The expression "Flat as a Pancake" obviously means that something would be considered extremely flat. There are several U.S. states, led by Florida, that are indeed even flatter than a pancake. That’s not what this article is about. Rather I found a location that may or may not have been flatter than a pancake although it should be flatter if its name did it justice. The Geographic Names Information System identified it as Pancake Flats.
I expected to find virtually nothing about this highly obscure spot northwest of Altoona, Pennsylvania that wasn’t even significant enough to be identified on online maps (for example). Yet, people have been there. Lots of them. It was one of the signature features, albeit a relatively flat feature set amongst much rougher terrain, along the Greensprings Trail at Wopsononock (Wopsy) Mountain. The Bureau of Land Management described it as a "2.2 mile loop. Mainly level, low difficulty."
That was the only Pancake Flats listed although there were 48 other entries for various other Pancakes in the United States.
Pancake, West Virginia
I found very little information about populated places called Pancake. Locations in West Virginia, Pennsylvania and Texas did manage to stand out from the crowd a bit.
Pancake, West Virginia (map) consisted of little more than an abandoned whistle stop along the South Branch Valley Railroad named for the Pancake family. However, nearly everyone bearing the Pancake surname listed in Wikipedia came from West Virginia. The surname clearly signified something significant along the South Branch of the Potomac River.
Pancake, Pennsylvania (map) was a bit more notable. It gained its name in the early 1800’s. I found a Pancake History that included an excerpt from the Saturday, April 2, 1955 edition of The Washington Reporter, of Washington, Pennsylvania.
An air of mystery hovers around the name of George Pancake, one of the early settlers at the little village of that name just east of Washington. Where he came from, when and what became of him are questions that will probably never be answered. He was here for 12 years, and then drifted on west to Ohio… In spite of all efforts to change, the name of Pancake has clung to this village through more than 135 years. First it was Williamsburg, then Martinsburg, and finally Laboratory after Dr. Byron Clark secured a post office for his patent medicine mail order business. But, everyone called it Pancake, and Pancake it still is because it struck the popular fancy as the name of America’s most popular breakfast dish.
Pancake, Texas (map) didn’t exactly qualify as a booming metropolis either. It was large enough nonetheless, to gain an entry in Texas Online from the Texas State Historical Association.
Pancake is at the intersection of Farm roads 2955 and 217, thirteen miles northwest of Gatesville in northern Coryell County. A post office opened there in 1884 with John R. Pancake as postmaster… The population of Pancake was reported as twenty-five from the 1930s through the 1960s. No further estimates were available until 2000 when the population was eleven.
Interestingly, anytime I uncovered the origins of a town called Pancake it tied back to someone named Pancake. I attempted to find out where the name came from with mixed results. Ancestry.com said it was German: "Translation of German Pfannkuch(e), North German Pannkoke, Pankauke, or Dutch Pannekoek(e), metonymic occupational names for someone who made and sold pancakes." One of those family crest websites — and yes apparently there was a Pancake family crest — said it was Cornish.
On the other hand, geographic features named pancake seemed to derive from their appearance, said to resemble either a single pancake (i.e., very flat and round) or a stack of pancakes. Pancake Flats was a good example of that principal and I found a couple of others that seemed to qualify likewise.
There was an entire set of mountains stretching 90 miles (140 kilometres) in the central part of Nevada called the Pancake Range. That was probably the largest geographic pancake feature anywhere. U.S. Route 50, a stretch once dubbed the loneliest road in America, crossed directly over the range. It traveled across Pancake Summit (map) at an elevation of 6,521 feet (1,988 metres).
There were pancakes in Canada too! I found a nice one in Ontario called Pancake Bay (map). There was even a Provincial Park located on the bay with "3 km of beautiful sand beach and Caribbean blue water."
Twelve Mile Circle finds itself with an overflowing mailbag once again with lots of intriguing readers suggestions. Each one of these could probably form an entire article although I’ll provide the short versions today to try to clear a backlog. Once again, I’ll say gladly that 12MC has the best readers. I really appreciate learning about news things that I can now share with a broader audience.
Ebright Azimuth (Delaware Highpoint) — my own photo
I wasn’t familiar with Dall Island, however it formed a miniscule part of the border between the United States and Canada, as mentioned by reader "A.J." and as noted by Wikipedia:
Cape Muzon, the southernmost point of the island, is the western terminus, known as Point A, of the A-B Line, which marks the marine boundary between the state of Alaska and the Canadian province of British Columbia as defined by the Alaska Boundary Treaty of 1903. This line is also the northern boundary of the waters known as the Dixon Entrance.
A.J. thought it interesting that Dall Island was listed as internationally divided with 100% of the landmass in the United States and 0% within Canada. The boundary just touched the tip of the island so the portion within Canada would be infinitesimally small, literally only at the so-called Point A (map). How could the United States own all of an island but not really all of an island? It brought a lot of questions to my mind, too: Was there a border monument? Did the border change with the tides? Would someone get in trouble for touching Point A without reporting to immigrations and customs?
12MC received a bit of a riddle from reader "Brian" that amused me. Everyone educated in the United States should be able to get the answer although apparently it fools a lot people. I’ll go ahead and post the question and then leave a little space so it doesn’t spoil the answer. "Name the City: Of the 50 US capitol cities, this one has the largest population AND falls alphabetically between Olympia (Washington) and Pierre (South Dakota)."
Feel free to scroll down when you’re ready.
It’s Phoenix, Arizona.
I almost fell into the Philadelphia, Pennsylvania trap until I remembered that Harrisburg is the capital city of Pennsylvania. That may be just an instinctual thing showing nothing more than I’ve lived in the Mid-Atlantic my whole life. I’m sure people in Arizona wouldn’t have a problem with this one. It would be interesting to know if the incorrect "answer" varied by geography.
Yes, I realize it was horribly unfair of me to use an image of the Liberty Bell to further confuse the issue.
photo courtesy of reader Lyn; used with permission
Lyn, who’s frequent contributions has earned the exalted title "Loyal Reader Lyn" struck again with a trip to the Maldives (map). Lyn learned long ago that I love getting website hits from obscure locations and has a job that goes to interesting places such as Douala in Cameroon. I wish my job took me to equally fascinating places. Sadly, it does not. I’m more likely to travel to exotic spots like Atlanta or Boston — nice places for sure although nothing in comparison to the Maldives or Cameroon. Lyn should start a travel website. I’d subscribe!
photo courtesy of reader Bob; used with permission
Bob spotted an interesting intersection while wandering about Waterbury, Connecticut: Stewart Avenue & Granger Street (map). Stewart Granger was a British actor active primarily in the 1940’s through 1960’s (e.g., starring with John Wayne in North to Alaska).
It had been a long time since 12MC had done an article on street names and intersections, and this topic looked particularly promising. I thought off the top of my head that someone else from that era would be a good possibility, Errol Flynn. In more modern terms, maybe Taylor Swift? I’ll bet there’s a Taylor St. intersecting with a Swift St. somewhere. Unfortunately the latest version of Google Maps wouldn’t accommodate this type of searching as elegantly as its predecessor so I had to abandon the search.
This may be the largest geographic area affected by the recent renaming of things associated with the old Confederacy. I always thought it was a tad strange that an area of Alaska was named for a Confederate cavalry officer.
A photograph and a quote used on the recent Hot Springs article referenced Lover’s Leap in Hot Springs, North Carolina. Twelve Mile Circle has noticed numerous other Lovers’ Leaps over the years. I wondered, in all of those dozens of examples, had there ever been a verifiable case where an actual lover leapt? Or is it leaped? In every legend in every location it always seemed to trace to the tragic tangled consequences of star-crossed Native American couples, often the same couples in multiple places.
Mark Twain, in his memoir Life on the Mississippi (1883), wrote, "There are fifty Lover’s Leaps along the Mississippi from whose summit disappointed Indian girls have jumped." I couldn’t have agreed more. That’s why I decided to ignore the United States where pre-Columbian inhabitants apparently rained down from the tops of every summit in more-or-less continuous fashion. I focused on other parts of the world instead.
A large mountain jutting above the surrounding plains in Andalusia north of Málaga reached 880 metres (2,890 feet) above sea level (map). The locals called it Peña de los Enamorados, translating into English as something akin to "Lover’s Rock." One imagined it must have an associated legend to go with the romantic name. It had no relation to The Clash, much to my disappointment. However, I found the an explanation on Andalusia.com.
When Ibrahim was the ruler of the castle of Archidona, he had a beautiful Muslim daughter called Tagzona who was betrothed to the old chief of the Alhama fort. However Tagzona was actually in love with Hamlet (or Tello in other versions), a handsome young Christian man from the Abencerrajes family of nearby Antequera. Some versions relate that she had met him when visiting captured Christian soldiers in prison and she helped him escape from prison. They ran away together and were chased by Moorish soldiers to the top of the rock, where, rather than renounce their love or be captured, they chose to hurl themselves over the edge holding hands – together till the end.
If I were to substitute Muslim/Christian for the names of any two Native American tribes and adjusted the location to any elevated point in the U.S. it would be the exact same story. I wondered if I could find something just a little bit different.
I chose a lovely spot in the United Kingdom. I could have selected any of several candidates and ultimately decided to feature the Lover’s Leap in the Wye Valley Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty. The valley spread along the border between England and Wales aside the River Wye, with Lover’s Leap itself located atop a cliff on the Welsh side (map).
This was the creation of Valentine Morris, born and raised in the West Indies, who inherited property in Wye Valley in 1753. The estate was called Piercefield House.
At this time, tourism in the Wye Valley was in its infancy. Morris soon added to the magnificent splendour of the estate and its setting, by landscaping the parkland… Piercefield was developed into a park of national reputation, as one of the earliest examples of picturesque landscaping. Morris laid out walks through the woodland, and included a grotto, druid’s temple, bathing house and giant’s cave. He also developed viewpoints along the clifftop above the River Wye, and opened the park up to visitors.
The Piercefield Walk continues to be a popular attraction today. Lover’s Leap is one of several attractions including the ruins of Morris’ Piercefield House found along the route in the Walking Guide.
The railings here guard a sheer drop of 180 feet, ‘where the Wyndcliff is seen towering above the river in all its height and beauty, and below yawns a deep and wooded abyss.’ (Coxe, 1801) Valentine Morris, whilst surveying his walk, reputedly fell off here and was saved by the branches of a tree!
I inferred a couple of points about this Lover’s Leap along the River Wye. First, it was a fanciful name that sprang from the imagination of Valentine Morris. Second, his own stumble and near catastrophe may have inspired the name.
The seal ended up lassoed around the neck by the raunchy red underwear in the seas just off a nature point dubbed ‘Lover’s Leap’ on New Zealand’s South Island. A worried on-looker spotted the distressed pup struggling with something around its neck so called the Department of Conservation. The team hiked for an hour up a tricky 230-metre cliff side to reach the helpless animal before battling in the dark for a further hour until they finally managed to free it… One can only assume that the owner of the saucy underwear had to make a quick exit down the cliff side after a romantic walk to the Lover’s Leap lookout point got out of hand.
Now that’s a Lover’s Leap legend that deserved the name!