devil's race course

I managed to find the treasure I had been hunting for months. I started my hike from the A.T. crossing on Route 325 Clarks Valley Rd. I hiked north for 2.8 miles up stony mountain to the western terminus of the Horse-shoe trail. The Horse-shoe trail is a hoof and foot path stretching 121 miles or so to Valley Forge. I wasn't exactly prepared for the hike, having just stopped in passing. My black jacket resembled that of a black bear, or at least more closely than I would like during hunting season. At least rifle season didn't open for 3 days after the fact. Up the mountain, my mind shifted to my second day on the trail. Walking up this section of the trail, I was singing Neil Young to myself in the pouring rain. The trail passes a seep full of iron precipitate that I plan on revisiting for work purposes pertaining to work.

At the junction on top of Stony Mountain, I made the decision to walk on for 1/4 mile at the most. Any further and I would be sure to get myself into a spot I didn't want to be in. 1/4 mile had come and gone fairly quickly moving down the mountain, and I knew I wouldn't be able to turn around. I was reading a topographical map in my head. One that I had memorized for this situation. I believe its third mountain and Stony Mountain that split and devil's race course enters from the west, at its confluence with Rattling Run. I've asked around and haven't gotten a clear answer as to where to access Devil's Race course. The name alone intrigues me and I've been looking at aerials trying to plan a route.

The H-S trail split off to the left at one point down in the valley and a logging road possibly named Rattling Run trail gradually climbed third mountain. I could see through the bare trees into what I knew, without a doubt, was what I was looking for. The uncertainty was where to turn in. I kept hiking on the gravel road parallel to the race course, thinking I might come upon a trail leading into it. After 10 minutes of the tease I bushwacked into an enormous boulder field stretching from west to east and gradually turning down the contour of the valley, just like the picture in my head. Each boulder was 3 to 4 feet on either of its axes, with water rushing far beneath the surface. I dropped a pebble down the cracks to see how long it took to reach the water, and it clinked around for longer than I expected. The only thing left to do was enjoy the treasure that I had stumbled upon. I rock hopped as far west as I could go until the trees surrounded the now visible headwaters of Devil's Race course. Having gone west on the boulder field, I knew all I had to do was traverse the ridge to the north to get back to the A.T. and my car. This time of year, with little undergrowth, the task was easily accomplished, spitting me back out at the iron seep. A four hour detour couldn't have gone more smoothly.

Parisian Hiking

I spent my first day in Paris getting my bearings by walking instead of using the Metro. Carrying a 40 lb. pack, I figured I was ready for any of the recent ideas going through the heads of Lindsay and I, whether it was Norway’s arctic circle, the Alps, or Corsican beaches and mountain hiking.

I arrived on a red eye from JFK to the Parisian streets uncharted to me. Soaking in the architecture, culture, and beautiful people, I set out on foot to paint a picture in my head of the city’s neighborhoods. My Lonely Planet informed me that there was one, and only one location where camping is permitted within the city’s limits. Walking Northwest on Champs Elyses, I imagined this year’s finish to come of the Tour de France, winner sipping his champagne riding past the Arc de Triumphe. The directions took me through du Bois de Boulogne, which without my knowing beforehand, was frequented by prostitutes whistling in my direction. I watched couples upon couples entering the woods by way of the trail system. The description I had was a beautiful campsite filled with 400 tents along the Seine River.

By 11:00 the sun was setting into night and I had yet to find the legitimate campsite. Although the setting wasn’t my ideal camping setting, I was happy to have the opportunity in Paris of all places. Never finding the site, I set out to find another spot in the parc that was preferably not scoured with prostitute tp. After a few attempts of cowboying under bushes, I decided to walk around and enjoy city’s late night crowds. As the night grew longer, I began to feel an uncomfortable comfort given by the city. My old North Philly neighborhood may have left a bad taste in my mouth, but the increasing number of late nighters napping on benches was like holding my boo boo bear as a child. I decided to find a spot by Gare de Norde since I was scheduled for a train to Amsterdam at 7:25. I managed to find a spot away from the large crowd sleeping around the perimeter of the station that only had a hint of urine and slept in my liner tucked into the side of a building.

hike naked day (summer solstice>

To properly celebrate the reason for the season Big Bird, Chitlin', and I went for an evening hike on the Appalachian Trail.  Swatara Gap is located 8 miles from where I grew up, North on Rt. 72.  Last time I was out there I was finishing up my 3rd day out of 14o odd days between Georgia and Maine.  Without much of a plan and no one to share it with, I met Woofman Mr. J and Nomad6.  They were camping in Lickdale  and I was craving a beer so I joined them, oddly close to my parents home.  

This time around, I had a specific plan.  One that showed me how much I have grown up after 5 months in the "wilderness", and a few more earning a living.  The three of us planned on taking part in the annual naked hike.  We stripped down on the blue-blaze trail leading to Lickdale, just left of the Walking Bridge over the Swatara Creek, or River depending who you ask.  We decided to keep boots and belts on for the hike.  The boots would protect our dog pads and belts would allow for a quick loin hanger incase children wandered by, which was quite possible considering it was a Sunday evening and Father's Day.  The feeling is like no other.  Walking, jogging, sitting, laying, doing anything naked is more enjoyable than the restrictions of society.  We ran through the ferns, along the trail that was now a stream of runoff, over the top of the blue mountain ridge, and back down from where we started.  Occasionally a goose call, monkey yell, or stereotypical western movie indian yell would cut through the soft brushing of sweaty leg and taint hair.  

As for fellow naked passers-by, there were unfortunately none.  Although we did cross paths with a dad and three boys about the age of 11.  Whispering and giggling was all we heard as we greeted them kindly.  As they passed and saw our lack of cover in the back, the kids pointed and laughed.  Luckily, the father was digging our humor.  As we hiked back to the Swaty, We decided to attempt fording the river (creek).  Days like this one, after a week of rain, I may have agreed with miss Jo Ellen Litz.  Big Bird and Chitlin' got swept down stream as I watched from a pool waist deep, camera in hand.  Instead of risking the camera, I walked back over the bridge in time to pass a couple in their 50's.  They were out birding after vespa ride, and must have enjoyed the view as I walked in front of mom's binoculars.