With some distance on it.pic.twitter.com/2ua9QGkxqq
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Here's a cellar hole in the town they dismantled to flood the Quabbin and make it a reservoir for Boston... that never happened.pic.twitter.com/PqJYK82ntq
The spot where Dr Armitage and company kill the Whateley creature "that looked more like its father" is called the Bear's Den, a gully that's difficult to photograph, but here's a few rocks in it.pic.twitter.com/T24BjhdHlb
There's a beehive hole nearby for hiding while hikers pass so you can cannibalize them later. Outside.... and inside.pic.twitter.com/Lt2BWrH8J6
Further in is the abandoned farm where the baby grave resides. Hikers who linger say they hear its cries. Probably a bobcat, right?pic.twitter.com/1nHWniZId9
It was dark by the time we reached the fighter jet wreackage. This is the impact crater with my friend Andy for scale.pic.twitter.com/y6hTeGAC5E
This is a better photo of the parts strewn about, picked through by the government and then years of locals.pic.twitter.com/EC66yx26er
So we hiked back in the dark with moonlight as our guide. Neither of us brought a flashlight. I had a flip phone, this was 2004. No light. Our footsteps in the leaves sounded incredibly loud, but it's very still out there in the Quabbin, especially at night.
So we chattered and kicked through the leaves and didn't hear what was rustling off the trail alongside us. Until my phone bleeped, and I stopped the silence it. That's when we heard rustling, loud, on both sides of the trail.
Me being me, I was carrying a big fuck-off knife that was too huge to be of much use unless we needed to cut a lean-to or die fighting a bear. I think I was carrying this Uncle Bill Especial from Himalayan Imports, a modified khukuri/Bowie hybrid. Which I promptly brandished.pic.twitter.com/BKNxVBxm0Q
I used my phone to try to illuminate the eyes... and see if they were dog level, human level, or bear level... or standing bear level. We weren't running, we'd hiked for a few hours and were tired. Besides Andy was faster, but I had the knife.
I confess, I did think of the old adage about bears. You don't need to outrun the bear.... you just need to outrun everyone else. I could hamstring Andy and run back to the car while the forest echoed with his bloodcurdling screams, if it came to that.
It didn't come to that. We started walking, and whatever was in the woods followed us. We walked fast, and I looked back, shining my impotent phone light into the gloom, looking for eyes. None ever appeared.
But if we stopped, the underbrush would crackle a second or two after we'd stopped walking. The only sound over our breath.
Ignoring it took a collective agreement of will, to just keep walking. There was nothing else to do. Run, and maybe trip and need to be left there while the other went for help? Not fucking likely.
The rustling trailed us until we returned to the shack at the beginning of the trail. (This photo is from when we entered, and had light.)pic.twitter.com/gDhBo6IUXs
"Probably wild dogs," we told each other. Very quiet dogs.
Afterward, we drove to Vermont to that pumpkin festival where the white people rioted a few years back. This was before then. But the whole area has that Wicker Man vibe you get in deep New England.pic.twitter.com/OkQq5ahf00
We were greeted by this pyramid of jack o' lanterns. We had pizza and locked the doors on the farm that night.pic.twitter.com/apNlyhrfQt
We talked about going back, with more light.... but we never did. /endpic.twitter.com/JOcpLCYKxf
@scottlynch78 @ShannonCKirk
A little taste of that spooky hike, and some photos of the jet in this thread.
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