Shamrocketship

Bears! Oh My!

No need to add lions and tigers to that.  Take a look at the little fellow who visited my sister's campsite (here in NJ) recently while they were having lunch.  He left coldcuts and pasta salad untouched but took off with a box of animal crackers.  A bit cannibalistic, eh?

 

Adjusting

It is so very hard returning from that trip each time I get to go there.  I've been to many other places, but none has ever affected me the same way.  Part of it is the geography, because I love trees and I love the ocean and almost everywhere up there you can stand in a spot that lets you smell warm balsam  needles in one nostril and seaweed in the other. 

The people are another matter.  Not all of them cozy to tourists easily, but if you can manage to really pay attention to them and not just toss your money for souveniers at them, they might give you back treasures that no dollars can buy.  Like songs about the fog and purple fish, and pen & ink drawings of schooners and buoys, or of their own magical shop with the irrisistable arch. 

There's no pretentiousness and no one who needs impressing.  It's a gritty, blue-collar place with a few accommodations for visitors.  I don't normally wear much makeup, a little shadow and mascara work for me, but by midweek I've stopped wearing even those.  I look better, though, having traded for a decent tan and a rested look, thanks to a few days and nights breathing salt air. 

Funny thing:  even the seagulls up there look better than ours.  They are cleaner, whiter, and just overall healthier looking.  I really believe most of that has to do with the abundance of fresh, natural food for them, instead of the McDonald's fries, Dunkin' Donuts and Pepperidge Farm goldfish the gulls here seem to prefer. 

So yeah, It's not a glamorous place. It's not touristy, it's not even sunny most of the time - fog is more typical.  Still, I love it no matter what the weather, and I hate leaving no matter how long I've stayed.  But as is typical for me, once I know the leaving has to be done, I need to do it right quick.  B, the host, knows this and over the years he's adapted his farewell to something short enough that I can bear to go through with it instead of just leaving the key in the room and sneaking off.  Usually goes like this:

B:  Dja have a good time?

L.  Yeah, as usual.   I swear I'm gonna come back in some other season to see what it's like.

B.  You should really do that.

L.  I know. Maybe October this year. 

/Quick hug/

B. Keep in touch. 

L. Yup. 

And I'm wearing sunglasses so no tears are visible, but my chin doesn't hold steady and it gives me away. B makes it easier by waving casually and going off to water the flowers or something else to end the moment.

I remember once, maybe my second time up there, and I had just discovered the huge lily pond that blooms pink and white all summer.  I was looking at it in awe, and there was an older woman standing on the shore not far from me who had a huge smile on her face while she took in the same view. We were the only people there, and she also had Jersey plates on her car so it was easy to strike up a conversation. 

L. Where in Jersey are you from?

Her: Well, I was from Jersey, but not any more.  I moved here last week.   And I've been waiting forty years to say that. 

L.  Forty years?

Her:  It's been forty years since I first came here, and every time I came I said I wanted to live here some day and it's finally happened.   

L.  Then the rest of us can still hope, eh?

And she smiled at that. 

I really hope I can be on her end of a similar conversation some day. 

Your call cannot be completed as dialed. Please check the number . . .

In general, not a great day for pictures.  Too hazy, light very flat.  But never a total loss here. 

Busy Signal

"It's a lighthearted interpretation of the old theme, designed for good times."

Well I was putting together a substantial post about music, but somehow I got distracted.  VERY distracted.

How's this for a vacation idea? 

• 14 bedrooms
• 14 baths
• two kitchens
• a ballroom
• a party wing (PARTY WING?)
• a pub
• a croquet lawn
• a helipad
• a pool and a pond (a pond would be good for you). 
• a Buddha statute.

Anyone interested? 

I call the Italian Bedroom.   

Trail Tales

Pretty much all I can say today is OW. 

Here's the end result on the trail map.  
About 10.5 miles altogether.

From the beginning, there were signs it could be a difficult day.  That was where we were headed, to start, and the path corresponds with section "A" on the map above.

And apparently they allow shooting of hikers on this first trail?  Here's the trailhead looking innocent enough: But the Tammany "Red Dot" trail is notoriously steep with a section of pure uphill rock.  Here's some proof we made it to the top and that I didn't go it alone as a few people worried.  I brought the Marines.

Those four shots were taken roughly at Point B.

That long straight flat stretch marked "C was deceptive.  We thought it would be an easy trip along the ridge to the Turquoise Trail, but it was harder than expected.  Hot - in the 80's, and full sun, no breeze.  Here's one shot taken along that portion: By the time we got to the turnoff, we were pretty whooped and looking forward to a long lunch break.

We renamed the Turquoise Trail the TurquoiseTorture (D).  By itself, it would have been easy, and indeed the first half, a descent down to a little brook, was.  But the second half was a steep incline, and we were really tired.  We eventually made it to the shore of Sunfish Pond (Point E) and stopped for a good 45 minutes to eat, hydrate, and rest. 

The Green Trail heading back started out brutally.  About a 400' descent over 1/3 mile, on a loose rock surface (F).  My knees are not happy today, and that part is the reason.  We didn't speak of it at the time, but later when Sparky and I compared notes, we realized we had both been very concerned about this section.   We were still a good 4 miles from the parking lot, and that would be a helluva long way to go with a sprained (or broken) ankle.   

But we made it down to the Dunnfield Creek portion (G).  Just hearing the water immediately gave me more energy. 

About a mile from the end of the trail, we spotted a group of about 10 teenaged boys "camped" on the side of the stream (H) with folding lawn chairs and plastic garbage bags full of "provisions." Unfortunately for them, someone had reported them to the authorities.  There was already one state trooper there evicting them.  We passed another trooper further down the trail, and then two park rangers.  We stopped shortly after that to take pictures (here's one)

and a few seconds later we got to watch the procession of boys and their possessions (including the garbage bags loaded with empty beer cans) being marched down the trail for an inspection and probable eventual trip to the police station.

Anyhoo, it was a full eight-hour day, and we'd used up all our water, so as soon as we found a place that looked promising, we stopped for beverages. PJs had the best damned raspberry iced tea I have ever tasted in my entire life.

PJs was across the highway from this place where we didn't stop, but I liked their sign:

In case you think NJ is NJ is NJ, I am here to tell you it is not.  Of course you already know there's a north Jersey, and a south Jersey.  And there's definitely a Jersey Shore.  Whether there's a central Jersey is very debateable, although I'm a firm believer (and resident) of it.  But there is also very definitely a unique northWEST Jersey and it is about as close to West Virginia as you will experience north of . . . West Virginia.  Very rednecky.  We saw quite a few interesting things on the route:

We also saw a life-sized Jesus hanging on a cross right there at the side of the road, but I wasn't fast enough to get a picture of that one, and it didn't seem proper to turn the car around for that purpose. 

It's always a treat to see that this place is still open and as popular as always:

 

Located in:   Natch.

Finally, we got back into our own neck of the woods and stopped at a Chili's for some nachos and Petron Tequila Shots for the Soles
(and yes, those that know Riss' site can groan at that bad pun).

My boots are going to enjoy at least the next week off and because I didn't reduce the size of these shots by much, they're going to take forever to upload so I'm going to hit the button now and I'll see you Monday, OK?

Hike!

About a year ago, I optimistically bought a whole new collection of trail maps for major hiking areas within two hours of home.  That'd be mostly up in the Water Gap, or Harriman/Bear Mountain up in NY.  It had been about ten years since I bought my first set, and they can get dangerously out-of-date within a few years. 

Things didn't work out last year, though.  My back wasn't anywhere near the level of readiness my brain was, in terms of being able to hit the trails again.  This year's a different story, and I can't tell you how incredibly happy that makes me.  Knowing there's a free day this weekend, I've been poring over the maps since Tuesday night and decided on the Water Gap for this trip.

For those of you not from the area, the views from the top of Mt. Tammany (which will be just one part of the day's efforts) look like this:

 

And yes those pictures were totally swiped off Google images, but I'll post my own versions on Sunday. 

Rest of the Museum Pictures

Click here, or on the AMNH thumbnail on the right or go to Flickr.  There are quite a few more than the original set, but none I like as much.  Flickr slideshow looks best, if you ask me. 

Note to Theresa:  It's a numbers game for me.  Take tons of pictures, and 5 or 6 will come out decent.  (And why isn't your url working?) 

This Week's Best BS*

*Bumper Stickers

I drive in excess of 700 miles in a typical week so I see a lot of things on cars.  And in cars but that's a whole different topic.

This week's best, both seen today: 

A lovely chrome Flying Spaghetti Monster.  Never saw one "live" before. 

And this other first-timer (for me).

Both cracked me up.  Does this mean the conservative spell is over? 

Rock 'n Roll, or Vacation Memories - Part 2

It's a wonder there are any left at all.

That's what I always think about the rocks at my feet when I stand on the beach of that brook I mentioned in the last post.  It's not a big beach. Maybe a forty- or fifty-foot stretch lengthwise.  And from the point where you exit the dark path in the pine trees out onto the beach, it's only ten or twelve feet between you and the cold water.  That's the way it is during summers when the water's at a normal level.  This year we had maybe fifteen feet since it hasn't rained as much there as it has here in Jersey.  Last year? Different story.  There was barely any room for a towel, and the water was much too high and fast to dare swimming in.  I guess it's years like that that replenish the supply of rocks, the water being powerful enough to carry them from some source upstream.  Yes, on years when the strength of the water outweighs the rocks, you don't swim much. 

Otherwise?  I don't know how the rocks aren't all gone.  Because there is some type of unspoken tradition carried out year after year that should have emptied the beach long ago.  It is the dash down to the water as soon as you've unpacked the car, and the immediate search for a good rock to throw across the water, or skip on it, or just lob into the dark swirly middle of it to hear the familiar ploinky sound it makes.   Then you grab another one and do the same thing, and the kids are throwing theirs, only they have much more interest in this pastime, or stamina, and long after your elbow starts to get sore, they are still throwing them. Trying to hit the rope swing, or a designated tree on the opposite bank.   By the time they get tired of it, they've probably thrown a hundred rocks off that beach.  Inevitably, there will be several more rock-throwing sessions during the following six days we are there.

Our family has been doing this for a week each summer for the better part of forty years. Sometimes the youngest generation doesn't wait for the unpacking and makes a beeline for the beach the moment the car stops outside the cabin. And truthfully, sometimes the parents don't mind if the kids are off doing this instead of "helping" unpack; the fewer people going in and out of the cabin door means the less we'll hear the screen door slam in the middle of all that woodsy peace we have been craving for 51 weeks.   

Other families do the same, on the same beach, every year.  Many of them have been going as long as we have, some for longer.  Occasionally, you see some first-timers (and we do admit to feeling a bit smug about our greater experience there) but even the newbies somehow find their way down to the water and engage in the ritual without ever having seen it before.  For a long time this surprised me, but I guess it is no different than moths being drawn to the light.  Have rocks, will throw, is pretty much the rule for kids and kids at heart.

So without doing any real math, there are probably thirty families each summer that toss rocks off that beach, and at a conservative one hundred rocks per family, I wonder every year why it isn't bare after one summer let alone forty. It should be as rock-free as an ocean sand beach.  But each summer, incredibly, there are enough rocks in all sizes and colors - tan, pink, grey, black, white, speckled and striped - for us to throw them into and across the water to our heart's content.  Or until our elbows and shoulders give out, which happens sooner each year for me. 

If the history of the place we go is any indication, chances are good I'll still be going there for many more years.  I'll probably get to a point in the not-distant future when I'll look for one of the smaller rocks on the beach, and - no longer sure of being able to overhand it all the way across - just toss it into the water nearby to watch the ripples.  Maybe try to skip one a few times.  Hopefully, my then-grown children will be nearby tossing a few also, still easily hitting the trees across the water.  They may even be shepherding the next generation of the family down to the same beach to do the same thing.  That's kind of hard, but not impossible, to imagine.  I am sure, though, that the ritual will continue.  Whoever is there, we will drive in to the cabin, unpack, head down to the water, and throw rocks.

And even after the reassurance that should come from forty years' worth of a steady supply, I will never stop being amazed that there are any rocks left at all.