History & Folklore Folk Stories Ole Bull's Castle From Pennsylvania Mountain Stories by Henry W. Shoemaker, Bradford Record Publishing Co., Bradford PA 1908 I left the railroad at the lively little city of Cross Kettle Creek toward the former home of the world-famous violinist, Ole Bull. Here and there neatly fenced farms were sprinkled among the rugged peaks, but as the valley became narrower, and the mountains higher, the scene became one of desolation rather than cultivation. Very little of the hemlock forests remained, the mills and railroads of Cross Forks having done their share toward desolating the valley. At last, as I came around a bend in the stream, and likewise in the road, I saw before me, on the summit of one of the highest peaks, the jagged ruins of what appear to be a mediaeval castle. The bright August sun glistened on the gray stone walls and parapets, and above all, under the canopy of the cloudless sky soared an eagle in his solemn grandeur. Never, I thought, had the harmonies of nature united themselves better than on the site of Ole Bull's castle. But there was one element which by some might be thought discordant; on the steep sides of the mountains on which the castle stands worked half a hundred woodsmen, their blue and red shirts in bold relief to the dark green of the hemlock forest they were destroying. The click, click of the axes, the wheezing of the crosscut saws, and the rattle of the cant hooks producing a strange contrast to the otherwise complete stillness of the scene. Returning to the mediaeval simile, one could almost imagine these gaily bedecked woodsmen as the home guard of the lord of the manor, throwing up fortifications on the mountain side to repulse the assault of some hostile force. The part of the mountain which they had already denuded stood thick with hemlock stumps, peeled clean of their bark, and shining pink-white in the sunlight like rows upon rows of tombstones in the graveyard of the ages. And the freshly peeled glistening logs, piled one on another, in seemingly regular order, reminded one of the coat of mail on the capacious breast of some might warrior of the Middle Ages! I climbed the steep mountain, pausing every few minutes to enjoy the fresh panorama which opened before me, and when I reached the castle grounds, the view stretched in boundless immensity in every direction; range after range of dark green, light green, blue and brown mountains could be seen to the north, the south, the east and the west. Thin white columns of smoke which rose from distant ravines, betokened the presence of steam saw mills. I could not but admire the taste of Ole Bull in selecting this sublime spot for a mountain home, far from the turmoils of the valley, like the philosopher in Sartor Resartus. Of the castle itself but three walls remain, the tallest being nearest the precipitous cliff, and from whose windows the occupants could have looked down a sheer descent of five hundred feet to where Kettle Creek winds about like a thre[a]d of silver fresh from the smelter. Across the ravine is another mountain, as steep, but not as high as the one on which the castle is located, which rises majestically up with its uneven cliffs and graveyard of hemlock stumps. The ravine is strangely reminiscent of the pictures of the Colorado Canyon we have seen in our geographies, and later on railroad posters, but from what I know of the west, the ravine of Kettle Creek, at least in Ole Bull's time, was far more beautiful, for what it lacked in depth, was more than recompensated by the dense foliage which grew in a tangle on the rugged sides, a glorious gift of nature which no western landscape can boast.