It's A Jersey Thing: Part II - Weird New Jersey

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.

Nature Nurture

Found this article today on The Atlantic and enjoyed what it had to say.


"...Urban environments are draining because they force us to direct our attention to specific tasks (e.g., avoiding the onslaught of traffic) and grab our attention dynamically, compelling us to "look here!" before telling us to instead "look over there!" These demands are draining -- and they're also absent in natural environments. Forests, streams, rivers, lakes, and oceans demand very little from us, though they're still engaging, ever changing, and attention-grabbing. The difference between natural and urban landscapes is how they command our attention. While man-made landscapes bombard us with stimulation, their natural counterparts give us the chance to think as much or as little as we'd like..."

How Nature Resets Our Minds and Bodies


Get out there, y'all!

Up the Kinsman: The Story of Trail Dad

June 2010 - Minos Cluster, Outer Rim

The corridor was dark when we entered, illuminated by a single, blinking red light. Bits of detritus floated by us as we exited the airlock. Eric pushed past the body of a Rodian, sending it bouncing aimlessly down the long, empty hall. The metal buckle of its belt clanged against a consol, echoing listlessly throughout the ship. As Adam, Laura, Tomek and I entered, we noticed a strange mossy fungus covering the the walls and floors. I made an attempt to gather a sample of the substance, but clumsily bounced off the ceiling, not used to the lack of gravity. After a few minutes, we gathered our wits and made way to the control deck to assess what had happened to the large cruiser (and hopefully turn the gravity back on). As we made our way down the corridor, we saw the body of the Rodian still floating ahead of us. Adam stopped short; the body had moved, he swore. Eric, Adam and Laura drew their blasters and I, my light saber. I searched around for something to steady myself on and grabbed onto a pipe. Tomek floated around behind us, unsure of what to do. The body moved again, slowly coming to life. Suddenly, and with great speed, the Rodian launched itself towards us. Adam and Eric began to fire quickly while Laura still looked for a place to plant herself. Their shots did not land and the Rodian continued towards us.

"Wait," asked Eric. "What's the modifier for shooting in zero grav?"
Nick, the game master, looked up from the map on the coffee table, annoyed. He picked up the large Star Wars: The Role Playing Game book and placed it in front of Eric.
"Look it up." Nick said, for perhaps the tenth time that night.

The six of us sat around the clustered table in our incense smoke-filled living room in Allston, surrounded by cans of PBR and Rolling Rock. It was Friday night, we'd been rolling 20-sided die for a few hours and Nick was growing tired. We were half a year into our campaign, but still looked to our veteran game master for answers to our endless questions, instead of looking them up ourselves; it wore on Nick's generous patience. We felt helpless without his leadership, as he was well versed in the ways of the RPG -- he had brought us into this new world and taught us everything we knew, holding our hand as we learned. We played a few more rounds, killed some space zombies (leave it to Nick to combine Star Wars and the undead), and called it a night. Normally, we could play our elaborate drinking game/RPG well into the evening, but we had to wake early the next morning. We were going camping in the White Mountains, and we had a special guest.

It'd been about a month since Steph and I had come back from Arizona. While there, we noticed her brother Matt seemed subdued, listless. He was coming into his teenage years and was in search of something. It was weighing on him, and we decided time away from Arizona might benefit him. In late June, around his sister's birthday, Matt flew out to stay with Steph in Allston for a few weeks (along with her four female room mates; not a bad deal). Nothing like a humid summer vacation in New England to do the soul some good.

Upon learning about Matt's trip, Eric, Adam, Tom and Nick schemed to show him what we good ol' yankees do for fun. They began to research potential places to camp up in the White Mountains and chose a trail that was thought to be well suited for a novice hiker: Kinsman Mountain. When Matt met the boys for the first time, they told him of their plan. He accepted the challenge, not unenthusiastically, but more like someone tasked with watering house plants. His disinterest mattered little to us. We were excited enough for him.

So, on a muggy Saturday morning in June, we loaded our gear into two cars and made way for New Hampshire. Driving in Adam's car up 93, playing leapfrog with Tomek's Corolla on the sun-drenched highway, Adam and Matt got to know each other while I made faces at the other car. They discussed topics that all adolescent males are familiar with: South Park, pyromania, and firing potato cannons at the Jehovah's Witness compound across the canal in your backyard (ok, that one might be a bit specific to Matt). Driving between Mount Cannon and Mount Lafayette, I paused from looking at our printed out MapQuest directions to peer up at the towering monoliths that surrounded us. I urged Matt to look up, but he seemed unimpressed (he is from "the Grand Canyon State", after all).

June 2010 - White Mountains, New Hampshire

We pulled off 93 and began traveling up the windy Kancamagus Highway, passing a brown "White Mountain National Forest" sign. Our surroundings were a blur of lush green; beech, birch, maple and oak melted together indiscernibly as the sweet smell of photosynthesis seeped in through our open windows. The mountains surrounding us were blocked by the shroud of trees. We began to climb up a soft incline, buzzing past a group cyclists in spandex. Ahead, an asphalt clearing appeared on the right. Tomek's trusty Corolla pulled in and we followed suit. Pulling our packs out of the trunks of our respective cars, we all paused to watch a parade of zipping Mini Coopers make their way up the road. While Nick and Eric studied the trail map, Tomek and Matt sat on a nearby stone wall, enjoying the sun and taking in the view of a wildflower field before them, and the Presidential Range beyond. Nick hollered to us and, with an eager smile on his face, told us to get our asses in gear.

We crossed the Highway and walked down the side of the road for about a quarter of a mile, searching for the Hancock Loop trailhead. Already sweating, we finally discovered it nestled between a few aged beech trees. The temperature dropped once we entered the cover of the forest and we made our way comfortably through the woods. The bits of sun that peeked through the canopy soon vanished and a dismal gray cover could be made out above. The humidity seemed to rise, but the hiking was easy going. We pointed out different plants to Matt, identified certain bird calls, told him about the merits of Indian fern as a bug repellant, and did our best to share our trail smarts with him in the hopes of stirring some primordial feelings buried deep in his teenage brain. He nodded politely, indicating that he had heard us, and continued up the trail.

After an hour, we paused for a short water break amongst tall ferns near a clear, stony brook. A man with a greying beard and tan baseball cap passed, crunching his walking poles into the gravely path, and asked how we were coming along, what trails we were doing. We exchanged pleasantries for a moment and he moved on. We allowed room to grow between us and him before pulling our backpacks on and following him up the mountain. A chill ran down my back as my pack pushed my cool, wet shirt against my bare skin. We crossed the stream and looked up at the cloudy sky above. The air was growing colder and I threw a flannel shirt on, buttoning it only at the very top.

We crossed a swampy area over some "sex planks"* and found the middle-aged gentleman on the other side, taking his own water break. We said hello and he raised his water bottle in salute. As we moved ahead, he called to us that he hoped we had rain gear, the sky appeared imposing. The trail maintained a shallow incline and we stopped again at another opening for water and a snack. Matt noticed, with a start, that a long snake was crossing the trail ahead of us. I hopped up and ran to the serpent, snatching it up quickly before it could escape into the sanctuary of the underbrush. It was a garter snake, about a foot and a half in length. I brought it back to the group to show Matt, who had never seen a garter snake before (while common in the East, they don't exist in Arizona).

Preoccupied with the critter, I didn't notice that the older man had caught up with us. He saw the snake and joked that my hands would smell like shit for the rest of the day, lest I release the animal. He chuckled as my eyes widened and he continued up the trail. Garter snakes, when threatened, secrete a foul, musky discharge from glands on their underside. In my excitement at finding this animal, I hadn't remembered this important tid bit. I carefully placed the snake on the ground and smelled my hands as it slithered away into the underbrush. Fuck, I thought. My hands smell awful. The only thing fouler than the scent of the snake's musk was the knowledge that no amount of soap or washing would remove the odor from my hands. Matt inquisitively asked what it smelled like, and I shoved my hands in his face. He wiped his face vigorously, like one trying to fend off mosquitos, and facetiously thanked me for sharing. Nick and Tom laughed at my misfortune.

"Man, that guy knows what he's doing," Eric said. "Good thing he told you about the snake. He's like our trail dad."

We leap frogged with Trail Dad a few more times as the trail grew steeper and muddier. For an older fella, he sure kept a fast pace. Clearly, he was no stranger to this land.  Each time we'd come across him, we would speak briefly before passing one another and he would impress us with some new nugget of thought.

Our shins were caked in dirt and our shirts were moist with sweat, when we came to a turn in the trail. Not left or right, but up. Before us, the trail became a rock scramble straight up the side of the Kinsman. We paused only momentarily before heading up the rocky traverse, hand over hand. The trail was soggy from recent rains and the rocks fit loosely into the mountainside, giving way a little bit with each foot. The scramble was only about three quarters of a mile, but it took about an hour to conquer. Red in the face and winded, we found our way to the flat ground at the top of the northern peak. The trail snaked through a hemlock grove and took us to a large rock promontory. A cool breeze greeted us and we threw our packs haphazardly about the clearing. We took our seats and pulled out well-deserved sandwiches and apples, not noticing that the rock was already claimed by a young couple seated nearby. They don't own the mountain, we grumbled, carrying on as if we hadn't intruded on some moment. Matt and Tomek stood in the refreshing wind, looking out at the cloud-covered peaks in front of us, while Eric and I eavesdropped on the nearby couple, who seemed to have been fighting when we arrived. Anger could be heard in their muffled talk and they soon left the rock to continue their battle elsewhere.


We all sat silently, watching the ship-gray clouds glide over the Appalachians. A stick snapped under an unknown weight behind us, calling our attention out of our collective daze. It was Trail Dad. Like an old friend, he sat down amongst us and told us stories of his youth in the Whites while we laughed at his jovial misfortunes. How he and a friend had spent a day in the late Fall hiking and toking up Tuckerman's Ravine on Mount Washington. Enjoying a good joint at the top, they lost track of time and began their descent too late. Past the AMC lodge, the sun set and no moon appeared to guide them. Stoned, without a flashlight, and crawling, they made their way to the parking lot, using the sound of passing cars on the highway to guide them -- for once, leaf peepers served a purpose!

We had a small fifth of cheap bourbon and passed it to him as he shared his wisdom with us. He took a short pull and made no grimace as the caramel liquor passed into his throat. He was a sensible man, likely had a decent job and, like us, had probably headed to the mountains to escape the drudgery of his everyday life, if but for a few, sweet hours. Beads of drizzle began collecting on his beard and he decided to make his way to the southern peak and, hopefully, to his car before getting caught in any foul weather. Before he left, he told us he was heading to the Woodstock Inn Brewery for a burger and beer after the hike, and that we should join him. We told him we would try, and we watched him disappear between the hemlock. Slowly packing our things, we pondered our fate at having discovered this humble hiker, appearing like some bizarre future version of ourselves.

We continued along the narrow trail to the South Peak. There was no grand view, just a gap between the pine and hemlock where one could not see past the clouds. We paused only for a minute before continuing down the trail. And down we went, indeed. Our descent from Kinsman was no less daunting than our way up the mountain. Had it not been for the rocks on the trail, we would have likely slid down the mountainside, for the ground was as muddy as it was steep. An unforgiving climb it had been. But soon, the ground leveled out and we walked simply down the wooded path.

We had no more lessons for Matt, and he had no more patience for us. He was driven by the desire for dry socks, a place to sit, and little more. He was close to completing this arduous chore he had politely accepted and was ready for campfire and sleep, unmoved by wilderness around us. We, too, were ready to be done with this trail. It had been difficult for a medly of reasons and now we were worried about rain. The sky had fists and no one likes hiking in the rain. No one.

Pausing for water, Matt took off one of his shoes and noticed a large blister. Nick handed him a bandaid and Matt tried his best to fight the urge to pop it. While Matt tied his shoe, Eric took off at a spring and disappeared. We followed him at an easier pace and, after what seemed like an hour, we began to hear cars. Ahead, we spotted Eric leaning against a large tree, staring out at the bright asphalt in front of him. We'd made it out, and it was sunny.

Back in the parking lot, we took off our wet shoes and felt the warmth of the pavement seep through our pruned feet. Tomek massaged his legs while Nick and Adam rested in the car. Nick and I passed a cigarette and stared out at the mountains. A disconnected feeling of bliss overcame me and I laid down on the stone wall, pretending I was gliding out as a disembodied entity into the eternity of the wild lands before us. Nick sat up abruptly and shouted out to us.

"Where did Trail Dad say he was going for beer?"

We looked at one another, panicked and puzzled. Did anyone remember?

"I have no idea." Matt said, resting his aching feet next to Eric. "I don't even really know where we are."

We waited in the parking lot for a bit, hoping maybe he would magically appear again. He did not, and we headed to our campground, sullen.

We arrived at the campground and set to work pitching tents. We tried to involve Matt in getting the camp ready, but he was unenthusiastic about the prospect. He gathered kindling for the fire and Nick started to get the fire going, fruitlessly. Tom and Adam helped in the endeavor and got it burning, not a moment before the skies finally opened with a torrential vengeance. We rushed to set up rain flies to keep the camp dry and the fire alive. Water dripped from our wet hair as we prepared a small dinner. We tried to show Matt a good time, but sleep soon overtook him and I brought him to a tent. The day had done a number on him and no one could blame him for succumbing to his fatigue. We continued our fraternal gathering before falling victim to sleepiness ourselves. Adam noticed that Matt was not only in the wrong tent, but had fallen asleep on Adam's sleeping bag. Like some party magician, he pulled the bag and sleeping mat out from the unsuspecting teen and took it back to the other tent. Matt was none the wiser. My sleep was plagued with heat and dreams and I woke frequently, twisted in my sweaty sleeping bag.

It was bright and cold when I woke to Matt poking me. Some inconsiderate bird was chirping nearby and Eric emitted shallow snores next to me. I turned to Matt and asked what was up.

"What happened to my sleeping bag?"
"It's in the other tent. You fell asleep on Adam's gear and he took it."
"What? Why?"
"He was going to bed, I guess."
"Oh," Matt said. "I'm cold."
"I believe it." I said, passing him a blanket.

He took it and laid back down. After a moment, he sat up and prodded me again.

"Yeah?" I grumbled
"Camping is what poor people do for vacation."
"Sure is." I said before rolling over and drifting back to a fitful sleep. Eric tried to disguise his chuckles as snores.

We woke a few hours later and noshed on a breakfast of granola bars, nursing our sore feet and aching heads with coffee and advil. I was disappointed. We had failed to impress Matt with our woodsy manliness. When I was a youngster, I had spent every waking moment in the woods, searching for frogs and salamanders, and building forts out of felled pine branches with my sister, Chloe. During my teen years, I had denied this part of my life and identified with punk rock, defining who I was with Casualties CDs and Elmer's glue-soaked hair (side note: that stuff is ideal for mohawks). In college, that identity fell to the side and, while trying to find who I was, I rediscovered my love of the outdoors with the help of my dear friends. I recalled lessons learned from years in the scouts and I was fulfilled by a new sense of meaning. I didn't need some god damned hair style or an up-the-punx leather jacket to show people who I was; I didn't need to show others anything. I could be what I always was, a kid who loved being outside. When I'd seen Matt's disposition in Arizona, I figured that he was going through a similar identity crisis and I hoped that this hike might be therapeutic for him. It was not; I was merely projecting. I had wanted to be his trail dad, to give him a means of escaping from the drudgery of his teen years.

Driving back tired and disappointed, I tried to recall how I was at Matt's age. I was chubby, clothed in fatigues and Beatles t-shirts -- the most stylish kid in my middle school, no doubt! (I really don't know what I was going for with that style...) I was trying to figure out who I was. And I hated hiking. At this point in my life, I now recalled, I had been such a bitch boy on every scout hike I'd been on in those years, always wanting to know if we were almost done and when we'd get to eat. Remembering this, I smiled as we sped down the highway back to Boston. It wasn't so bad, I supposed. I hadn't changed Matt's life for the better, but then I reckoned that another person can't do that for you. The people who surround you can only be catalysts for change, but you have to be the one to find out who you are, what you're made of. Along the way, you'll find people who may inspire you and share themselves with you. And, one day after you figure out who you are, you can be that person, giving wisdom to others in the hopes of helping them along the trail. And that's all a Trail Dad can be, not an arbiter of change, but just someone you meet along your way to finding yourself.

*****

A few months ago, the K's graciously invited me to join them on their family vacation to Glacier National Park (story to come). Matt was going to USC in the fall, and they wanted one last big family outing before he launched himself into adulthood. Matt, now 18, had grown a lot in the years since our adventure in New Hampshire. He had a sharp wit and a never ending flow of confidence. I wouldn't say that he's a big outdoorsman now, but his teen angst has fallen to the wayside and he seems sure of himself, comfortable in his own skin and ready to begin the next stage of his life. And damn was he eager to leave Arizona.

*On the AT, boards used to traverse consistently muddy sections of trails are referred to as "sex planks," because after hiking for hours over rocky, uneven ground, crossing these boards is supposed to be "better than sex."



In the unlikely event that someone reads this and thinks, "Hey, Trail Dad sounds like someone I know," feel free to put him in contact with us. He was a hell of a guy and Eric, Tomek, Adam, Nick and I would all like to finally grab that beer with him.

Photos: View from the parking lot; Me with the garter snake; The group on top of Kinsman Mountain's North Peak (left to right: Adam, Nick, Matt, Tom, Eric); Matt and Eric resting their feet in the parking lot.

This is how it all started.

My muse!

Fievel Goes West - Episode II

May 2010 - Arizona

It was an exciting time for Miss Steph and me. We had just finished college and our graduation caps barely had time to rest on the ground before we were off campus and ready to begin our care-free adult lives, filled with lousy post-grad jobs and a liberating summer that ended all too soon.  Countless late nights canoeing on Lake Winthrop with our Holliston friends and rain-soaked mountain climbs were ahead of us. Before all that began, Steph and I would make way for Arizona.

In the months leading up to our trip, I had been pouring over a map of Arizona I'd received from the K's for Christmas. Putting together a list of fascinating places that I would likely never see (they were most always on reservation land and no pale face would drive me there), I had doubtlessly been irritating Steph with all the places we would go.
"Why can't we go to Antelope Canyon?"
"Why can't we go to Organ Pipe?"
"Why can't we climb the San Fransisco Mountains?"

Too far. Too hot. Too hard.

But fret not! I was told. Arizona is yet a land of mystery and adventure, and you shall enjoy it yet. Steph's folks informed us that they had secured a cabin for a few days up in Forest Lakes near the Mogollon Rim, part of the Tonto National Forest. Our job was to fill up the rest of our trip.

May finally came and our release from the bonds of higher education was granted. Within a few days of commencement, Steph and I boarded a late flight from Boston to Phoenix (by way of Memphis. Did you know you can smoke in that airport?). I had just seen the K's a week before, so there was no anxiety about meeting them this time. They took us back to the house, where we enjoyed tostadas and some tequila before slinking off to sleep.

With her parents at work and her brother at school, Steph decided our first day back in town would be action-packed, filled with fun, easy activities that we might not have time for upon our return from Forest Lakes. Our first stop was to the Phoenix Zoo, where we would watch exotic animals succumb to the heat while we enjoyed snow cones (aren't zoos just the cruelest?). We then ventured to the conveniently-located Desert Botanical Gardens -- we didn't even need to change parking lots. The open air was hot, and we hustled through the winding trails, lined with cacti and other prickly plants. Steph was ready to go home, but I insisted we explore a strange formation of large, red rocks that stood out against the tan and green surroundings of the valley: Papago Park.

The bulbous red mound stood in front of us, pock-marked and hazy in the afternoon sun. Sweaty, we made our way up the winding path, past jagged boulders that contrasted next to the smooth monolith ahead. Something darted across the path: a large lizard. With its charcoal head and cayenne body, I instantly recognized this critter as one of my favorite reptiles, a chuckwalla -- an animal I never thought I'd see in the wild. Without much thought, I darted off the trail and started chasing the lizard from rock to rock. It took a sudden turn and I lost it, but not before I spotted another unsuspecting chuckwalla basking on a nearby rock. I took off after it. After a few moments chase and some protests from Miss Steph, I found the lizard stopped at the entrance to a hole, staring at me defiantly. I took one more step and it disappeared into the hole. I peered in and could make out the glint of its eye in the dark. I reached in to give it a poke (all I wanted to do was touch it real quick) and noticed that it was cemented to the rock. The chuckwalla's main defense is to tuck itself into rock crags and fill its body cavity with air, making it nearly impossible to remove from its position. The Hopi had a countermeasure for this: poke them with a pointed stick to pop them. This seemed like a cruel idea, and I was without a pointed stick, so I hopped back to Steph and we continued up the path.

At the terminus of the trail, there was a large hole in the rock. Entering it, we were met with a refreshing breeze from the valley below and a view of the city beyond. We sat their for a while, cooling down and taking in the vista, before heading back to Scottsdale. Later that night, Steph's friend Dane called us up and requested that we join him for a few PBRs at a friend's place in Tempe. I was excited to meet Dane and we obliged him. We were surprised to find that this was not a small gathering, but rather an ASU party (not that this persuaded us to leave). What we witnessed there was a slew of cliche college party hijinx that don't necessarily fit in with the spirit of this blog, so just use your imagination. The police were called and we moved from house to house until Steph and I decided to call it a night. We drove home under the dark sky and I watched silhouetted palm trees blur past our car. 

Waking early the next day, we packed the K's Suburban, loaded ATVs onto the trailer, and made our way north on the 87 towards Payson, and Forest Lakes beyond. The sandy mountains brimmed with towering Saguaro cacti and creosote plants. The occasional dirt road along the side of the highway lead to small, secluded homes. Vultures soared on the summer thermals above as Steph and I listened to Neko Case's Fox Confessor Brings the Flood on shared earphones (great tunes for desert driving, I must add). Coming out of the Mazatzal Mountains, the highway snaked down into the valley before us. Legions of ATV- and dirt bike-toting SUVs crept ahead of us, all leaving the summer heat of Phoenix for the cooler air of Central Arizona.

Less than an hour after passing through the dismal town of Payson, we pulled up to the cabin. It was a neat, two-story house with a wrap-around porch, surrounded by tall pinyon pines; there was even a tire swing out back. After unloading the car, we hopped on the ATVs and kicked up dust on the dry dirt road on our way to meet up with Mr. K's friends Fritz and Dave, who were also in Forest Lakes a the time. When we arrived at Fritz's A-frame cabin, he, Dave and others were sitting on lawn chairs around a tame campfire. Fritz and Dave were a jolly pair, the latter sporting a goatee and both showing evidence of a lifelong love of beer. Dressed in golf shirts, jean shorts and baseball caps, Fritz and Dave revisited stories with Mr. K: exes, hunting trips, college parties and excursions to Kansas smuggle Coors beer back to college kids in their homestate of Iowa.  Listening in to these stories of times past, I took off my shoes and socks and felt the blanket of dried pine needles crunch under my bare feet. The cool air smelt of rich pinyon and smoke, and I watched blue-black pinyon jays dart between tree branches. Off in the woods, crows belted out their local calls and the hum of off-road vehicles reverberated through the trees. After a couple Bud Lights, Steph and I hopped onto the ATVs to explore the forest settlement. Before leaving, Mr. K hustled over to us and loaded up the ATV pouches with a few cold ones, in case we were gone awhile and got thirsty (Bud Light is essentially water anyway).

Zipping down dirt roads past cabins both quaint and grand, we rolled down a steep hill and came to a wide opening with several pools in the center. We drove to the farthest and largest of the ponds and sat on its banks, enjoying a thirst-quenching beverage. The calm, translucent water looked inviting, so we stuck out feet in. Off-road vehicles buzzed past and we watched raptors glide in the cloudless blue above. The afternoon was passing, so we hopped back on the quads and made way for the A-frame, where we were met with the mouth-watering smell of smoked meat, baked beans and potato salad. As the sun set and our bellies filled with smokey food, Steph, her brother Matt and I made plans to head back to the cabin for card games and a night cap.

Back in the cabin, we were exploring closets and drawers for a full deck when I happened across a breach-loading .22 rifle. I was examining this derelict piece when a curious Matt snatched the rifle out of my hands, accidentally pointing the barrel in my face. With a stern shout and a quick hand, I retrieved the gun and checked the breach. It was -- thankfully -- unloaded and we decided it would be wise to return it to the closet and commence a game of cards. Mr. and Mrs. K returned some time later and joined in our merriment before we all headed off to bed.

The next day, we made way for the Rim. A short walk from the parking lot, we came to a viewing area, where like-minded tourists sat perched on large sandstone slabs, taking in the astounding view before us. The ledge of the Mogollon Rim dropped some 2,000 feet to the evergreen forests of Tonto below, and beyond that, the glint of buildings in Payson could be seen surrounded by Arizona's tortured landscape. A warm breeze brought the smell of pine and dust up from the valley below, and I stood on the edge, basking in the radiant heat.

From the Rim, we traveled down the road to Willow Spring Lake. When we arrived, the park was bustling. Small motor boats and canoes made their way around the lake, casting fishing lines into the blue-green water, while hikers explored the shoreline. We made our way around a lake on a small trail, spotting lizards and a harmless snake or two along the path. When we came to a part of the trail that stood over the lake surface some thirty feet up, we found a park ranger standing next to a telescope. She beckoned us over and told us to look into the scope. Peering through, we were greeted with the magnified view of a bald eagle's nest. The bold, white head and golden beak of the mother were visible above the brim of the nest and one could almost make out the gray fuzz of the eaglets. After a few minutes admiring the grand bird and her offspring, we left the site so others could enjoy the view. Closing in on the end of the trail, we found a detour sign; the location of the highly protected bald eagle must be kept secret, therefore trails must be diverted to keep prying eyes from finding their nests. ("The State is keeping secrets from the public!" Some Arizonan taxpayer might protest.) The trail took us up a steep hill and into a hot, grassy opening. Before the heat could get the best of us, we arrived back at the parking lot. We asked a few fishermen if they'd had any luck (they hadn't) and we left for Forest Lakes.

After playing on the tire swing behind the cabin for a while, Miss Steph and I took the ATVs down to the ponds we had been at the day before. Today, there were a few kids throwing rocks into the water, while others fished nearby. I was hot and decided to hop in the water. It was cool, clear and not mirky, like much of the fresh water back east (dare I invoke lyrics of the Standells?), so swimming in the pond seemed like a fine idea. I waded in, watching sunfish dart away from my feet, before submerging my whole body.  My yankee sensibilities seemed lost on the nearby Arizonans, who stared at me as though I was running around naked. Self-conscious, I climbed out and dried off before we headed back to the cabin for another night of fireside food and beer.

The following day -- Sunday -- we headed back to Scottsdale, where we would spend the rest of the day relaxing by the poolside under the noticeably hotter sun. Steph and I planned out the following day, where we would make a second attempt at hiking in Sedona.

Our plan was similar to the previous year's misadventure, but this time we'd pull it off! We intended to hit several short hikes, making the most of our time in Sedona. We'd charted out a few mile to two-mile-long hikes, along with directions to the trail heads. Traveling past the town, down 89A, we drove through oak and cottonwood groves along trickling riverbeds and past open fields of mesquite, prickly pear, ocotillo, agave and palo verde. Soon, sheer red rock faces towered over us on each side, and we spotted the parking lot for the West Fork Oak Creek Canyon trail. We reread the description: it was a three-mile round trip, mostly flat with a steep scramble at the end. Although Steph was not looking forward to the scramble, the short distance of the hike seemed to even things out. We made our way up the dusty trail with nothing but a multi-tool and a backpack holding 2 water bottles, some pb&j sandwiches and an Audubon reptile guide book (never leave home without it).

The day was passing slowly and we seemed to be making no progress. Stopping to escape the heat under the occasional juniper tree, we'd ask returning hikers if we were far from the end. They would announce encouragingly that we were "almost there!" It was not until after we finished the hike that I realized what had happened. These hikers had seen the two of us with minimal gear, asking if we were almost done yet. They had figured that we were tired and in need of confidence -- not that we were confused and thought that the trail was only 3 miles -- so they told us we were nearly done, as I have told many tired hikers who appeared unable to complete a trail. So it goes.

As the cliff walls closed in on us, the underbrush disappeared and was replaced with pine trees and oak. We'd escaped the heat of the sun, but were running low on water (we had been drinking water quickly, thinking the hike was short). I picked up a small pebble from a dried stream bed and put it in my mouth, giving my share of water to Steph. Before long, we noticed a large, bald rock dome peering through the treetops. The trail suddenly took a sharp right and ascended up a steep rock scramble. Steph was spent and did not want to venture up the quarter mile of rocky trail, but I insisted that the whole hike would be for naught if she didn't see the view at the end. Not only would it have been a waste of her time, but I would not leave her alone at the bottom of the trail and would also miss the vista at the end, thereby becoming grumpy and unpleasant to be around. My sound reasoning swayed her, and she started up the trail.

It took a fair twenty minutes to cover that last quarter-mile. Wet with sweat and red in the face, we finally came to the bald rock face, were several hikers had stopped to enjoy lunch. The canyon zigged south from where we stood and then took a sharp zag to the west, giving the appearance that we were at the end of the canyon. We stared down the long length of the canyon. The green of the forest at the base of the canyon contrasted from the rusty rock faces of the walls. We spotted caves and ancient Indian dwellings along the sheer canyon face and wondered how anything could get up into them. We finished our lunch and made our way back to the trail. Before we left, I collected a few prickly pear cactus pads with my multi-tool, cut off the spines, and split them open to drink the sour juices inside; we were almost out of water and had a long way back.

We walked out of the canyon in a daze, not taking time to notice lizards or cactus flowers. It was well into the 90s. When we arrived back in the parking lot, we were long out of water and most of the afternoon had passed us by. We asked someone behind us how long the trail was really. Seven miles, round trip. Only slightly longer than the 3 miles the website claimed, I joked to Steph. It was not funny.

We raced into town, bought a gallon of water for each of us, and started chugging. I changed out of my sweaty shirt and we spent the rest of the day walking around downtown Sedona, window shopping and drinking sarsaparilla. The sky turned crimson and we decided to get our glut on at the Red Planet Diner (where else?). Laughing at the cheesy extra-terrestrial knickknacks, we enjoyed a pair of Rubens and milk shakes before heading back to Scottsdale for our final few, uneventful days in Arizona.

Call me a fool, but maybe next time we're in Sedona we'll have better luck. What's that saying about fool me twice?

Photos: Mogollon Rim panorama composite; View of Phoenix from Papago Park; Pond at Forest Lakes; West Fork Oak Creek Canyon wall; Poster at Red Planet Diner

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