Dodging downpours and riding between thunderstorms isn’t ideal, but it beats waiting for inspiration and a stretch of good weather. I was patient all through May and now, with June three-quarters over, I’m done waiting. I’m on the road, taking my chances, winding through the lush Allegheny National Forest in northwestern Pennsylvania.

I grew up not far here, but haven’t traveled these roads in years and forgot about all of the logging trucks, tractor trailers, and tankers that travel these routes. They whip past, jolting the motorcycle and hitting me with a wave of hot, gritty air. As soon as possible, I switch to smaller roads, the kind with steep hills and tight turns that truckers tend to avoid.

I can’t go through this part of the country without visiting Cook Forest. I was here several times as a boy and revisiting it now is like rereading a great book. It’s even better with time, comfortably familiar and yet, somehow new again.

Continuing north, I also stop off at the Kinzua Bridge. It is a testament to both man’s ingenuity and nature’s final word. When it was built in 1882, it was the tallest railroad bridge in the world. At 301 feet, it was higher than the Brooklyn Bridge. Even more amazing, they rebuilt it in 1900, concurrently taking it apart and putting it back together replacing the iron with steel so it could handle more weight. The new six and a half million pound structure was operational for over a hundred years. Then a tornado whipped through in 2003 and in a matter of seconds, did this:

The cost of rebuilding wouldn’t be a profitable venture in today’s world so it’s been turned it into a visitor’s park. Part of the structure still stands and has been rebuilt to include a glass skywalk. My pictures don’t do it justice; it’s worth seeing in person.

Speaking of the power of nature, after zig-zagging another couple of hours eastward, I come across the remains of the Austin Dam in Potter County. After splashing back a rough, muddy road, I reach a memorial park with pictures from before and after the dam’s collapse. There is also literature telling its history, including how it failed on September 30, 1911, wiping out the town of Austin and drowning 78 people.

One of the stories I read is about a woman named Cora Brooks, who was a bit of an outcast in Austin because she ran a brothel. Her home was on a hill nearby and she was one of the very first to see the dam break. She called the switchboard operators in town urging them to sound the alarms and tell everyone to run to higher ground immediately. Her message got through and she is credited with saving hundreds of lives.

With the wind picking up and the sky turning black, it doesn’t look like I am going to be going anywhere for a while so I pull the bike under a pavilion and get comfortable on top of a picnic table. A few minutes later, the sky opens up and rain pounds the roof of the pavilion.

I take the notepad out of my back pocket and give myself a reminder to do some research on Cora Brooks when I get home. I also jot down other thoughts and images of the day, looking for something I can spin into a future short story, a column, or an article.

Looking at the ruined dam in the pouring rain, it’s not hard to imagine what happened here on the last day of September in 1911.