavern," famous in the lumbering days of Pine Creek ; also the spot on the opposite side of the creek where the first grist mill stood to which the early settlers would drive for two or three days from their homes and then maybe have to wait several days to get their turn, and their flour, etc., before starting homeward again.

At the Boy Scout Camp

We soon reached Ramsey's, where Mr. Eldon stopped the car and we looked across the creek at the James N. Kline Boy Scout Camp. It is a beautiful sight, well selected, and what a great clear stretch of water they have. Many boys were out in boats, others "in swimmin'," others could be seen sitting over

in the shade of the large trees, near the big farm house. In- deed, it was a grand gift of the donor, James N. Kline. The narrows above are very picturesque. We noticed several homes like little cottages, nestled among the big pine trees overlooking the creek below.

Waterville next (distance 35 miles).

Here we took on more gas, the last place you can buy it, before entering the wilds.

About one-half mile beyond Waterville we came to a big iron bridge. Here is a sign with a hand painted on it pointing across the bridge: "To Coudersport Pike."

From this point there is a continuous line of poles, bearing one wire which runs along the road clear into Coudersport. It is the telegraph line of the Tidewater Oil Company, whose two small oil pipes are always near this wire. In many places you can see these pipes out on the rocks. You simply follow this road and the poles and one wire on them and you will end up in Coudersport. After crossing the bridge we traveled the road up Big Pine Bottom to the pike.

Mountain Laurel along the Coudersport Pike

Along this stream we saw the largest clump of bergamot we have ever seen ; and how their bright crimson-scarlet flowers did shine out among the thousands upon thousands of tall ferns. And Joe Pye weeds in flower. They looked like towering giants, overlooking everything — and the big sumac, with their red torches, as if to light the way. Over on the left, the beautiful winding falls, with its water leaping down step after step. We could have sat there for hours just watching this little falls, it was so pretty.

Up the road a little way is a big sign board, reading in plain, large letters: "Pennsylvania State Forest. You are welcome. Be careful of fire." From this place on for many miles

you can see the immense work of re-forestry. It seemed as if there were millions upon millions of little white pine trees planted and being planted. It is a great work, and the generations to come will stand up and thank such men as the Hon. Gifford Pinchot, Colonel H. W. Shoemaker and Robert R. Neefe and many others who are giving their time and many hard hours of toil in the great and glorious work. I believe from what I have read and learned that our State, Pennsylvania (God bless her ! ) is the only State in the Union that is planting more trees than she is cutting — something everybody in the state, can point to with great pride. Was much pleased to look over and admire the "White Pine Plantation of 1913" and the "Lebo Plantation of 1910."

We also visited the forester along the road, Mr. Charles Hogeland, who told us he and his men (six of them") had set out over 25,000 white pine trees the past season. He pointed

with great pride to the big steel "watch for fires" tower, 88 feet high, over on the highest mountain. 'Way up there a man is kept night and day in the dry of fire season. He can see about 30 miles in all directions, has a telephone and upon seeing the first smoke, he phones the State Forester's men, giving them the exact location, and 'way they go to put out the fire, thus saving the trees that are so valuable, and will be more so in a few years to come. At one place where a forest had been burned over some years ago they have a sign calling attention to what carelessness of some one had done: "Look at it."

At the top of the mountain we turned to the right, onto the Coudersport Pike, known as the road through the old Black Forest. It was "way back there" used as an Indian trail and

when the white man came in "to borrow the land" and keep it forever without pay, he commenced to travel it with ox teams. In 1826 the State took it over as one of its roadways. It runs along the top of the Allegheny Mountains almost 80 miles and road engineers of today, say it could not be improved upon. The writer has either hiked or motored over most of the road- ways and pikes in this part of the state, and can truthfully say that this has the most peculiar formation of soil he has yet discovered. You travel along for miles upon a smooth, hard clay ; then suddenly you pitch into a sand hole for 50 or 75 feet ; then over flat stones as smooth as those we walk upon in town; then clay again, for miles ; then another 50 feet of sand. But taking it all in all, it's the best dirt road we have "hit the trail on" and

every mile of the way, it is wild and beautiful. Even Bunny Rabbits and Rattlesnakes come out to greet you. Bear and Deer are numerous in this locality — but we did not see any. We

loved this pike, because it was old and we often think that old things are best. Another chance to poetize :

The Old Coudersport Pike

The old time roads, they used to run

Right over all the hills and rises,

And made the shortest kind of cut

To get from Coudersport to Jersey Shore.

They weren't tipped with tepid tar,

They might have made a shofer cavil

But they were all the kind of roads

Our settler fathers had to travel.

They run those roads from town to town

About the way they shot a rifle.

A river didn't change their course

A mountain made 'em bend a trifle.

Oh, yes, they just were "Waterbound"

No grease or graft or even gravel

But still they averaged 'bout as good

As what we modern "dusties" travel.

Our fathers didn't walk abroad

Arrayed in pumps and Paris slippers.

They took no hikes along the pikes

They never posed as "Sunday trippers"

They didn't wash their socks with lux

Or rinse 'em in eau de javel

And where they went they had to go —

That's why our fathers used to travel.

Memories of Haneyville

That'll do of that! Continuing along we soon reached what was once Haneyville. Some years ago it was a village of twenty-five or thirty houses, during the big lumber operations.

Today only one or two deserted houses remain ; the rest have been torn or burned down. Just outside the door of one of these old homes stands a fine clump of old-fashioned single

hollyhocks, blooming and smiling away just as if the old-fashioned faces were still living within the little home. Down the road a short distance stands the little frame school house ; the window glass is gone ; the door is boarded up ; and the building is fast going into decay. Gone are the little children who used to bring big red apples to eat at recess and give the core to some little lad who asked for it. Gone are the little girls who used to sing in the play yard "Ring Around Rosey" and "London Bridge is Falling Down." Gone! Gone! Some scattered to all parts of the earth — and many of them sleeping over on yonder hill.

July 1897

Our older readers will remember Haneyville of many years ago as the scene of an awful crime, the murder of a little girl. The murderers were never convicted or punished.

Haneyville is only a memory.

Some miles further along the road stands an old log house. It must be more than a hundred years old. Mr. Eldon stopped his car and we walked over and looked into its open doors and windows. No one home. They, too, had struggled along here, no no doubt, for many years, reared a little family and as their time came — they, too, crossed over. An old log house has a great fascination for me — and I seldom pass one without looking in at the old ruins and in my imagination I often sit and see the old white haired father and mother and their children about the old log fireside — dreaming again.

The Old Log House

On the top of this mountain 'most hidden from view,

There's a little log house, worn and gray.

All buried in mists and covered with dew

It stands, and the settlers are unable to say,

How it happened to be there or why it remains,

Nestled there in the cool mountain shade,

Or why the twilight's soft glow, sweet refrains.

Seem to linger around it and fade.

To the tumble down logs, the ivy still clings

Like a heart that is breaking with love,

The moon her silvery glow o'er it flings

And the stars whisper softly above.

But one legend tells us that fairies dwelt here

And built this old log shack, it seems;

But I think it was fashioned by love's tender hands,

Or, maybe, from just faithful dreams.

The Black Forest Club

We reached the Black Forest Club House at 7.45 P. M. — distance from Williamsport 57 l / 2 miles. It was here we were to have supper and lodging and a "trout breakfast" — get that, trout. And we had them. Through the kindness of Mr. Don M. Larrabee, Esq., and several other members of the club, we were invited to stop over here, which we did, and Mr. Eldon

and myself here take the opportunity to thank "these boys" (as they are all boys once again at the club house) for their many kind favors to us. We appreciate it.

The Black Forest Club has about 40 members, most of them business and professional men in Williamsport. The Club House, which is large and built of concrete blocks, was erected in 1913; has two large porches, with swings and comfortable rockers on them ; big railings with their white birch bark, making a very pretty effect; kitchen, dining room, several bath

rooms with hot and cold water ; fourteen sleeping rooms, well -ventilated ; and the big lobby — that's the place where these men sit around at night in front of the big fire place, and while the logs are burning, tell over and over again of the big fish that got away. Of the big Bears and Deer they saw when the season was not on yet. We saw Dr. D. W. Youngman come in with wet shoes and socks and sit right down on the floor and pull 'em off and place his shoes by the wood fire and hang his socks up on a line in the lobby. He did not seem to care how many kids suffered down in Williamsport with the stomachache from eating green apples

Curt Kline and George Rentz told some "awful whoppers" of their trip that day. It must be something in the air up there. Will Painter (that feller over in the bank who loans people, other people's money ) was an invited guest up there a few days ago and the first night he came in from fishing, he told this one :

"Boys, I dropped a large hook into the water when a huge trout, at least four feet long, bumped against it and it accidentally caught in his jaw. I wanted my hook back, so I began reeling in. The fish didn't want to let me have the hook. Well, we argued the thing back and forth, the fish trying to keep the hook and me trying to get it back for six hours. Finally that

trout got so mad he jumped into the boat and tried to bite me, it was the biggest fish that had caught me, a real fisherman this season.''

While he was telling this, everybody just quit smoking his pipe. When he finished, "Woody" said: "Painter don't tell down in Williamsport that we use boats up here in these little mountain streams. It's all right up here but 'nix it' in the city."

The Old Halfway House

The Black Forest Club House is built on almost the exact spot of the "Old Halfway House" between Coudersport and Jersey Shore. During the days of the early pioneers it was kept by Widow Herritt. She furnished lodgings and meals to all who came this way — all kinds of travelers, and among them horse thieves, who stole horses up in York State, got on this pike before daylight and escaped, there being no telephone or telegraph in those days to head them off. Peddlars occasionally would pass this way on horseback and many teamsters. Some nights, it is said, she would have as many as thirty or forty teams in the old log barn (which still stands) or tied around on the outside of it. She made a comfortable living here and reared several children, but think of the many hardships she must have passed through. When the children became ill she had to trust to her own wits to doctor them as there were no doctors within fifty miles of the place.

She and her children are buried over in a corner of the field. The graves have plain mountain stone stuck in the ground — no inscription of any kind, not even a scratch on them. We could not tell one from the other. The weeds and vines are gradually covering them over.

A son of Widow Herritt, who died several years ago, lived here 76 years, and said there was a clearing at this place when his mother came here, and many a night the Wolves and Pan-

thers would come upon the porch and howl. He also told of how Ole Bull stopped at his mother's tavern, with his violin, on the way over the pike to Jersey Shore.

Ole Bull

The Black Forest Club had his picture enlarged from a tintype and it hangs upon the wall in the lobby of the Club House. The members all take great pride in showing it to their guests.

Out of Coudersport in those days, a team with a load would reach the following places each night. It was called a day's journey with a load. First stop, Cherry Springs ; second stop, Oleona; third stop. Widow Herritt's Tavern; fourth stop. Barton's, now called Hy Wood's ; fifth stop, Springer's ; sixth stop, Jersey Shore. Mail was carried over the pike by a boy 14 years of age on horseback. Sometimes it would take the New York Tribune a month to reach this old Tavern of Widow Herritt's. The pike was in operation at least 50 years before any railroad reached any part of this state.

There remains on the ground of the Old Tavern several apple trees that barely exist. One of them we noticed as we stood under it, had a few apples on it of the Sheepnose variety

Today the phone in the club house and the automobiles going by are the only things that takes one back to civilization.

The altitude up here is 2,200 feet, while Williamsport, only a few hours ride, is about 570 feet. The air is crisp and after you're here a few hours you feel so good that you commence

to tell fish stories, just like the natives — and the best part of it is. everybody believes you.

After a good night's sleep and a big trout breakfast, Mr. Eldon and myself thanked the "boys" for their hospitality, bade them good bye and started on our way to Oleona, nine miles away to attend the Ole Bull pilgrimage on the site of Ole Bull's castle. Just a few miles down the road we passed from Lycoming to Potter County, a stone by the roadside so notifying us. The roads in Potter County are fine — extra fine — and we enjoyed the mountainous scenery all along the way. The State Foresters have signs at every fire line, springs all marked, and clever signboards, bidding you welcome and never forgetting to advise you to be careful of fires.

We especially enjoyed "Dixon Hollow." Such entrancing mountain scenery ! What beautiful things God has placed here for us to enjoy ! Nature, nature in all its glory.

Residence of Henry Andreason, Kettle Creek, Potter Co., Pa.

At the bend of the road, down in the valley, is a little home nestled among a few trees. At the side door is an old well, in which they let a bucket down on a rope and wind it up with a bucket full of water. It's the home of "Andreason," the son of the late Henry Andreason, the Secretary of Ole Bull who came to this country from Norway with the colony in those sad

days. We visited in this home, Mr. Eldon and myself were introduced to the family by our good friend, Rex Laurence, the pipe line walker from Bradford to Williamsport. He makes

this his stopping place over night on his long hikes. We found them a very quiet, but interesting family ; from whom we got much valuable information. Mrs. Andreason pointed out to us the little cemetery down in the corner of the farm where her father-in-law, Henry Andreason, is buried. He died in 1893. We visited his grave, it had a good sized white marble marker on it. By his side we noticed quite a few graves of the early pioneers, some of the graves with only a piece of mountain stone stuck into the ground to show there is a grave there. All along this old pike on different farms, many pioneers sleep among strangers, their burial places noticed by few and many of the strangers are not familiar with the life work, the service, contributed in bringing a new country, under the domination of the white man.

In time we hope these lonely burial places will be given public attention. The custom needs but be started to make it spread all over the state. The hearts of the people are right. The little time and the small sum required would be given gladly if the right leader takes charge of the work. Fences are maintained about these pioneer burial places. No one would, for a moment, contemplate the violation of the graves. Yet in these lonely and unkept places are resting the remains of brave men and women whose good works follow them and are enjoy

ed by us, although we know not even the names of many of those who did so much for the state in earlier days.

Oleona Hotel

Here We Are at Oleona

Oleona ! Once it was a little village; now it, too, has passed away. All we could find was the foundation of the old road side inn — and this was pointed out to us. Then down the road

is an old deserted farm house, the last building in Oleona, and it's fast passing into decay. While standing near this place out in the road, Colonel H. W. Shoemaker came along in his

several cars filled with friends on the way to the ruins of Ole Bull's castle. He stopped and calling us by name, introduced us to Hon. Gifford Pinchot, the Chief Forester, and many others, Mrs. Shoemaker being in the party.

We next visited the old ruins of the castle up on the hill- easy to find, as a large flagstaff with Old Glory floating, designates the spot. A little bridge over the creek and through the beautiful woods, a path about 10 feet wide, leads up the steep mountain to the old ruin. There we found the big retaining wall at the cliff ; the cellar with several birch and a maple tree growing on the ruins of the cellar foundation ; many ferns are seen.

From the high point one can see all up and down Kettle Creek and over the Little Valley far below. It was the land of Ole Bull's dreams, the land and colony, he could look some day

upon and enjoy his little flock in prosperity and a long and happy life ; but alas ! they became hungry and cold and no longer could the strains of the music from his old Stradivarius cheer them up. they became sad and disheartened, some wandered away, others died of cold and hunger, and today Oleona is but a memory.

Ole Bull will not be forgotten. How he ever reached this historical spot the writer does not know, but last Friday, July 30, 1920, over 6,000 men, women and children from many part"

of the state gathered at the old castle ruins in respect to him who sleeps over 4,000 miles away. And when we wandered down into the woods just below the cliff, we could hear the sweet strains of the violin in another master's hands — Doctor Will George Butler. He was playing one of his own compositions — "Visions of Oleona" — and while listening to it these few lines came to me :

The Old Refrain

Over and Over the dulcet refrain

Sings itself in the heart of me —

Bringing in retrospective train

The smiles and tears of the Used-to-Be.

Now in the hush of a warm summer eve,

I wander again in the lover's way,

With a maid in the wood of Make-Believe,

Arms linked in arms, in the mode of May.

Again I feel with a deep regret

The weight of the days that come no more,

The days that live in the heart, and yet,