MIA

Sorry I haven't posted in a while. Been busy with work, craft stuff, and ice fishing last weekend up in St. Albans, VT. I'll try to write one this weekend (it'll prob be an Arizona tale).

In the mean time, here's a photo from ice fishing last week.

It's a Jersey Thing - Episode I

July, 2009 - Blairstown, New Jersey

My college roommate and close compatriot, Tomek, had visited my hometown of Norwell several times since we'd met in 2006. He often remarked about how the forests and occasional farmland reminded him of  his home in Blairstown, New Jersey. My knowledge of the Garden State was largely based on my experiences driving on the malodorous Turnpike outside New York City, but I took him at his word. In July, I came to find out he was being modest about his hometown.

Like any poor college student in Boston looking for adventure, I headed to South Station to board a Fung Wa deathtrap bus to New York City. Four and a half sweaty hours and a few Nick Cage movies later, the bus pulled up to a grime-covered building in Chinatown. I stepped off the bus and navigated between coal-colored puddles and trampled fast food wrappers, wandering past stores full of foreign goods and fragrant foods. A few blocks later, I found a tall, carefree Pole leaning on his acid rain-burned, 90s model Toyota Corolla. Tomek. He greeted me with a wide smile and his signature "ha ha! YO! What's up, dude?" We hugged and hopped in the car. His trusty steed growled to a start and took off towards the Holland Tunnel, and New Jersey beyond.

We passed signs for Columbia, and Tomek told me we're getting close. The region is lush, green and hilly, rather reminiscent of the South Shore. We got off the highway and passed large fields filled with tall stocks of corn, the bustling town center -- like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting -- and a few farm stands. We turned off the main drag and made way for Tomek's house. It was mid-afternoon, but the tall oak and maple trees left the roadway in perpetual twilight. Around every corner we spotted white-tailed deer, bucks and does alike. Tomek was in the middle of telling me how everyone he knows has hit a few deer during their time in Blairstown when he suddenly slammed on the brakes. In front of us was a 300-pound black bear, standing in the middle of the road. It was the first wild bear I had ever seen. Surprised, the bear stared at the car for a few moments before sauntering off over an old stone wall and into the woods beyond. Tomek and I shouted at it for a moment before it disappeared from view. We drove on.

Past the Yards Creek Reservoir Power Station, we pulled into Tomek's driveway. Before I had time to take in his home, he quickly asked me if he had told me about his father. I say, "Sure, he's super traditional Polish." Both Tom's parents and older brother had emigrated from Poland during the Cold War and maintained their heritage once in America. This was not, however, what Tomek had meant.
"No, dude. He only has one arm."
"Oh." I responded, a bit surprised. "That's not exactly the kind of thing you tell someone right before they meet your folks."
"Yeah well, you know now."
"I guess. What do I shake when I meet him?"
"Probably his left hand."

Tomek's house, surrounded by lofty beech and white pine, was situated on a large lawn. The house itself was new and very nice while maintaining a modest appearance. The back yard, where I met Tom's father, was taken up by a huge garden. Now retired, Tomek's father (how about we call him Mr. C) spent much of his day tending to his crop of currants, raspberries, strawberries, peppers, tomatoes, exotic plants and other items. He greeted me with a smile and a laugh (like father, like son) and didn't say much else before Tom's mother (Mrs. C?) came out. A lovely woman and gracious host, she was eager to ask about the trip down and fill me with Polish treats. We left Mr. C to his work. As I walked inside, I turned back and looked above the tree line. Where I expected to find sky, I saw a tall cliff face topped with trees. I asked Tom what the hell I was looking at and he said, rather nonchalantly, that those were the Appalachian Mountains. The Appalachian Trail ran through his back yard. Just like Norwell, indeed.

After the grand tour of the house, Tom and I hopped back into the car and headed off to Worthington State Forest, where I would find that New Jersey was more than stinky marshes and power plants. Because the mountains in his region of Jersey are long ridges, one has to travel long distances to find breaks to get from one side to the other. The two places to do this near Tom are at the base of Mount Tammany at the Delaware Water Gap -- just a few miles from Tomek's house -- or in the state forest. Choosing the latter, the Corolla crawled up a steep mountain road and coasted down the other side. The road was bisected by treeless high-tension lines that allowed us to look out on the long, graceful mountains and into Pennsylvania. In order to show me exactly what I'd gotten into, Tom took me to the Fire Tower, which stood upon the mountain behind his house. A short, busy trail (called Rattlesnake Trail; no snakes today) took us to the rusting, graffiti-covered tower. As we climbed the stairs, the wind rattled the structure, making our ascent a little wobbly. At the top of the stairs, we looked out on the landscape. To the east, the land flattened out towards the Atlantic, where large gliders sailed silently on the thermals through the summer sky. The mountains ran in long strips from the north to the southwest, crossing the Delaware into Pennsylvania. On the Penn side, the mountains rolled into hills and disappeared in the haze of the July afternoon. The land was lush and emerald as far as we could see.

Debating where to take me next, Tomek opted to drive to Blue Mountain Lake. With the afternoon pushing on, there were no cars in the parking lot when we pulled in. Up a short path, we came to a large, blue lake with a tree-covered hill on one side. An island with a sheer rock face sat in the middle of the tranquil pond and water gurgled over a nearby dam. Without bathing suits or towels, we couldn't go swimming (something I would bother Tom about for the rest of the weekend), but opted to stick our feet in the warm water. Enjoying the solitude, the view, and the last bit of the sun's heat, we were startled when a large Bald Eagle buzzed close over our heads before gliding effortlessly over the hill.

After leaving Blue Mountain Lake, we met up with Tomek's friends Brian and Matt. It was dark when we arrived at Matt's house, and they had a camp fire going. Tom introduced me and we talked about Blairstown, Jersey parties and other matters. While Brian had the air of a rockstar, laid back and dazed with long, dark scenester hair, Matt--while still jovial--seemed a bit more serious, holding a hard, meaningful stare while he listened, carefully considering the words he heard. Matt's parents came out and we discussed the surprises of the day -- the bear, the plethora of deer, the Appalachian Mountains -- and they told me many stories of the wilds of the Skylands (bobcats, mountain lions, rattlesnakes, etc. Normal Jersey stuff) in the manner of an old Mainer, but in the voice of a Long Island townie.

The night was getting late, so we headed back to Tomek's to enjoy a few drinks with Mr. C. He would pour some sort of homemade liquor or foreign beverage, pass it to me, and laugh heartedly as my face squinted with each putrid sip. He didn't speak much to me, having Tomek translate most of his jovial jests from Polish before raising his glass in toast. I figured he only used his native tongue due to his staunch Polish patriarchal nature; my house, my language. Only long after did I learn that he doesn't speak English. Still didn't stop him from busting my balls. Na zdrowie!

Tomek and I woke up at a comfortable hour the next day and enjoyed a satisfying breakfast with French-pressed coffee (Tomek loves his French press). Tom threw together a few turkey, ham and homemade pickle sandwiches, grabbed two Zyweic, and ordered me into the car. We took the long, scenic drive back into Worthington State Forest, passing more deer and a few basking corn snakes. Once deep into the forest, Tom turned down the windy road that follows the Delaware River. We passed abandoned buildings on the Jersey side and looked out on fertile farmland in Pennsylvania.  Pulling in to a State Forest parking lot, we talked to a plump blonde Forest Ranger -- a seasonal worker not much older than us. She gave us a map and pointed us to the trailhead. Tom handed me the map and indicated that we were heading up the mountain to a lake on top, called Sunfish Pond.

The mountain gained almost 1,000 feet in a very short distance, so the trail switch-backed up the side of the ridge. Young oak, beech trees and towering rhododendrons trapped the humid air under the canopy and we stopped to take frequent water breaks. Mindlessly moving our feet up the mountain, we suddenly heard a crashing in the underbrush. A low whining, like a remote controlled plane, crescendoed as an object tumbled through the forest towards us. A flash of screaming black darted through across the trail ahead: a baby black bear. We both took a moment to coo about the lil' fella before continuing on. After a few feet, Tomek turned to me, nonchalantly, and said, "Oh, hey dude. Keep your eyes up for the momma bear. Sometimes they'll climb up in the trees and drop down on you. Cause, you know, where there's a baby bear..."

I did not know how much validity there was to this warning, but it caused me to spend the rest of the hike looking up, occasionally tripping over rocks and roots. Cool, thanks Tom.

Unlike the White Mountains, when you get to the top of a ridge, the land mostly just flattens out. There aren't always beautiful outlooks and you don't leave the tree line. The only way you can tell you've come to the top is that you stop going up. Finding ourselves in such a state, we hiked with ease down the trail and came to Sunfish Pond. We were all prepared to hop right in, until we read a sign:

ATTENTION: NO SWIMMING!

No lifeguard on duty. 

Violators will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.
Water has a specific acidic PH level. Only a special breed of sunfish live in these waters.

Way harsh. Being that the day was well into the 90s and we were in, you know, New Jersey, we decided to ignore the posting. Believing it imprudent to go swimming next to the NO SWIMMING sign, we bushwhacked around the lake until we found a suitable spot to swim.  Now covered in scrapes and dirt, we found a sunny rock outcrop that looked over the lake. We gathered juicy blueberries from bushes around the rock and enjoyed a well-deserved lunch. We then scrambled down the rock and jumped into the inviting water (the acid water didn't melt our skin off or nothin!). After few hours of swimming, listening to bullfrogs croak, and watching kingfishers and dragonflies dance over the surface of the water, we headed back to the trail and made our descent to the car.

With my last night in New Jersey fast approaching, we drove to meet up with Tomek's friend Bugsy at his vacation trailer on Swartswood Lake. In a dirty white tank top and sipping a Miller Lite between his broken, crooked teeth, Bugsy took us on short walk to the camp's boat dock, where Brian and Matt were prepping Bugsy's pontoon boat. With three Bud Lights and a bag of Doritos to split, we headed out on the quiet lake. Summer bon fires began to spring up on the shoreline and schools of fish hopped out of the water, disrupting the tranquil surface. We took turns jumping off the back of the boat, holding on to the lines and letting the boat tow us through the warm water, shouting out when unexpected pond weeds wrapped around our limbs. Brian's long, dark hair would occasionally get in his eyes, causing him to steer us into patches of lily pads. Dreadful. The stars began to come out, so we pulled the boat back in to the dock. Air drying off like a pack of smelly dogs, we hopped in our respective cars and headed to Tomek's for dinner and evening festivities.

Tomek and I woke late the next morning. My bus was leaving NYC at 4:00, so we had some time to kill. Having said my goodbyes to Tomek's parents, we headed into Worthington one last time, making our way to Blue Mountain Lake. This time, we had our bathing suits. It was a bright Sunday morning and the place was packed. We crossed on a submerged limestone ridge that runs between the beach and the small island and walked nimbly through a pile of empty beer cans to the island's rock face. Jumping off the rock involves a little strategy: you had to get far enough away from the island to land in the deep pool. If you didn't jump far enough, you'd land in shallow water and ruin your summer/legs/life. I made a couple of test-runs to the edge, but wimped out each time. Finally, Tomek gave me a hearty shove as I neared the edge, sending me careening into the water. With the first jump out of the way, we fearlessly jumped into the lake for a few hours, taking time to watch some good ol' Jersey boys do back flips and other tricks off the rocks -- all without killing themselves. We took a break to sun ourselves and pick up the empty beer cans before making a last run off the rock. Satisfied that I'd seen everything Jersey possibly had to offer (you'll find later that there is much more to discover), Tomek and I headed to his car and made our way to New York City, where I'd catch my sweltering, AC-less Fung Wa bus home.


Happy Birthday Tom.

Photos: View of Delaware River and Pennsylvania from New Jersey; Tomek eating a sandwich at Sunfish Lake; Jersey kids swimming at Blue Mountain Lake