Hook Me Up

by Howard Altman

The boulders don’t matter. The steep incline doesn’t matter. The prickly briars and the buzzing insects don’t matter. And neither does the loud thud just down the trail, which is probably a bear.

There is signal to be had up on the mountain, 1,750 feet above the Worlds End State Park campground, and nothing is getting in my way.

Worlds End State Park is supposedly misnamed. This lovely stretch of mountains and trees and streams in north central Pennsylvania was, according to legend, originally dubbed Whirls' End, for the swirling pools of water carved out of the underlying rock by the cascading Loyalsock Creek.

But Worlds End definitely fits the bill.

Tucked deep in the nooks and crannies of the Endless Mountains, this state park and the cabins within might as well be at the end of the world, as far as communications goes.

I am, I admit, one of those people, cell phone and pager always at the ready for the next bit of breaking weirdness. I am a connectivity junkie and here, deep in the woods, I am jonesing.

Sure, the Altman tribe's annual trek to the wilderness is having its desired effect. The rat-a-tat hustle of the city has faded and life moves to the rhythms of the sun, the call of the fish in the creek and the need to haul 40 pounds of water back to the cabin from the spigot up the road.

My inner circadian clock is ticking to a new beat, but still I feel cut off. Every so often, I reach into my camera bag, pull out the cell phone and push the little red button.

Searching.

No connection.

From the front pages of the local newspaper, which I obtain after a several-mile sojourn along winding country roads, I know that we are on the brink of war with Iraq. I know the Little League World Series is on and that Major League Baseball is on the verge of strikeicide.

But what's really going on in Philly? What's happening around the globe?

Who knows?

There is no signal.

I have a better chance of communicating with the outside world by banging together two rocks.

Forksville, Pa., the nearest town to Worlds End, is a charming little burg with a convenience store, a general store, a lumber mill and a playground.

The general store is a throwback, reachable from Worlds End by crossing an ancient covered bridge. But the beefy man with the smile behind the counter is about as out of place here as I am.

He is Mike Stasiunas, and in short order I learn that not only is he from Philadelphia, but he went to Bishop Neumann, in my old South Philly stomping grounds, and was taught by none other than one Vincent J. Fumo, an educator back in the day.

"We had to get out of the rat race, so we came here," says Stasiunas, who only realized the general store was for sale after he and his buddy took a trip north, snapped a picture of the place and, when the prints came back, noticed the for-sale sign.

"It's beautiful up here," he says. "Sullivan County is one of the least populated counties in the state. There is only one traffic light in the whole county."

Bill and Martha Martin, who've been coming to this place for years and introduced my family to its splendor, point to the birdhouse on a tree outside their cabin.

The birdhouse has an inscription.

It was put up by a man named Frank Illuzzi.

"Look at the date," says Bill Martin.

It was erected Sept. 10, 2001.

With no connectivity, no signal, I wonder how long it took for Illuzzi to find out what happened the next day.

Each cabin has a logbook for people to jot notes about their stay. According to the Martins, there was no entry for weeks after the terror attacks.

Looking at the logbook in my cabin, there is a different story. Honeymooners took residence there on Sept. 9. All was lovey-dovey newness, interrupted briefly by a car trip late morning, Sept. 11.

"The night was perfect," wrote the new missus. "The weather was so breathtaking... We ate, did the dishes and went sightseeing... On our drive, we turned on the radio, to hear of the airplane hijackings going on at the Pentagon and the Twin Towers -- sickening!!! A great thing is that here, you can get away from that sort of stuff. It's our own world here."

The newlyweds returned to the cabin and took a nap. Not another word was written about the horror.

I would have gone nuts being out of range on 9/11.

"It's all about signal," I joke with the Martins as I trudge up the mountain.

Experienced hikers, they laugh as I huff and puff, knowing that I joined them, in part, so that I could use the damn cell phone.

Reaching the top of the mountain, soaked in sweat, I stop and take in the stunning vista. I pull the phone out of my pocket and hit the red button.

Analog Roaming -- electronic paydirt. I have signal.

As I dial up my office for a final edit on a story, I notice that I forgot to charge the blasted phone and have to talk quickly.

"Hey, look at that, a hawk is floating just below us," I say before rapidly answering questions.

The editing complete, I click off, put the phone back in my pocket and, like an addict with a fix, sit down to enjoy the view.

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