Zack S.
Google
A Gentleman’s Account of Glendorn, Bradford, Pennsylvania
I first made my way to Glendorn at the encouragement of my Vistage compatriots, whose praises of this secluded haven stirred my imagination to no end. Eager for the experience, I arrived a full day ahead of schedule, intent on soaking in every element of the place.
From the very moment I passed through the great gates and began the four-minute drive across the vast grounds, I knew I had entered another world. The winding approach unfolded like a prologue to a grand novel: manicured trails, towering timber, and the suggestion that one was returning to an era when oil barons reigned, and families gathered at their estates as though they were kingdoms unto themselves. When I arrived at the main lodge, I was greeted carside by a staff member with umbrella in hand and champagne at the ready—a gesture befitting royalty. Inside, Megan, whose attentiveness never once faltered, ushered me into the story of Glendorn. She spoke of the land, the lodges, and the amenities with such knowledge and grace that I felt less like a guest and more like a welcomed confidant.
That very afternoon, we took to the shooting grounds under the guidance of Charles, an instructor of remarkable patience and skill. For those unacquainted with firearms, his counsel was indispensable; for the seasoned hand, his knowledge elevated the experience. To shoot with DT-12s—of such fine make and balance—was itself a privilege, though I did note that one could bring their own piece should they wish. The facilities themselves, from the remote throwers to the skeet and trap houses, left no detail unattended.
From there, we hiked to Robber’s Pond, where fly fishing amidst the still waters provided a communion with nature both serene and exhilarating. The rains of the prior day had summoned insects in abundance, and the fish rose eagerly. The pond, manicured with perfection, allowed one to cast from any vantage without hindrance, and the reward of many rising fish made the effort pure delight.
Meals, I must say, surpassed even the loftiest of expectations. Dish upon dish emerged as if composed by an artist, each one drawing forth the essence of the freshest provisions. It was not mere sustenance but true dining—an experience equal to the grandeur of the grounds.
When my wife joined me on Friday, we moved from John’s Cabin to another dwelling, each cabin itself a time capsule of architecture and taste. Constructed between the 1920s and 1960s, each seemed to embody the pinnacle of design from its respective decade. To dwell in them is to step back into history without ever sacrificing comfort or refinement.
The history of Glendorn itself is a marvel: raised during the Great Depression by the Dorn family in 1929, held within their stewardship for generations, and opened to the public only in 1995. The sheer size of the estate—over 1,500 acres—astonishes. One quickly realizes the vast effort required to maintain such splendor, from the miles of manicured trails and warming huts to the evidence of heavy machinery that keeps the grounds impeccable.
The days passed swiftly, too swiftly. Between the saunas, the endless trails, the artfully prepared meals, and the sheer romance of the place, I found myself reluctant to depart. Indeed, my wife all but had to drag me away.
Glendorn is not simply a destination; it is an encounter with history, nature, and artistry intertwined. To stay here is to step into another age, to taste the grandeur of a bygone era, and to etch into memory an experience that cannot be replicated elsewhere. I left not merely refreshed but transformed, and I await my return with great anticipation.
