Fog, Detours, and Unexpected Moments on Route 6
Some days go sideways in the best possible way. My plan was simple: get up early, grab a coffee, and go for a ride somewhere along the Pennsylvania Grand Canyon. But light rain still clung to the hills when I pulled out of Steve and Tess’s driveway, and that was enough to shut down my biking ambition. I had already brewed a Lavazza Italian Roast espresso to pair with my oatmeal, so at least the morning started on a flavorful note.
Before leaving Wellsboro, I stopped by the post office to mail a gift I’d picked up for my granddaughter at Nessmuk’s Sporting Goods. Across the street was a grocery store, so I restocked a few essentials, then rolled out of town onto Route 6—the scenic path through the Little Grand Canyon. But with thick clouds and fog settled deep into the valleys, I knew the lookouts I’d mapped out wouldn’t offer much. So I settled in for the three-and-a-half-hour drive west toward Conneaut, Ohio, a small beach town on the edge of Lake Erie.
Marsh Drain
The road was slow going—lots of curves through the mountains and speed limits that rarely broke 45 mph. I made frequent stops, which stretched the drive even longer. One pause came at a marshy area in the middle of nowhere. Not a single car passed in either direction for five solid minutes. A rail line ran beside the swamp, elevated slightly above the terrain, with an old, rusting culvert below—too high, too worn, and clearly in need of repair. I snapped a few photos and moved on.
Echoes of the Past
Along the way, I passed a weathered barn painted with a fading Mail Pouch Tobacco ad—those old blocky yellow letters against a black or red background. They’re rare now, but once lined rural highways across America. Most were painted by a man named Harley Warrick, who claimed to have done over 20,000 in his lifetime. In exchange for a fresh coat of paint and a few bucks, barn owners turned their walls into rolling billboards. Today, these relics feel like whispers from another era—when time moved slower, and roads told stories.
God’s Country Marathon
Outside Galeton, traffic began to crawl. What should have been 55 mph dropped to a steady 40 for 18 miles, winding uphill toward Denton Hill. I soon realized I was driving the route of the God’s Country Marathon—26.2 grueling miles through the mountains of northern Pennsylvania. The climb to Denton Hill gains over 1,100 feet in elevation before descending steeply to the finish line in Coudersport.
What impressed me was the diversity of the runners. Some were kids keeping pace with a parent, others were older adults—some in knee or elbow braces, walking but determined. I passed one woman hunched over a guardrail, heaving, with a friend offering steady encouragement. I’ve run a few 10Ks, but this was a different kind of test. You could see it in their faces—effort etched deep, muscles locking up, but spirits holding steady. I took a few quick photos from the van and eventually had to stop completely in the town of Denton Hill as runners passed an intersection on their way to the finish line. A five-minute pause felt like a fair trade for witnessing such raw persistence.
Kinzua Point & A Camera Compliment
Later that afternoon, I detoured north toward Allegheny National Forest and stopped at the Kinzua Point Information Center, right off Route 59 near the dam. The center sits just across the Morrison Bridge, offering a foggy but striking view of the reservoir and surrounding ridges.
Heading Into the Fog
Near the back of the center, two people—possibly staff—were chatting about travel. I pulled out my Nikon, and one of them smiled and said, “It’s nice to see a real camera.” We exchanged a few words and a thumbs up. I wandered briefly, capturing shots of the fog drifting over the water and tree-lined slopes before returning to the van to make lunch.
While eating, I searched for a Harvest Hosts location near Conneaut. Not much came up—everything was full or just too far off route. The closest option was in Girard, Pennsylvania, so I sent off a stay request and hoped for the best.
A Familiar Name: Girard, PA
As it happens, I have a friend named Girard, which gave the town an extra layer of curiosity. The name honors Stephen Girard, one of early America’s wealthiest men—a French-born shipping magnate, banker, and philanthropist.
Girard immigrated to Philadelphia and made his fortune through maritime trade, banking, and real estate. He personally financed much of the U.S. war debt from the War of 1812 and later left his estate to a host of charitable causes, including Girard College, a boarding school for orphaned boys in Philadelphia. He never lived in the town of Girard, PA, but he did own land in the region, and local leaders named the borough after him in hopes of attracting investment and development.