Lessons from a Ride through "Non-Kardashian America"

I cycled the famous trails linking Pittsburgh and Washington, D.C. to learn what the future Ecusta Trail might bring to Brevard. Spoiler: Trails are about much more than economic investment.

The 1,900-foot long Salisbury Viaduct, on the Great Allegheny Passage trail near Meyersdale, Pa.

CONFLUENCE, PA. — It was an omelet to make a big-city bistro proud: creamy on the inside, just as I’d ordered it, and generously stuffed with pesto and gently melted mozzarella.

Along with a side of delicious-but-unfancy tater tots, it was served up at the equally unfancy Mitch’s Fuel and Food, a gas station/convenience store/diner in Confluence Pa.

I didn’t just consume this decadent brunch after a morning on the Great Allegheny Passage (GAP) bike trail. As my dear, departed British father-in-law would have said, I “murdered” it.

Together, the GAP and C&O Towpath run 335 miles between Pittsburgh and Washington D.C., forming one of the longest and most acclaimed multi-use paths in the East, setting a standard to which other trails aspire.

I rode it last week partly because I’d been wanting to for years, but also to see — now that funding for the local Ecusta Trail has been secured and its groundbreaking scheduled — what happens to communities once trails are built.

For starters, they get access to countryside, and on the GAP/C&O last week this meant views of sparkling, fast-flowing rivers, wooded hillsides speckled with early-fall reds and yellows, and relics of the corridor’s industrial heyday that flashed by like fence pickets: railroad tunnels and rusted bridges, ancient dams, stone lock walls and wooden lock houses.

Socially, I saw the trail serving as linear town squares for local walkers and runners, and actual town squares made more vibrant all around by out-of-town cyclists in neon-green jerseys and jackets.

And then there’s the trails’ economic impact, which has been huge, about $121 million annually from the GAP alone, according to a recent study from the Great Allegheny Passage Conservancy.

Business owners routinely started conversations by counting the five, 10 or 15 cyclists they had served so far that day. In Confluence, to name just one example, the trail has brought new enterprises to storefronts that had been boarded up for years, said Mitch’s manager and omelet maestro, Zachary Armel.

But it was also clear from my ride that, a decade after the completion of the last stretch of the GAP and more than 50 years after the creation of the C&O Towpath National Historical Park, this corridor’s transition from an industrial to a tourist economy is still ongoing.

You can find espresso bars, breweries and refined dining options along the way, but they are easy to miss and, like my meal at Mitch’s, often appear against a rust-belt backdrop.

So, if you’re worried that the Ecusta will draw an overwhelming crush of wealthy tourists and home buyers to Brevard — which even Mark Tooley, president of Friends of the Ecusta Trail, acknowledged is a concern — it hasn’t happened along these trails, at least not yet.

Which, coming from greater Ashvegas, I mostly liked.

The trail towns aren’t “yuppified,” which has just as much to do with regional preferences as a lack of investment, said Mary Beth Karabinos, co-owner of the Pittsburgh’s Traveler’s Rest Hotel.

“We love mullets and sweatpants . . . a Steelers’ jersey is considered formal wear because it’s the most expensive thing,” she said, and a ride on the GAP/C&O is a journey into “what I call the non-Kardashian America.”

Mysteries of Pittsburgh

Midnight in Pittsburgh: Tenth Street Bridge over the Monongahela River

As much as I like to see trails making use of abandoned rail lines, I wish that they’d never been abandoned in the first place, that they were instead the paths of comfortable, high-speed passenger service. In other words, nothing like my ride on Amtrak’s Capitol Limited from Washington, where I’d left my car, to Pittsburgh.

No internet; dinner from a microwaved pouch; a trip that took eight hours — twice as long as by highway — and deposited me and my bike in downtown Pittsburgh just before midnight.

It was a daunting prospect, cycling to the Traveler’s Rest on dark city streets beneath looming skyscrapers. But with good bike lights and not much traffic, I started to enjoy the ride, especially the crossing of the Monongahela River in a protected bike lane on the city’s landmark Tenth Street Bridge.

Pittsburgh, renowned for its shift from steel town to research hub, would probably be just fine without trail-related spending. But it helps, said Karabinos and her husband and business partner, Paul Kletter — and Traveler’s Rest wouldn’t exist without it.

Inspired by hostels where they had stayed on trips overseas, they appreciated the opportunity created by the trail; they saw the chance to transform the 160-year-old, brick offices of a former pipe factory into a hotel for cyclists.

“That building was purchased specifically because it was two blocks from one of the trail heads,” Kletter said.

They aim to offer stays at near-hostel prices, as low as $60. I’d booked the last room available, big enough for a family, which cost several times that amount. My fault, the result of last-minute planning that led to added expenses and missed opportunities throughout the trip.

Breakfast in the wood-paneled, high-ceilinged common room at Traveler’s Rest took me back to the 19th century, with further immersion provided by hotel manager Levi Pettler, who holds a doctorate in history.

He filled me in on several chapters of Pittsburgh’s past, including 1892’s Battle of Homestead at a Carnegie Steel Co. plant, a pivotal event in labor’s decades-long struggle to secure decent wages and conditions for industrial workers.

And what did I see in Homestead, a few miles to the west, when I passed an hour later? A sign of the new trail-fueled tourism economy less inspired than Traveler’s Rest — a Hampton Inn wedged between river and trail.

Sure, it might seem like a comedown, said Bryan Perry, the Great Allegheny Passage Conservancy’s executive director, but consider that shopping and lodging sprang up after the town’s waterfront languished as an undevelopable brownfield for years after the Homestead plant’s closure in 1986.

“The kinds of jobs that are available at the Hampton Inn or Dick’s Sporting Goods aren’t quite the same as the jobs that were here when we were making steel,” he said. “But to have a bike trail go through where Pinkerton guards once browbeat locked-out steelworkers, that’s quite a story.”

Deep Woods, Fast Water

Youghiogheny River in Pennsylvania’s Laurel Highlands, southwest of Pittsburgh

Rail lines often followed river valleys through mountains, and just as the Ecusta will stick close to the French Broad River, the GAP, after a sharp turn a few miles past Homestead, hugs the banks of the Youghiogheny (yok-a-GAY-nee) River for 70 miles as it gradually climbs into the Laurel Highlands.

The trail here is a smooth, crushed-limestone ribbon, with volunteer tulip poplars lining its edges like trees planted along urban avenues. The surrounding forest, much of it preserved by conservation easements or public ownership, buffers the river, Perry said, which helps explain why it looked so inviting and clear.

Rocky rapids appear more frequently as the miles pass, and though the surrounding hills would be dwarfed by our mountains, they rise and close in on riders until the feel is less valley, more gorge.

This scenery is the signature of Ohiopyle State Park and the same-named town, where I stayed the first night. It’s a hub of whitewater sports and a gateway for visits to nearby Fallingwater, the Frank Lloyd Wright masterpiece built for a Pittsburgh department-store magnate as one of the world’s most famous weekend retreats.

Aren’t the Laurel Highlands full of such second homes? Aren’t they, as I’d always imagined, a refuge and playground of the rich? And, if so, why did I have to settle for a greasy diner meal in Connellsville and a hideous attempt at a “Thai” tofu wrap in Ohiopyle?

Partly, once again, lack of planning. A little more of it and I would have known to hit restaurants geared to riders, such as Bud Murphy’s in Connellsville or the Connellsville Canteen. 

“Too bad you missed those spots,” Perry said.

But also consider the profound impact of deindustrialization. Thanks to coal mining and coke production, Connellsville “once boasted more millionaires than any city its size,” according to the Conservation’s TrailGuide.

Making up for such a vast loss of wealth is a lot to ask of the the few dozen riders who might stop in town on any given day. I saw several shuttered storefronts in Connellsville, and like most other towns on the GAP, Perry said, it’s a “working community.”

Though it might seem to have little in common with rapidly gentrifying Brevard, it offers lessons that apply here and to any area that relies on visitor spending, he said.

Tourism is seasonal both in Transylvania County and along the GAP, where trail traffic all but vanishes in the winter months. Stores and restaurants that ignore the tastes and earning limits of year-round residents harm both their own business and surrounding communities, Perry said.

“The best tourism assets are ones that are locally driven and embraced by local folks . . . otherwise you build resentment and there’s detachment between the tourists and the town,” he said. “Locals need to come first.”

“Mountainous” Frostburg

Downtown Frostburg, Md.

After returning from my trip, I told my wife, Laura, that if we ever have to sell our house in Cedar Mountain, we’re moving to Frostburg, Md. It’s pretty, affordable, and has a relationship with the trail most similar to the one Brevard will likely have with the Ecusta.

That path, at least until the completion of future extensions, won’t bring riders from any farther away than Hendersonville. It will be one more asset, for both tourists and residents, in a town that already has a lot to offer. Like Frostburg.

To get there on the GAP, I left the last river valley near Meyersdale, Pa. and began the long climb to the Eastern Continental Divide, a 2,400-foot-high ridge that foiled, once and for all, George Washington’s cherished vision of a water route connecting the Potomac and Ohio river valleys.

The countryside opens up on this part of the trail, especially on the Salisbury Viaduct, an elevated path spanning a wide rural valley and offering views of distant hillsides topped with wind turbines.

At the Divide, the trail passes through a short tunnel covered in cheerful murals before descending to the intimidating, 3,300-foot-long Big Savage Tunnel, lit eerily by a row of dim lights, its exit visible only as a distant speck of white.

Soon after emerging, though, I reached a vibrant, busy stretch of trail, where heavily burdened thru-riders were outnumbered by local walkers and runners, including a flying pack from the Frostburg State University cross country team.

The short, steep climb to Frostburg from the trail added to the impression that, despite its modest elevation of about 2,000 feet, I’d reached a distinctly mountainous destination.

The air was chilly, the leaves had begun to turn and even the floors of the old home I rented featured pronounced slopes.

Outside, I walked a few steep blocks to the entrance of the cavernous stone basement of Frostburg’s famous, 19th century Gunter Hotel, passing a jail cell where US Marshals temporarily stashed the prisoners they transported during Prohibition — and perhaps went on to treat themselves to a drink at the hotel’s speakeasy.

Sitting at the Gunter’s mahogany bar, I consumed a satisfactory plate of pasta and by far the best beer of the trip, a hazy IPA from Black Flag Brewing Co. in Columbia, Md.

What else does the town have going for it? The university, a stunning, compact downtown, art festivals, and a poetry reading that was scheduled for later that night at Main Street Books.

Also, affordable housing, said the store’s longtime clerk, Kurt Deffinbaugh, 53, who mentioned that remote workers flocking to Frostburg during the pandemic drove prices of homes that might have once cost $120,000 to more like $150,000. Really, I asked, $150,000? Yes, really, he said.

As for the trail, he values the visitors it brings, the money they spend, the hard-to-define spark they add to its streets.

“They just make the town seem a little more thriving,” he said.

But mostly he talked about the GAP’s benefits to Frostburg residents. I mentioned all the walkers I had seen near town. The out-and-back bike ride to the Divide is also “a really popular outing for locals,” Deffinbaugh said. “The local community makes really good use of the trail.”

Aren’t they afraid of crime? I asked, repeating a concern raised by some residents who live near the path of the Ecusta.

He paused, looking puzzled, before saying, “That’s absurd.”

Indeed it is, said Sgt. Matthew Beeman, of the Frostburg Police Department, whom I met the next morning at the popular Clatter Cafe coffee shop.

“I’ve been here 13 years,” he said, “and in that 13 years, we’ve had one call out there and that was for illegal dumping.”

Definitely not “Desolate”

Lock wall and lock house on a quiet stretch of the C&O Towpath trail

To describe the 185-mile canal towpath, I’ll jump ahead 150 miles to White’s Ferry, Md. and my last afternoon on the trail, where I joined about a dozen other thru-riders who had stopped at White’s Ferry Grill.

Most of them raved about the towpath, the scenery, the people they’d met. The contrarian was Crystal Davis, a nutritionist from Schenectady, N.Y., who seemed happy to be finishing her trip with her husband and their Cocker spaniel, Ollie, whom they towed in a bike trailer.

She called the towpath “desolate” and “mind-numbing.” She said this with a wry smile and otherwise showed she had a sense of humor, appreciating, for example, the irony of a nutritionist tucking into a towering Reuben sandwich and logjam-sized order of French fries. So, I think she was at least partly joking.

Because “desolate,” is one of the last words I would use to describe the towpath, the historical attractions of which make even the venerable sights along the GAP seem modern.

A short detour near the halfway point took me to the high stone walls of Fort Frederick, built in 1756 during the French and Indian War. I spent that night in Harpers Ferry, W.Va. and toured a museum displaying haunting images of John Brown’s doomed 1859 raid.

The oldest stretches of the canal, which is in constant view from the gravel towpath, date to 1828, and I found myself marveling that so many miles of navigable waterway could be dug mostly with picks and shovels, that laborers could hand-shape the granite blocks forming the walls of its 74 locks.

And I marveled that this once-busy commercial corridor could now be so quiet.

I sometimes heard the distant clatter of trains during the first 60 miles on the towpath, but passed only a handful of other riders and not a single trailside town. The forest was, once again, green and dense, the Potomac River clear enough that I could see rocky shoals beneath several feet of green water.

This, I think, was what Davis was referring to, the emptiness of the towpath. And it’s true that the scenery, not the towns, are its main appeal, at least until it reaches the upscale communities within easy driving distance of Washington.

But this just got me thinking, one more time, how I could have been better prepared, how I should have bought or rented the bikepacking gear needed to spend my nights on the river. Grassy, sycamore-shaded campsites showed up every few miles on the path, almost all of them empty.

Certainly, nothing made me regret the ride or wish I’d skipped the less populated stretches of the trail, as another rider I talked to had done.

I wouldn’t have wanted to miss out on the satisfaction of completing the whole distance. And without the miles of solitude, the sense of transformation upon reaching Washington wouldn’t have been quite so amazing.

One moment I was on the towpath, still wooded and peaceful on the approach to town. Minutes later, I was navigating the streets of one of the world’s most famous cities, catching distant glimpses of the Washington Monument, anticipating a pizza dinner with the family of the good friend who had let me park my car at his house. 

My path had taken me from a world of comfort and companionship, let me explore the countryside and then return with a better appreciation of both. The GAP, the towpath, the future Ecusta — that’s what all the best trails do.

Omelet at Mitch’s

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