The Lost Iron Furnace

Pouring over the memorable maps that disarray my work area, I saw a written by hand reference to an artificial solid structure that should lie 10 miles into what is thought to be a standout amongst the most remote territories of Pennsylvania. A place without blacktop and where bear, elk and poisonous snakes flourish. It’s difficult to envision human progress touching a territory that few would think to wander into today; a zone of soak mountains and significantly more extreme gorges where one slip would mean a tumble to one’s passing; however there it was in highly contrasting an obscure reference alluring a future pioneer. It made me ponder, what could be there?

I was not looking for recently any town, but rather four towns that were inherent nearness that turned into the focal point of the nearby coal and iron mining businesses around there of north focal Pennsylvania amid the mid nineteenth century. This prosperous group was worked by foreigner mineworkers and an exceptional identity whose biography abandoned a legend of riches, covered fortune and an English house that sat strange on the mountain in the wilds of Pennsylvania.

Reavelton lies an extremely removed ten miles into the remote heaps of north focal Pennsylvania. The closest town, Quigley’s Mills; itself only a bit on the guide with Lock Haven twenty miles removed being maybe the nearest better known group. I say a far off ten miles in light of the fact that the last ten miles of my stumble into this remote territory will take an additional 45 minutes to travel; multiplying the time it takes for me to venture to every part of the 50 miles from my home. Practically impassible, the trail that leads into this territory is as harsh and rough as any that you’d hope to discover in the American southwest. In the winter it is difficult to achieve this region. No one comes here with the exception of an infrequent seeker. The narrative of Reavelton has been allowed for me to sit unbothered to sort out; to photo the site and leave a record where one still can’t seem to exist. I appreciate the test and isolation of such a place; one that is untainted.

I land in Beechcreek, initially named Quigley’s Mills two-hundred years back. It’s a little nation town with the environment of Mayberry. Encounter has shown me that the best place to take in history is from the more seasoned inhabitants of a territory, so I go to the corner burger joint for breakfast. It’s precisely as I expected, hitching post outside, wooden strides driving through the curved Victorian entryway, lodging as yet remaining adjacent. The entryway opens with a squeak hitting the chime mounted on. Old men in overalls and blue haired women delay immediately from their discussions to take a gander at the two outsiders who have recently entered. The quiet is stunning, minutes wait however discussions continue as we deliberately sit down closest to a table with four old men. Highly contrasting photos of the old town line the dividers; they’ll serve as a decent ice breaker when I accumulate the nerve to address the men of their word sitting opposite us.