Call me a dork, but I didn't think it was too early to book campsites for the annual Memorial Day weekend excursion with friends. I actually convinced everyone to go a little further afield than Raccoon Creek this year. This is Ohiopyle in the snow. I trekked about a mile down the frozen campground road to look over the sites and see which ones I liked best in order to book them. The Kentuck Campground at Ohiopyle is wooded and beautiful, and the Laurel Highlands have so much to offer. Tubing, rafting, kayaking, biking, fantastic hiking, great views like this one. The only drawback is that swimming is about 15 miles away, at Laurel Hill.
Good thing I gave myself several options; when I got home I discovered that all my favorite sites had already been booked. This is not the case nearby at Raccoon Creek, where the four best sites are still available. But Ohiopyle is THE outdoor destination around here, so people must book early. We were lucky to get a few acceptable sites that were adjacent to each other. The Laurel Highlands are Pittsburgh's equivalent to New York City's Catskills--not the closest patch of woods, but definitely the closest bit of wilderness. Anyway, I'm glad I had to walk into the wintry campground on foot; otherwise I might have missed this strange little trail to an old cemetery.
The infamous frontier ruffian, Tom Faucet, is buried at the end of this path, and here's a little plaque to commemorate his boasts and misdeeds. Of course, Faucet became a prominent name in Western Pennsylvania. There's an old Methodist church near my house that was founded in 1812 and named after the Faucets. I'd long heard that old Tom bragged about killing Braddock, his own commander in the French and Indian War. Little did I know he was buried in Ohiopyle State Park. Click on this photo to read the tale.
Here's the fellow's grave, the stone dating back to 1822. Of course, if he actually did shoot Braddock in the back, it was all the way back in 1755. He lived a long and fairly prosperous life after murdering the ruthless Scotsman. By all accounts, one of the reasons for Braddock's failure to rout the French from Fort Duquesne was his refusal to respect his colonial and Indian soldiers. He treated them with arrogance and disdain, ignoring their counsel and often resorting to public shaming and physical abuse of his own men.
Now, I don't believe in ghosts. Really, I don't. But I grew up in a pretty superstitious environment, so I occasionally think about spooky things. Standing there in the snow of this neglected old graveyard, I spoke to Tom. It was a relatively windless day up in the mountains, and I said, "How about it, Tom? Did you really kill old Braddock? Two strong gusts if you did!" I waited a moment, and out of the still sky, suddenly the treetops began to creak and rattle in a surge of wind. It stopped, and I said, "Okay, that's one." But no sooner had said this than another gust of wind shook the forest. Then all was still. I was a little spooked, so I said, "Well done, my friend. I hear Braddock was a jackass." Then I hurried away.
I know this story sounds apocryphal, but I swear it's true. Here's a little unmarked church not too far from the cemetery. I wonder if this is where his funeral was held? I peeked inside, and it looks like it's still used from time to time: pulpit, lectern, piano, pews, hymnals, a framed print of the Last Supper. I wonder if this is now a chapel for the Ohiopyle campground.
