Across the river Kurt saw the once vital town of Connellsville. He remembered the history of this town. At one time it had been the epitome of what made Western Pennsylvania such a great testimony to the “Spirit of America.” Connellsville had been for hundreds of years a combination coal, farming, and river town. It had been a mecca of economic activity for this area. Much trade had come down from the mountains including the quality coal from the area. The rolling, fertile terrain was ideal farming country. Barges and flat boats went up and down the Youghigheny. Over the centuries, Connellsville developed a mixed heritage. Scotch-Irish farmers and tradesmen pioneered the area followed by Italian and Slav’s who worked in the mines and coke ovens.
Connellsville was a potpourri of nationalities. It became one of the most vibrant communities in this strategic area. Early in this century when basic industries failed, the town had a rebirth as the center of year-round recreational programs. When Kurt was digging into the records at the library for this trip he found a book published in 2025 by the State Commerce Department, which outlined the phenomenal turn around of the town.
That was twenty-five years ago and much had happened in the ensuing years. Grabbing hold of a tree that had grown up along side the slope, Kurt climbed up the embankment. He could see what appeared to be the town center but saw little activity. Should he take the chance of going into town? He was tired and hungry. He craved something substantial like a sandwich and soup. Kurt realized the snacks and energy bars would do just fine. He had a goal and he couldn’t make a mistake now.
Kurt spotted a grove of trees behind the back of a ridge that protected the trail. He walked off the trail, up the mound and kneeled down between the trunks of the large oaks. He took out his small shovel from his pack and dug away at the hard dirt until he formed a place where he could rest his body and still see the river. He unhitched his backpack and slowly sat down. He pulled out his sleeping bag and got into it. It was cozy in the mound and he could feel the tiredness leave his legs as he leaned against the wall. His eyes drooped as he heard the rapid current flowing past, then a dog’s howling from afar. His eyes closed and his head turned slowly to his shoulder. Shortly, he was asleep.
He awoke suddenly because he could feel rain drops hitting his face. Kurt opened his eyes, it was pitch black and there was a steady rain. Except for his face, he wasn’t wet. He reached around and pulled the hood over his head. He looked at his watch and was shocked. He’s slept for over five hours. It was the middle of the night.
“Must have been whipped,” he muttered.
He lay back, pulling the hood down over his face. He was wide awake. His mind was settled for a short time, his thoughts soon returned to his father. Under the circumstances of the new world of Atlantica, Kurt thought of his father’s philosophy that ‘a person can only do the best they can’. Kurt lay thinking of his situation and the day ahead. He said out loud, “That’s all I can do, the best I can.” Even though it was the middle of the night, he had a sense that he couldn’t waste any time. He needed to put distance between himself and Pittsburgh.