Posts tagged ‘hiking’
There are quite a few more chapters of my memoir I want to share. Along with those posts I will occasionally post opinions, websites and the occasional story to provide some variety. I hope you will find this mixture interesting and worthy of your attention.
ESCAPE FROM THE CITY
As a youngster I was a member of scouts for years, going from Cub Scout to Boy Scout and on to Explorer. Along the way I earned an Eagle Award and learned and explored many things a city boy would not normally encounter. One of the activities I enjoyed the most was the opportunity to go camping.
An hour’s drive northwest of Newark was a Boy Scout campground near Booton, New Jersey. My troop would camp there several times a year, mostly in the winter. Cabins of various sizes dotted the campground. The only source of heat was a fireplace, and cooking was done on a wood-burning stove. One winter, the weather was so cold that the pipes to the old hand pump burst, and we had to melt ice for water. It seemed the harsher the conditions; the more we enjoyed the outing. City boys were facing nature head on.
The camping trips were formal outings organized by troops. The less formal day hikes to the local Boy Scout area located in the South Orange Mountain Reservation, would be organized spontaneously, when a group of us were just hanging around with nothing to do. For a group of boys ranging from maybe eleven to thirteen, these trips were a real adventure. The beauty of these outings was that the city bus could take us to the base of the mountain. No adult input was required, once permission to go was obtained.
We usually caught the bus fairly early in the morning because once we arrived at the base of the mountain; it was at least an hour’s walk up the mountain to the Boy Scout area. Sitting amongst commuters going to work or out to do some shopping, we were ladened with packs and canteens and any other camping paraphernalia we thought we might need. We rode through the Newark downtown area, then north through some of the blighted areas of the city, and finally on to the more affluent suburbs. The bus would leave us in the shopping district of South Orange, where we would start to trudge up the hill to what us city boys considered wilderness. We hiked past stately homes with manicured lawns, a far cry from our homes in Newark. Finally, the houses were replaced with trees and the sidewalks with a dirt shoulder – we were almost there.
Our destination lay down on a dirt road branching from the main highway. The area was large and open, set aside where scouts could build fires and cook their meals. Across a stream bordering the area and up into the trees, stood a few cabins for weekend trips. The day hike area was also supplied with a generous amount of wood provided by work crews trimming trees. For a bunch of boys who thought starting a charcoal fire by themselves was an adventure – this was nirvana.
Everyone’s lunch usually consisted of hot dogs and foil-wrapped potatoes and onions. The fire built to prepare these meager meals was immense to say the least. Once everyone tired of throwing on wood, we had a fire too hot to approach to do any cooking. Either you waited for the flames to die down or had to find a very long stick to cook our hot dogs.
Late afternoon we found us journeying down the mountain to catch the bus home. People on the bus would stare at us because we smelled of smoke on our ride home to Newark.
September 23, 2025 at 3:41 pm
The Legend of French Creek was accepted for publication by Necrology Shorts in January,2010.
I enjoy writing stories using actual locations. French Creek and Ricketts Glen are both fantastic state parks in Pennsylvania. Since I write mostly horror I imagine, even though it’s fiction, that the story might provide a bit of a chill to nearby residents of these locations.
The trail mentioned as being in French Creek exists as does the remains of a structure next to the trail.
Unfortunately, our dog, Millie, no longer exists but she did go camping with us on the camping trip used in this story. I miss her.
The Legend
of
French Creek
In southeastern Pennsylvania, the small towns yield to a rural countryside. Heavily timbered, with a sense of remoteness, the area has always been one of legend and mystery. The story you’re about to read is one of the legends generated by this atmosphere. For those curious enough to seek out the location of this tale, the signposts are in the story. A map of French Creek State Park is all you need.
* * *
My name is Will Trizma, and like most writers of the macabre, I am constantly on the look-out for material to weave into a piece of horror, spending time driving down back roads seeking scenes and atmosphere for my stories.
One warm October day, with the foliage a kaleidoscope of rich color, I went for a drive and chanced upon what I thought was a goldmine, but now I’m of a different mind. But, as you can see, a story was created.
My wife, Joan, and I were about to go camping at French Creek State Park on Halloween night. Our dog, Millie, would join us. Her disposition is gentle, but she is always aware of strangers or something out of the ordinary.
Joan was a high school teacher and gone most of the day. I spend my days at home writing. But when my muse fails, I drive the rural roads taking notes on settings that I may be able to use in a story. It was one such drive that inspired the tale you are reading.
I was driving along highway 23, just east of Elverson, when I saw a roadside store I just had to explore. It was a small building, faded white in color, and above the door was a sign proclaiming, General Store, in equally faded gold letters with a green background, looking like something out of the 1950’s. I parked in the small, graveled lot. Along one side of the store was a good-sized garden with the last tomatoes and peppers of the season. A series of vines snaked through the garden with butternut squash waiting for the first frost of fall to turn them into a golden brown. I smiled, thinking that the bounty of this garden was the source for produce for sale in the store I was about to enter.
I climbed two well-worn stairs and entered an earlier era. Behind two rows of fully stocked shelves was the counter, and behind the counter stood a man who had to be eighty if he was a day. He called out, “Hello, young fella. What can I get for you?”
November 21, 2024 at 12:47 pm
CAT’S EYES, PART VII
The time came for the bandages to be removed. Joe was full of anticipation. After the long period of having his eyes bandaged, he came to realize what being blind would be like. How going from seeing to not seeing changes your life. Dr. Glassy said, “We’ll be removing your bandages now. Do not open your eyes until I tell you to. After we remove the bandages, I want you to look down and remain looking down. I want to make sure the muscles are firmly attached. The room will be in total darkness. I don’t want to expose your new eyes to harsh light.”
“I understand,” responded Joe, anxious to experience how his new eyes would function.
He could feel the bandages being unwound from his head, and then thick gauze being removed from his eyes.
“All right, Joe. Slowly open your eyes.”
Joe did as he was told, keeping his eyes down. “I thought you said the room would be dark,” his voice full of anticipation.
“Joe,” Dr. Glassy said in a rush of excitement, “This room is pitch black. I cannot see you!”
With a quivering voice, Joe said, “But doctor, I can clearly see the floor, my legs. The light is dim, but I can see.”
Dr. Glassy, almost shouting, said, “Joe, I think the surgery was a success. Keep looking down, and slowly move your eyes from side to side.”
Joe did as he was told. “I have no trouble moving my eyes,” he said. It felt no different than when he still had his eyes, his human eyes.
“Is there any pain?”
“None.”
“Okay, Joe, we’re going to slowly increase the light. Tell me if you feel any discomfort.”
The light level was slowly raised to that of normal.
Joe said, “I have no problem. I see clearly. Especially objects which are close.”
“Great, Joe. Keep your eyes down. I’m going to show you a series of colored dots. Tell me what colors you see.” As expected, Joe could see only purple, blue and green. With that test concluded, Dr. Glassy said, “Now, Joe, look up at me.”
November 16, 2024 at 1:47 pm
This story was published by Necrology Shorts in January 2010.
THE HORROR AT LAKE HARMONY
I carefully closed the book and felt a shiver as I recalled some newspaper accounts of horrible occurrences that happened at Lake Harmony remembering that they took place at four year intervals.
* * *
The latest incident occurred on June 12, 1998. A group of four friends came to the campsite where we enjoyed camping. Pitching their tent, they settled in for a few days of hiking and fishing. It was reported that they were to leave the morning of June 13. The morning of June 13 arrived and the surrounding campsites awoke to find that site 35 was empty. The men were gone, along with their belongings. They were never seen again. They had disappeared with no word to their family or friends. I remembered in the article about the fishermen, an earlier incident was mentioned of a horrifying occurrence that had never been solved.
It was June 12, 1994. A family of four, a mom, dad and two young sons were camping at site 34. On the morning of their departure, no one stirred. Finally, the time to vacate the site arrived and their tent was still standing with all their gear spread around the campsite. A ranger stopped at the campsite and called out, “Time to pack-up and leave”. There was no response. He shouted that he was opening the tent and did so. The poor fellow lost his mind with the sight that greeted him. The mother and boys were there, murdered and horribly mutilated. The father was gone and suspected of the crimes. He was never found.
May 28, 2024 at 12:32 pm
THE DISCOVERY
John and Paul had hiked the Alps of Switzerland for most of their lives. Friends in England since their youth, they both chose to seek employment in Switzerland to be near the mountains they loved. Both enjoyed the solitude, hiking the mountains high above the point where novice hikers would stop. As they hiked that June day, they would have an experience they would never forget, an experience that would alter mankind’s perception of his place on this planet.
While on the lower levels of the Alps, they drank in the fragrance of the sentinel pine. And as the winter ice retreated, they had to climb higher and higher to enjoy the solitude they cherished. This June day, they hiked into an ice-shrouded valley that was new to them. Paul was the first to notice a dark mass protruding from the ice halfway up the valley wall. It stood out black against the pristine ice.
“Do you see that, John?” Paul pointed. “I’m going to check it out.”
As Paul approached, a slight wind ruffled Paul’s quarry.
“John, come up here! It’s hair.”
The two men approached. They could make out a shape in the ice beneath the hair. They peered into the ice, and both came to the same conclusion. Buried in the ice was the body of a man.
* * *
The two police officers responding to the Englishmen’s call were used to this sort of thing. Hikers were often lost in the Alps. When egos outdistanced skill and training, along with a lack of preparation, the results were often disastrous. And when the weather became unforgiving, they weren’t found until the first thaw. The two officers worked to reveal more of the body by chipping away some of the ice. The face was revealed along with other details. The more ice they cleared from the body, the more both men knew they were not uncovering an ordinary hiker.
“We had better place guards and call the university in Zurich.”
* * *
Dr. Hans Bueler looked down on the body. He could not hide his excitement. As he examined the corpse, he talked to the policemen protecting the site.
As his investigation proceeded, he said, “Gentlemen, I do not know if you appreciate the magnitude of this find. This is, by far, the greatest discovery in the study of our ancient ancestors to date. You will notice the prominent brow, wide nose and lack of chin. Also notice the muscular shoulders. I will require further study, but I am positive this is the body of a Neanderthal.
“I am sure you also have noticed the cause of death. I refer to the spear point protruding from this individual’s chest. Gentlemen, this is a crime scene, a murder. However, you will never apprehend the murderer, for this crime took place thousands and thousands of years ago.
February 9, 2024 at 3:05 pm
In the scouts for years, I journeyed from Cub Scout to Boy Scout to Explorer earning the Eagle Scout award along the way, learned and explored many things a city boy would not normally encounter. One of the activities I enjoyed the most was the opportunity to go camping.
An hour’s drive northwest of Newark, New Jersey near Boonton was a Boy Scout campground. My troop would camp there several times a year, mostly in the winter. Cabins of various sizes dotted the campground. The only source of heat was a fireplace at one end of the cabin and cooking was done on a wood-burning stove. One winter, we had to melt ice for water. The weather had been so cold that the pipes to the old hand pump had burst. It seemed the harsher the conditions; the more we enjoyed the outing. City boys were facing nature head on.
On my first experience camping at the campground, we boys were going to cook a spaghetti dinner for Saturday night. The scout master wasn’t there, and none of us had ever cooked spaghetti before, but that didn’t stop us. We filled a large pot with water, put in the pasta and set it on the wood-burning stove to cook. A couple hours later we had one large noodle. That’s how I learned you needed boiling water to cook pasta.
The camping trips were formal outings organized by the troop. The less formal day hikes to the local Boy Scout area located in the South Orange Mountain Reservation, would be organized spontaneously, when a group of us were just hanging around with nothing to do. For a group of boys ranging from maybe eleven to thirteen, these trips were a real adventure. The beauty of these outings was that the city bus could take us to the base of the mountains. No adult input was required, once permission to go was obtained.
We usually caught the bus fairly early in the morning because once we arrived at the base of the mountain; it was at least an hour walk to the Boy Scout area. Sitting amongst commuters going to work or out to do some shopping, laden with packs and canteens and any other camping paraphernalia we thought we might need, we proudly displayed our badge of ruggedness. We rode through the Newark downtown area, then north through some of the blighted areas of the city, and then on to the more affluent suburbs. The bus would leave us in the shopping district of South Orange, where we would start to trudge up the hill to what us city boys considered wilderness. We hiked past stately homes with manicured lawns, a far cry from our homes in Newark. Finally, the houses were replaced with trees and the sidewalks with a dirt shoulder – we were almost there.
Our destination lay down a dirt road branching from the main highway. The area was large and open, set aside for day-tripping scouts to build fires and cook their meals. Across a stream bordering the area and up into the trees stood a few cabins for weekend outings. The cooking area was supplied with a generous amount of wood provided by work crews maintaining the reserve. For a bunch of boys who thought starting a charcoal fire was an adventure – this was nirvana.
Lunch was usually hot dogs and foil-wrapped potatoes and onions. The fire built to prepare these meager meals was immense to say the least. On hot summer days, we built fires large enough to heat the whole area during the dead of winter. Once everyone tired of throwing on wood, we had a fire too hot to approach to do any cooking. Either you waited for the flames to die down or had to find a very long stick to cook your hot dogs.
After our meals were consumed and the fire extinguished (I won’t go into how we boys would sometime extinguish fires), we set off on our hike. The mountain reservation was extensive with a variety of trails we could wander. Some were relatively flat, along a streambed, while others were more strenuous. One hike we often took was up a steep hill with the final climb to the summit a rock face. A spectacular view awaited, a view city boys could appreciate. When we later returned to the Boy Scout area, we usually built another fire whether on not we had anything to cook. With everyone rested, we began our trek down the hill to catch the bus home. Somehow the walk down always seemed longer than the walk up. By now we were all grungy and reeked with the smell of smoke, but we always enjoyed each other’s company and the time we had in the woods. After once again walking through affluence, we boarded the bus and made our way past the slums of Newark and finally to our homes. I treasured these outings with friends and took comfort in the fact that the solitude of a forest was only a bus ride away.
July 7, 2014 at 6:20 pm
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