A Perfect Summer Day at R.B. Winter State Park

It was a perfect summer day; one of several in a row, in fact. Just like a day straight out of a happy childhood memory of what summertime ought to be. And I was fortunate enough to have no meetings on my work calendar. So at the last minute, we seized the day, and my husband and I took another impromptu mid-week day off to go outside and have some fun. (Let’s review last Thursday’s adventure. Yeah: coolness! That was a pretty spectacular day too!)
 
We have been trying to swim at as many different swimming areas as possible this summer. Why not? It’s something fun to do, and it amuses us. And we often find a way to throw in other lovely treats, such as delicious things to eat, when we are out and about. I think that sometime soon, I must make a book of all these places we go, these wild woods and waters of Pennsylvania.
 
An evening or two before this, we had been talking about where to spend our summer day. And somehow we both came up with Raymond B. Winter, a pretty little park about an hour’s drive east of State College, which features a little lake nestled in the middle of Pennsylvania’s green woods. So that is where we went.
 
We grabbed our swim stuff, our folding chairs, and a cooler, and set out shortly after 9 in the morning, following route 322 to 45 to 144 to 192. When we got to 192, there was nobody ahead of us, nobody behind us. I must warn you, friends, that if you ever travel route 192, your heart will cry out to stop and stay forever. It is a long straight shot out the valley heading northeast, going up-a-hill and down-a-hill, up-a-hill and down-a-hill, and it runs through some of the most beautiful rolling green hills and farmland that you will ever see anywhere in the world.  The word “idyllic” comes to mind.
 
There are quite a few Amish families who live in this valley; and they, like us, were out and about, trying to get the most out of this gorgeous day. On both sides of the road, there were Amish people working in the fields, their horses hitched to various farm implements, making hay while the sun shone. They were also moving about on the highways. We saw them walking, riding bike, riding scooters, and traveling via various sizes and kinds of buggies.
 
As we traveled through some tiny intersection, I looked to the right and saw waiting there four of the biggest, most beautiful horses I had ever seen, attached to a big farm implement of some kind. The horses reminded me of the famous Clydesdales. Full of strength and vigor, the horses were practically pawing at the ground to go. I imagined steam snorting out their noses; and perhaps God Himself holding the reins. Are all the horses this big here?
 
It wasn’t just the men who were out and about; I smiled as we passed a young lady driving her own trap with a charming little horse in the front. Even the ladies get around! It was a perfect drying day, and there were colorful lines of wash out everywhere. There were children playing not far from the road, and an Amish boy of about six years of age, wearing a traditional purple shirt and black pants, waved madly to our car as we passed by. He was not the only one who waved to us. What a friendly valley!
 
And then suddenly we were at the park – Raymond B. Winter, more often referred to as R.B. Winter. There are several little roads at the edge of the park, and we took the one that goes straight up the hill to the overlook, where we parked the car. The morning had started out cool, cool enough for walking, so we were able to take a short hike through the woods, which is something we don’t always do a lot in the hottest time of year. We kept a healthy watch out for snakes, as we always do, but did not see any. And from the overlook high above the main park itself, we looked down to see the pretty little blue jewel that is Halfway Lake nestled among the green rolling hills.
 
From there, we headed down to the main part of the park and parked near the spillway, where we planned to enjoy a simple picnic lunch of cheese sandwiches, olives, potato chips, and slices of green pepper fresh from our own garden. But first, I had to take pictures. The spillway was as full as I’ve ever seen it, as we’ve had a lot of rain lately. Water, water, everywhere, as they say. And where it isn’t actually soaking, there’s often mud. So plan accordingly with regard to footwear!
 
I wandered around the spillway taking some photos. Several young ladies were slopping in the water and walking through it, just having fun. And as I was taking pictures of the spillway, they paraded right through my shot, and I was just as happy to have them in it. The whole thing seemed joyous and fun, just like summer should be when you are that age. (Or THIS age! Fun is not just for the young, but for all of the young at heart!)
 
I had also been smiling, watching two white-haired older folks canoodling on a bench overlooking the lake not far from where we sat. They spoke to me in a friendly way when I walked down along the trail in front of them. And then I saw my husband had gotten a number of things out of the cooler, so I walked back over to join him for our picnic lunch. Almost as soon as I sat down to eat my sandwich, I looked up to see the older couple getting up from their bench. The man stepped over the stone wall to head to the parking lot.
 
The woman followed him. Or attempted to. For as soon as she lifted her foot up to step over the stone wall, she lost her balance. And suddenly – no! oh no! – she was falling, falling - NO! OH NO! And there was a quick flurry of action near me, and I looked to see the chair next to me was suddenly EMPTY, as my husband was sprinting at top speed to help them.

The older gentleman did not have the upper body strength to lift his girlfriend/wife. But my husband did. And from a distance, I watched as he lifted her up and righted her, and handed her her oxygen unit and her purse, which had landed on the stone wall. My husband reported she was not badly hurt, just mostly smudged a bit; but he gave her a few tips on what to do and how to make sure she was OK. His experience working in a rehab hospital comes in handy at times like this, and I have to admit that I was very, very proud of him in that moment. He never even hesitated: he just DID what was needed. The white-haired lady waved good-bye and thank-you as they drove away.
 
And then we got back in our own car and headed over to the main swimming area, where we spent the rest of our visit at the park. We changed into our swimsuits and set up our chairs and put our stuff down and headed into some of the coldest waters I have swum in yet this summer. The normal water temp there is in the high 50s F, which is rather chilly by most standards (but like catnip to a girl like me, who adores swimming in icy-cold waters).
 
I wish I had photos to show you of the beach area from that side, because it was such a pretty sight we walked out to see. Families dressed in bright colors playing on the sand, children running through the water, ladies sitting under colorful umbrellas. And it was such a lovely day that it seemed EVERYone we saw EVERYwhere was smiling!
 
But I do not have those pictures because I did not bring my camera along to the beach area. I knew that I would be swimming, and my bag would be left unattended. And while I am not overly worried about thieves, I do try to be careful of my things, especially something so dear to me as my camera. In an area with young folks running around with super-soaker water pistols, you also never know how much of what you brought with you will end up going home quite a bit wetter than you expected.
 
And so I have only sweet memories of the gemlike colors of the clothing and the beach buckets and toys, and the bright striped umbrellas. And above it all, the blue-blue sky, with increasingly larger and more interesting puffy white clouds above us. And of the reflections dancing on the water as we swam. The blue and white sky above us, the pinks, the greens, the bright shades of the people and all their beach gear, the colors swirling together and shining on the tiny waves, reflecting and rippling on the surface of the waters. And I swam like a muskrat through those fine, chilly waters. And it was better even than I remembered.
 
But finally, it was time to go, for we had other places to be, other things to see. So we got out and toweled off and changed into dry clothes. My husband’s belly-fuzz was shining with something oily; we couldn’t determine exactly what, maybe tannin from the water, or a surface layer of summer beach suntan products, who knows. Somehow, I did not get any of it on me, but I’ve had that experience at other parks in the past, such as Black Moshannon.
 
The last little part of our adventure was waiting, however, and we had to go. We have not hung out in this area very much in the past 10 years or so, and I’m not sure why. In earlier years, we used to go everywhere, do everything, backpack, camp out, spend the night, not even thinking twice. But somehow, things change. Or maybe we change. We forget the places we used to go, until we go back. And then we say: When did we stop coming here? And why? And then we smile and we say: How sweet it is to be back!
 
There is a side dirt road that goes off route 192 where we used to pull the car down into the woods and camp out. And so we pulled the car in and parked, and set out hiking down the trail that we used to drive on, only to discover that the road is now GATED, and so you can’t actually get a car down there anymore, but you can hike. So we walked down to a pretty little wooden bridge over a tiny creek, and we set up our chairs on the bridge and enjoyed our second sandwich (with more olives on the side – did you ever notice that the cup holder thing they include on a standard folding chair is just perfect to fit a jar of olives in?), as well as the rest of the summer afternoon.
 
On the little hike down and also on the way back to our car, we walked through a muddy area where a single black butterfly was playing - flitter flutter flitter flutter! I chased it down only long enough to capture its picture, which is included in the extra photos area, lower right. The butterfly looked quite black, but it turns out that it is a spicebush swallowtail, with some of its color and markings sort of . . . worn off.
 
I was wandering around with my camera through all of the beauties of this day; trying to hold it in my hands; trying to make it last. In the end, I stood by the tiny creek just one more time before we left, photographing the reflections of trees on water. The light shifted. There was a ripple on the water. The reflection broke. The moment ended. Only photographs and memories remain.
 
The only song I can think of to go with a beautiful summer day such as this one is the following tune, which I have been singing ever since I was a child: Ray Stevens, with Everything Is Beautiful.