This past Sunday morning was remarkably clear — bright, crisp, the world a surreal stage on which my friend Paul Ruby and I were riding our scooters. Abandoning our normal meeting at Saint’s Cafe we veered north towards Beech Creek, Pennsylvania, a 30 mile ride for our breakfast.

Easy riding through the broad Bald Eagle valley and along the lake at Bald Eagle State Park was a quiet reminder of how simple life can feel on my Vespa.  Paul abandoned his BMW K1200 in favor of a Piaggio Fly 150.  Sometimes less is much more.

After donning a liner to my jacket — the air temperature was hovering at 62F — it was time to eat.  Or so demanded my stomach.

I don’t come to Beech Creek often and when I do it’s just to pass through on the way to somewhere else.  The Furst Corner Restaurant deserves more allegiance.  How many places can I say serves more bacon than I can eat?

After breakfast a decision was made to take a scenic route home and I suggested a road along the west side of the valley that would wind the 15 miles to Milesburg.  Turning right towards Orviston would lead us to the road I thought I knew.

A few words about Orviston…

My knowledge is limited of the place which is nestled in the far northern end of Centre County seemingly lost at the end of a road far from anything.  I remember stopping there over 10 years ago at a little store which was part of the livingroom of a house to get something to drink.  All they had was chocolate milk.  More than a few of the houses had padlocks on the front doors. I thought it odd then and expected the same now.

Perhaps it was the light or things had changed but Orviston seemed a fine little town of 95 people.

On this day I never planned to be in Orviston but rather turn off towards home on some other road.

My cartographic memory failed me at Orviston.  I neither found the road or knew which way to go.  After a momentary pause to consider returning the way we came or to head up a little dirt track marked only by a sign “No Winter Maintenance” I motioned to Paul towards the path less traveled.

As the trail climbed up the mountain and the ride rougher I had absolutely no idea where I was or where we were going.  For someone who’s life is full of planning and careful consideration of strategy and tactics it was an absolutely electric feeling to be disconnected from everything.

The pleasure of being lost is rare in Central Pennsylvania, at least for me.  As Paul and I raced our scooters along a path more suited for a dirt bike I remembered why I have little interest in a GPS.  There is little primitive or wild available easily to me and a GPS would obliterate any chance like the one presented on this ride.

A view looking down the mountain road.  Steep and not the easiest to negotiate with a CVT transmission.  Loose gravel and unexpected washboard and rocks made several miles of riding that was outside the norm for the Vespa.

Emerging onto pavement on the other side of the mountain near Polecat Road I passed Paul who was riding standing up in what I could only assume was a gesture of triumph.  A half mile up the road, still unsure or where I was, a came upon a coyote standing in the middle of the road, a tall animal, lank, staring and glittering a warm brown in the sun.  As I slowed he walked off the road into a thicket of scrub trees.

And me, lost and seeing that coyote — how could I ask anything more of the world?

The pleasure of being lost…