October 15 - 17, 2010 - Blairstown, NJ (en route)
Eric's jeep bumped and rattled down the desolate Route 94 somewhere between New York and New Jersey. Sleepy farmhouses stood dark, lifeless under the inky autumnal sky. A warm breeze filtered in through a vented window as the Jeep's cracked spare tire mount clattered over every pothole we hit. No one else seemed to be out on this Friday eve; the way was unimpeded, absent of fellow travelers or lurking State Troopers. Eric sipped on an iced tea while I sang along to familiar lines of songs from Bomb the Music Industry!'s
Scrambles album, keeping my eyes peeled for signs of nocturnal life -- be they animal or law enforcement. We were on our way to visit Tomek at his home in Blairstown.
The road winded past felled corn stalks and fading trees. Eric turned the jeep up a shallow hill and we spotted a pair of bright glowing dots on the road ahead: an animal. We slowed as we neared the unidentified entity. It's lifeless form, distorted by headlights, appeared strange, unknown. A mountain lion, or perhaps some other devilry of this spooked land? Curious, we halted the vehicle and exited to examine the abnormal creature. It was a mangled white-tailed deer, destroyed by some careless driver (reckless drivers in New Jersey? No, really!). We would see another dozen littering 94 before we arrived in the Skylands.
Eric had not visited Tomek's home and took me up on my last-minute offer to make the 5-hour trip down to New Jersey's Appalachia.
After my first trip to visit Tomek, I had regaled anyone who'd listen about the beauty of the Water Gap region: a land of mountains, animals and mystery! Few believed me, their conceptions of the state largely rooted in what could be seen from the Turnpike or on reality TV. "Well damn their eyes!" I thought. If I could convince one person to come with me to visit Tomek, that individual could help me be the harbinger of change, altering people's conceptions of the Garden State. And who better to fill this role than my faithful companion Eric?
We got off the unassuming exit for Blairstown and I did my best to recall the way to Tom's. With a few hick-ups (it is damn hard to spot his road off of 94!), we made our way past shedding trees and light-less homes. The road switch-backed up a steep hill and I suddenly remembered to warn Eric about the countless deer that wander these woods, waiting for their chance to step in front of a speeding car. Eric heeded my warning, and not a moment too soon. His car jerked to a stop, halting just short of a four-point buck, standing dully in the middle of the road. Eric's eyes widened some, but he calmly drove around the deer and continued up the street. The road brightened as light from the Yards Creek Reservoir seeped through the trees and onto the street. Moments later, we pulled into Tomek's driveway. It was late when we arrived, so we exited the jeep softly, making sure not to make a ruckus, lest we wake Tom's potentially-sleeping parents. A soft buzz came from the garage, and we turned to find Tomek walking out of the garage, barefoot with open arms. Excited and forgetting myself, I slammed the open car door shut. The bang shot through the woods while I cringed and blushed, embarrassed that I had woken Tom's folks. He urged me not to worry and said that they'd stayed up to greet us.
We chatted with the C's over delicious Polish treats and drinks. After they were sure Eric and I had had our fill of food, they excused themselves to bed. The three of us grabbed a couple bottles of Yuengling and Zywiec and made our way out front to enjoy the crisp autumn air. Tomek asked us what we wanted to do that weekend. Being close to Halloween, we told him we wanted to do spooky stuff: explore abandoned buildings, see the Jersey Devil, that kind of thing (there's a
whole magazine dedicated to this crap in New Jersey). Tomek furrowed his brow and took a pull on his drink, thinking of the best options.
"Alright," He said after a while. "I got a few ideas."
* * * *
We took or time the following morning; haste was not in the day's itinerary. Lazily, we created a magnificent breakfast of eggs, sausage, toast and french-pressed coffee while we watched Mr. C chop wood with his one good arm -- quite a thing to witness, as it is both impressive and intimidating. Sipping on coffee, Tomek and I took Eric out back to show him the mountains behind the house, no longer hidden from sight by the night's black cloak. He stared and chuckled, now knowing that I was indeed not full of shit about the mountains in New Jersey. After a much needed shower -- the previous night's drive had left Eric and me feeling grungy -- we explored the fridge and took out every appetizing item and placed them onto sandwiches: turkey, ham, cheese, fresh tomatoes, homemade pickles, etc. We each grabbed a couple cold bottles of beer, threw them into our respective packs, and got in the car.
Noon was approaching as we headed to Worthington State Forest. The Corolla rolled past open farmland and labored up familiar hills, plunging into the forest beyond the Kittatinny Mountains. Lingering above large rhododendron bushes, the leaves that still clung to trees were transforming into a wondrous pallet of autumn shades. We passed the Delaware View House General Store, a large white building with a welcoming porch on a stone foundation, desolate and still this late in the season. Another fifteen minutes into the drive, we came to a parking lot as the road sloped before us; the forest beyond was still green, untouched by the fall. There was a brown outhouse ahead of us, located near a bubbling stream. We wandered over to the water and watched red and gold leaves drift past on their way to the Delaware, and the Atlantic beyond. Tom turned us around and we made our way back through the parking lot. The numerous pick-up trucks and SUVs that sat there displayed the polarized politics of the forest: cars boasting "Save the Black Bear!" bumper stickers sat side-by-side with trucks adorned with stickers of bears silhouetted in cross hairs. We had unknowingly ventured into the forest during hunting season* and, suddenly, my grandfather's olive green army jacket seemed to put me at a disadvantage. Both Tomek and Eric had brightly colored coats, so I reasoned that we'd be safe.
We made our way across the street and down the trail. The forest was calm and the only sound and motion came from the ever-falling leaves, like some bizarre, golden snow. No birds called and we crossed paths with no one. Between the trees ahead, we spotted a lone, white farmhouse. The paint cracked and peeled from the wood and the tall, empty windows were clouded where they were not smashed. The front door was open, but the porch was too deteriorated to approach, so we walked around to the back to find another way in. The backdoor, too, was ajar. There is something about abandoned buildings that seems unwelcoming and fills one with foreboding, so we approached quietly, slowly. As Tomek neared the door, we heard a dull thud close behind us. We shot around. There was nothing. My spine felt cold, sweaty and the hairs on my arms stood up, prickly. We moved closer and again, another thud! We looked around, to nearby trees and shattered windows -- nothing. For a third time, we approached, but I turned around and again, thud! This time, however, I spotted the culprit. The back of the house was surrounded by pear trees and the ripened fruit was falling and landing, producing a thud. We snickered at our stupidity and carried on.
We were obviously not the first to venture into this house since its abandonment. The floor was littered with crushed Budweiser cans and broken Rolling Rocks. Rotting old magazines were caked to the floor, and in the corner sat a disfigured couch, springs protruding from holes chewed away by forest creatures. What was left of the wallpaper was shredded and gaping holes had been plowed through the walls, exposing horizontal wooden boards (they just don't make 'em like they used to). The stairs had succumbed to the ages about halfway up and we could not go upstairs. Venturing further into the house, we realized our inability to go upstairs was to our benefit, as we discovered a gaping hole in the ceiling where once the 2nd floor bathtub had resided. It now lay shattered on the floor before us. We took that as a signal to leave, as none of us cared to find out when the toilet would find its way to the first floor too.
When we came to the trail, we spotted more buildings ahead. Venturing on, we peered into the ghostly windows and empty doorways. Old tin cans rusted in the open air, still protruding beneath the leaf litter, and old soda and beer bottles lay in ruined piles below the large rocks where they'd met their end. Next to a well, we discovered a collection of rusted, antique cars -- wood-paneled pick ups, a vintage short school bus, prohibition-era sedans -- now slowly drowning in decades of fallen leaves and detritus. We discovered beer cans from long forgotten breweries littering the cabins of cars: National Premium, Walter's, Meister Brau. Local youngsters had taken it upon themselves to make sure none of these vehicles had any undamaged windows and several cars were soiled with careless graffiti. We spotted another house that looked more inviting and went inside to see if we could find out what had happened here. An old rocking chair and a soiled twin mattress were all that furnished the living room now. The ground was littered with rusty nails, shell casings and broken light bulbs. Eric discovered a box containing miscellaneous magazines. We pulled one out -- a carpenter's periodic -- and checked the date: 1954. How long had this place been empty, we wondered aloud.
We would later discover that following a hurricane in 1955, which caused massive flooding along the Delaware River, the Army Corps of Engineers devised a plan to build a dam at Tock Island, creating a large lake that would become the Delaware Water Gap National Recreation Area. After the measure was approved by Congress, the Corps set about buying up all the land that would soon be inundated by the dam. One chunk of said land -- on which we three were now standing -- was owned by a local militia, who used this series of buildings as their headquarters. I do not know what the members of the militia said when the Federal Government claimed eminent domain on their compound, but I'm certain the word "tyranny" was used a great deal. The dam was never completed, as it faced massive local resistance, so the government was left in control of the land it had purchased. Its solution: turn it into a state forest and, voila! Worthington came into existence (I like to offer some education to you, dear reader, where I can). And here we stood, amidst the ruined compound of a militant force long forgotten.
We carried on down the trail and passed a pair of bow hunters, dressed in a mix of forest cammo and orange. They waved politely and made their way back to the parking lot without a trophy. Following the trail, we came to a bend in the river where a great willow ran its dangling branches through the chilled water. On a pile of washed up logs, we sat and procured our sandwiches, chips and beers. Our view was of unspoiled forest on the Pennsylvanian bank, boasting a mesmerizing display of vibrant, diversely-colored foliage. We sat quietly in the tepid sunlight and enjoyed the view as the water trickled between the logs at our feet. A kingfisher called out nearby and red-breasted robins hopped around on the banks, scrounging for worms and grubs under the leaf litter. We finished our lunches, grabbed our trash, and made our way back to the car.
We heard a crunch in the forest to our right. A pair of white-tailed deer stood still, stunned amidst a grove young beech trees. We watched them for a moment before they slowly made their way into the cover of the woods, disappearing before our very sight. A couple passed us with their dog, which was running off-leash, and we warned them that there were hunters about and they would be wise to keep their companion nearby. They thanked us and passed, not securing their dog (I wonder what happened to that little guy).
As we came to a large, fallen tree that we had clambered over earlier in the hike, we noticed a bright, orange fanny pack resting on it. We figured that some hunter must have dropped it, lightening their load as he/she took off after a deer. A few minutes later, another hunter's accoutrement lay disregarded in the trail. Ahead, yet another piece, this one holding several arrows in a quiver. We stared at this last item, puzzled, for a few moments. I squinted my eyes and, ahead, I spotted a lone figure. We slowly got up and made our way towards the figure. It took us a few moments to realize that while the figure was walking away from us, we were gaining on him quickly. He had been about a quarter mile away when we first spotted him, but within minutes we were on top of him. The hunter was about our height, with long, greasy dark hair, wearing cammo overalls and a disheveled orange thermal shirt. He was carrying on with a zombie-like gate. We called out to him when we were a few yards behind him and he turned to us slowly. He was about our age, but he looked tired, worn. Asking him if he was alright, we noticed that his face was white, soaked in sweat and his eyes were sunken in his face, circled by puffy, red rings. His neck was crimson and looked as though it had been bit by a thousand mosquitoes. In his limp hands was a loaded crossbow.
"I...uhh...I'm not feeling too great." He stammered, with the hint of a Pennsylvanian accent.
"What's wrong? Can we do anything?" We asked. Tom and Eric looked startled.
"Do you...do you have any water I can have?" He managed to say.
Without much thought I took off my pack and began to unzip it. Turning to Eric and Tomek, I noticed they were giving me a "what the fuck? are you crazy?" glare. But, I had the water bottle in my hand, so I couldn't
not give it to the sick hunter. That would just be bad form. I handed him the water and he gave me a thankful nod. He slowly unscrewed the lid and, as he was about to purse it to his lips, he turned to me.
"You...uhh...probably shouldn't drink this after me."
"Yeah," I chuckled, politely. "I guess not."
He barely took two sips of the water before handing it back to me. We pleaded with him to drink more, but he said that any more would cause him to throw up again. The hunter told us he had been in his deer hide since early that day and, at some point, began to feel fluish. As he made his way from his deer hide to his car, the illness hit him progressively harder and he began to shed his gear, as he was too hot with it. We asked him if he wanted us to stay with him until he got to his car, or if we should call someone for him. He said no to both and started walking. For a while, we walked with him too, but we picked up our pace, not wanting to catch whatever it was he had. As we pushed onward, we grew weary of the potentially-delirious man holding a loaded crossbow and did our best to stay out of range of him while still keeping an eye on him. For a while, he passed out of view. When we spotted him coming around a turn in the bend, as undead as ever, we noticed we were standing next to a small graveyard, adorned with tattered, faded flags for soldiers of wars long ago. A wind picked up through the forest, carrying dead leaves with it, and we made haste to the car. Eric and Tomek sat in the Corolla while I washed my hands vigorously, as I had held the tainted water bottle after the sick hunter. When we saw him saunter down the trail and get in his pickup, I threw the compromised bottle into Tomek's trunk, where it would remain for two years.
Traveling through the quiet forest roads on our way back to town, I watched the rolling hills and ravines sink into dusk. We slowed as a large black bear crossed the road in front of us and again later when we spotted one roaming through the woods, its ink-black coat popping out against the brown backdrop. Before we left the forest, we would see another two, juvenile black bears scurry across the road and climb a large oak tree to watch us while the car passed.
As we drove along the Delaware, I turned back to look at the towering Mount Tammany. The setting sun reflected off its bald, wet, rocky face, coloring it orange, pink and blue. The trees that plummeted the surrounding region into wilderness exploded with autumnal beauty, an impressionist's canvas of crimsons, auburn, golds and emeralds. Back in town, we stopped to explore an abandoned Girl Scout meeting house. Tom told us some of the urban legends about the building, how an axe murderer butchered a nun or how a maniac set fire to all the girls in the meeting one night. It was a large, white house, covered in so many fallen trees it was a miracle that it was still standing. We dared not venture inside. We checked out a nearby derelict garage and peered at a smashed vintage convertible that sat inside, covered in dust. Arriving back at Tomek's house, we enjoyed a large, homemade meal and checked on the Internet for news of the sick hunter. Nothing came up.
The night rolled into a haze, fogged by fatigue and beer. Tomek's friends Bird, Allison, Brian and Matt came by and we had a small bonfire out back. At some point they left for another party and we went to sleep.
* * * *
The next day, Tomek and I thought it would be prudent to bring Eric to Blue Mountain Lake. The lake was quaint and still that day. A few birds darted over the open, but there was little evidence of other life. We followed an old logging road up the hillside that overlooks Flat Brook. The top of the bluff was windy, and the mostly naked trees rattled in the breeze. We were circling back around to the lake when we heard a loud throaty grown nearby. Instantly, we all had the same thought: angry bear. Frozen, we looked around for the beast. The trees swayed, but nothing else moved. A cloud passed over the sun and the woods grew dark. Making our way down the trail, we heard it again, closer. Looking around, we still saw nothing, so we continued. Again, the groan came, this time almost a growl. We were shaken, unsure if the behemoth was growling at us, if it would attack. Suddenly, we found the source: a large, half-rotted tree, creaking in the wind.
Laughing at our misplaced paranoia for the second time in as many days, we hurried back to the car when I heard a small crack! from behind us. Something pinched my leg, like a bee sting and I realized I'd been shot by a pellet gun. There was a small, purple mark where the pellet had hit, but no blood. We looked around: the forest was yet quiet, raining yellow and crimson leaves. I squinted my eyes for any movement between the trees and logs, but found nothing. Deciding not to wait for the sniper to strike again, we rushed to the car and left the forest.
Mrs. C told us to come back to the house so we could share a Polish dinner with the C's and their friends. On our way back, we pulled off at the fire tower, ascended the trail, and battled the wind to summit the swaying metal tower. The sun was over Pennsylvania and it warmed our faces as we looked west. A chilled breeze carried the scent of falling leaves and a cold winter to come, but for now we thought of the weekend. In our fight against haunted houses, zombies and roadside-monsters; against bears both real and fake; against hidden snipers and hunters; and against the spirits and ghouls of this weird land, we'd survived, making it out unscathed. Leaving the trail, we returned to Tomek's house, filled our bellies with the tastiest of tasties, and bid our farewell to our dear friend and his lovely kin, for it would be a long time and a hard winter before we could venture back.
*It was but a few short weeks later that one of
the largest black bears ever to be killed was bowed down across the Delaware River from where we had lunch that day. Shame that such a beautiful, enormous creature is now on display in someone's den.
None of these photos are actually from this trip, as no pictures were taken that weekend. Photo credit to Tomek on the 1st (Mr. C in the backyard garden) and 3rd (view of the Kittatinny Mountains); 2nd photo by Kate of Tomek and me.
I'm back from a wondrous adventure through the Mojave with my dear friends Tomek, K.A. and D.K. and am here in the safety of the post-Police State (-Commonwealth?) of Boston. Between the dramatic bits of "news" I was able to receive while out in the back country, I did my best to unwind from a harsh week in my hometown, losing myself in the silence and stillness that I've only ever found in the Southwest. Forest, lakes and rivers all offer their own sanctuary from the bustle of everyday life, but even there, still, there is motion, sound, activity. This isn't to say the desert is void of life, but rather that in the vast expanse of untainted wilderness, sound and life seem to disappear into the back drop and one is left with only the sound of blood flowing past your ear drums. There is no breeze through the trees, no trickle of water over smooth stones; you are free to look out and experience everything and nothing all at the same time. It is a foreign planet, void of skyscrapers, tweets, news feeds or people. It is lovely.
Odds are, it can't. Sooner or later, the springs, aquifers and lakes of the Southwest will dry up and large urban areas will either have to start stealing water from other nearby municipalities or abandon their cities for fairer land. (Or, I suppose, they could truck it in? And if you thought gas prices were high...) Their lawns, their trees, their beloved golf courses will all perish, withered and disfigured by the fiery desert heat. 
