Six Pack Tales: One - The Hop Devil LbNA #11037 (ARCHIVED)
Map
Nearby Boxes
Add Note
Add Location| Owner: | Riversol  |
|---|---|
| Plant date: | Sep 21, 2004 |
| Location: | |
| City: | Newtown |
| County: | Bucks |
| State: | Pennsylvania |
| Boxes: | 1 |
| Found by: | Otis' Friends |
|---|---|
| Last found: | Nov 27, 2009 |
| Status: | FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF |
| Last edited: | Sep 21, 2004 |
(The Six Pack Tales Series Has Six Interlocking Stamps, So Plan Ahead!)
There's a Bonus Personal Traveler Box Too!
Yet another day that I find myself in Tyler Park just outside Newtown borough. My high school, Council Rock High -- I think they refer to it as the North Campus now -- stands on the other side of the 563 bypass. Its main façade is three stories of white-gray concrete displaying Lenape motifs of nature and the tribal community. Wow, to think I graduated from there way back in 1985. Damn, it seems like that was a hundred years ago. How time flies! Indeed time moves too swiftly, but the human mind has that glorious power to reminisce, breaking the powerful spell of time’s relentless motion forward.
The paths in Tyler are mostly paved which I usually detest but on a rainy day like today it saves the any-weather walker from accumulating even more detestable shoe muck. Having meandered through the park during the morning hours I’ve come to stand within the park’s covered bridge. A modest rain drums arhytmically upon the wooden slatted roof. The thick sheets of translucent drops fall in swift visual blurs too fast for the human eye to decode fully. I recall reading somewhere that raindrops are actually shaped like the tops of hamburger buns rather than the classic tear drop shape I drew as a kindergartener. Something to do with the equilibrium of aerodynamic and surface tension forces in a liquid. Forgetting the technical descriptive, I lose myself in the patterns of translucent blurs.
Clop clop clop. Two horses and their riders enter the far end of the bridge. I close my eyes to absorb the cadence of the horse trot more fully. Clop, Clop, Clop. I guess technically this is a walk at this slow pace. CLOP CLOP CLOP! KERPOW! Thunder quickens the horses pace to a trot. Spooked by the noise they ride on past me without stopping. Clippety, Clop, Clop. Then, Splishety, splish, splish. The sound fades beneath the rainfall as the horses hurry toward shelter at Sundown Stables. That was always the thing about rental horses—the horses were often stubborn and overly anxious to get home.
I open my eyes slowly and the rainslick trail winds its way into the trees. The horses have vanished from sight. The rain itself diminishes suddenly to a drizzle, so I head Northeast to see if I can catch a glimpse of the horses.
At a fork in the trail, I realize I can’t catch up to them at the slow speed I manage on foot. I scan the gray heavens and though no rainbow reveals itself, the green leaves glisten in the cloud conditioned summer sunlight. Ahh, sunlight; most people know that it takes 8.3 minutes for sunlight to race the millions of miles to our fair Earth, but the thing I always found fascinating was the source light rays, those generated from fusion at the sun’s core can take thousands upon thousands of years to reach the sun’s surface fighting through layer after layer of ultra-dense solar plasma.
Mental segue: Now if only I could throw a Frisbee with the accuracy of a photon, then my disk golf game would improve indeed. I’m long overdue for taking a round in. Unfortunately, the Tyler disk golf course lies on the other side of the park, and I am without disk. Nevertheless, I imagine into being a phantom disk and throw it at a distant tree down the right branch of the trail. After it I go.
I pick up my imagined disk, which has landed on the bottom most step of a log staircase branching off the trail. I see the stairway heads out of the park so I turn around and head back the way I came. Following a round of disk golf at Tyler, I often enjoyed heading up to the borough for a beer to tantalize my senses. Isaac Newton’s off Main Street (#18 S. Main Street to be exact) used to have an excellent beer on tap made by the Victory Brewing Company in Downingtown. Mmmm, I remember the pungent, soft bitterness rolling over my tongue with a lingering hoppiness. It was called Hop Devil, ostensibly because the flavor is sinfully intense. I can almost taste that Hop Devil now.
Which reminds me -- a friend of mine back in 1990 said he had an encounter with the Jersey Devil once. Now there’s a tale I haven’t thought about in a long time. I won’t attempt to recount to you the dozen or so versions of the New Jersey Devil’s origin, as I’m sure you can look them up online for yourself. Now my friend Kyle had been hiking by himself in the Pine Barrens back sometime in the late 70’s. His encounter with this otherworldly presence was by his description, mostly a sensation of someone standing where no one stood. Then, a pulse of electricity sent a tingle up his spine that left him jittery and froze him in his tracks until a tightness in his lungs reminded him to draw breath again.
A soft sound in the silent wood freezes me in my tracks, leaving me standing unexpectedly between two stone walls bracketing the trail. It is the rush of water running beneath the trail after the recent downpour. Having had enough of the well traveled path, I jump into the streambed to the North of the trail and follow it staying to the right.
Now, Kyle had many ghost stories to share, and I always tolerated them with a wry grin, but also with a tempered amount of fascination. Kyle was convinced that the Pine Barrens was haunted but not just by one spirit. That’s why there are so many Jersey Devil stories, he’d explain, people whose souls have no desire to move on to an afterlife choose in their heart to remain in the natural world either consumed with beauty or memory. And if there’s one place in New Jersey that’s memorably beautiful, it’s the Pine Barrens.
I come upon a large tree with its expansive root system exposed and overhanging the bank. A fine place to rest and relax, but I am feeling quite energized so I pirouette (after ensuring no one is watching) a few times before climbing the nearby bank to the North.
I begin skipping, as I imagine a forest sprite would, up the hillock path. Perhaps I emulate a character I saw once at a production of the Langhorne Players, the troupe who perform in the playhouse adjacent to the Tyler Park entrance. How I used to enjoy catching their avant-garde performances! Simply wonderful; easily as creative and stimulating as the best the Fringe Festival ever had to offer downtown.
After a couple dozen fantastical skips I find a small tree to the right of the trail bent twice at right angles. Funny how nature sometimes defies itself, playing things uncertain when there are discreet rules to follow. In kind, I defy the urge to continue up the deerpath and head off-trail bearing North from the doubly bent tree skipping again for a half dozen skips until I come upon a tree with octopus roots.
Ahh, now this tree deserves closer scrutiny. Deja vu? Or maybe it’s called something else when you’ve actually been to the place before. Indeed, this is called “planning ahead” as I’ve apparently hidden a chilled pint of Hop Devil (or suitable facsimile) beneath the rock here within the octopus’ grasp, and now it is in my grasp, as I lie back in the arms of the tree….ahhh.
Well, maybe one day you’ll enjoy walking and perusing Tyler Park yourself. I walk this same circuit often, so look for me on the trails, and say hello. And don’t take it personally if, while lost in contemplation, I forgo a response and glide on past. Sometimes the texture of a Sycamore’s bark, the traffic patterns of no-see-ums, or the rustle of a breeze threading its way through the leafy canopy enchants me. And sometimes a fond memory takes me far, far away.
There's a Bonus Personal Traveler Box Too!
Yet another day that I find myself in Tyler Park just outside Newtown borough. My high school, Council Rock High -- I think they refer to it as the North Campus now -- stands on the other side of the 563 bypass. Its main façade is three stories of white-gray concrete displaying Lenape motifs of nature and the tribal community. Wow, to think I graduated from there way back in 1985. Damn, it seems like that was a hundred years ago. How time flies! Indeed time moves too swiftly, but the human mind has that glorious power to reminisce, breaking the powerful spell of time’s relentless motion forward.
The paths in Tyler are mostly paved which I usually detest but on a rainy day like today it saves the any-weather walker from accumulating even more detestable shoe muck. Having meandered through the park during the morning hours I’ve come to stand within the park’s covered bridge. A modest rain drums arhytmically upon the wooden slatted roof. The thick sheets of translucent drops fall in swift visual blurs too fast for the human eye to decode fully. I recall reading somewhere that raindrops are actually shaped like the tops of hamburger buns rather than the classic tear drop shape I drew as a kindergartener. Something to do with the equilibrium of aerodynamic and surface tension forces in a liquid. Forgetting the technical descriptive, I lose myself in the patterns of translucent blurs.
Clop clop clop. Two horses and their riders enter the far end of the bridge. I close my eyes to absorb the cadence of the horse trot more fully. Clop, Clop, Clop. I guess technically this is a walk at this slow pace. CLOP CLOP CLOP! KERPOW! Thunder quickens the horses pace to a trot. Spooked by the noise they ride on past me without stopping. Clippety, Clop, Clop. Then, Splishety, splish, splish. The sound fades beneath the rainfall as the horses hurry toward shelter at Sundown Stables. That was always the thing about rental horses—the horses were often stubborn and overly anxious to get home.
I open my eyes slowly and the rainslick trail winds its way into the trees. The horses have vanished from sight. The rain itself diminishes suddenly to a drizzle, so I head Northeast to see if I can catch a glimpse of the horses.
At a fork in the trail, I realize I can’t catch up to them at the slow speed I manage on foot. I scan the gray heavens and though no rainbow reveals itself, the green leaves glisten in the cloud conditioned summer sunlight. Ahh, sunlight; most people know that it takes 8.3 minutes for sunlight to race the millions of miles to our fair Earth, but the thing I always found fascinating was the source light rays, those generated from fusion at the sun’s core can take thousands upon thousands of years to reach the sun’s surface fighting through layer after layer of ultra-dense solar plasma.
Mental segue: Now if only I could throw a Frisbee with the accuracy of a photon, then my disk golf game would improve indeed. I’m long overdue for taking a round in. Unfortunately, the Tyler disk golf course lies on the other side of the park, and I am without disk. Nevertheless, I imagine into being a phantom disk and throw it at a distant tree down the right branch of the trail. After it I go.
I pick up my imagined disk, which has landed on the bottom most step of a log staircase branching off the trail. I see the stairway heads out of the park so I turn around and head back the way I came. Following a round of disk golf at Tyler, I often enjoyed heading up to the borough for a beer to tantalize my senses. Isaac Newton’s off Main Street (#18 S. Main Street to be exact) used to have an excellent beer on tap made by the Victory Brewing Company in Downingtown. Mmmm, I remember the pungent, soft bitterness rolling over my tongue with a lingering hoppiness. It was called Hop Devil, ostensibly because the flavor is sinfully intense. I can almost taste that Hop Devil now.
Which reminds me -- a friend of mine back in 1990 said he had an encounter with the Jersey Devil once. Now there’s a tale I haven’t thought about in a long time. I won’t attempt to recount to you the dozen or so versions of the New Jersey Devil’s origin, as I’m sure you can look them up online for yourself. Now my friend Kyle had been hiking by himself in the Pine Barrens back sometime in the late 70’s. His encounter with this otherworldly presence was by his description, mostly a sensation of someone standing where no one stood. Then, a pulse of electricity sent a tingle up his spine that left him jittery and froze him in his tracks until a tightness in his lungs reminded him to draw breath again.
A soft sound in the silent wood freezes me in my tracks, leaving me standing unexpectedly between two stone walls bracketing the trail. It is the rush of water running beneath the trail after the recent downpour. Having had enough of the well traveled path, I jump into the streambed to the North of the trail and follow it staying to the right.
Now, Kyle had many ghost stories to share, and I always tolerated them with a wry grin, but also with a tempered amount of fascination. Kyle was convinced that the Pine Barrens was haunted but not just by one spirit. That’s why there are so many Jersey Devil stories, he’d explain, people whose souls have no desire to move on to an afterlife choose in their heart to remain in the natural world either consumed with beauty or memory. And if there’s one place in New Jersey that’s memorably beautiful, it’s the Pine Barrens.
I come upon a large tree with its expansive root system exposed and overhanging the bank. A fine place to rest and relax, but I am feeling quite energized so I pirouette (after ensuring no one is watching) a few times before climbing the nearby bank to the North.
I begin skipping, as I imagine a forest sprite would, up the hillock path. Perhaps I emulate a character I saw once at a production of the Langhorne Players, the troupe who perform in the playhouse adjacent to the Tyler Park entrance. How I used to enjoy catching their avant-garde performances! Simply wonderful; easily as creative and stimulating as the best the Fringe Festival ever had to offer downtown.
After a couple dozen fantastical skips I find a small tree to the right of the trail bent twice at right angles. Funny how nature sometimes defies itself, playing things uncertain when there are discreet rules to follow. In kind, I defy the urge to continue up the deerpath and head off-trail bearing North from the doubly bent tree skipping again for a half dozen skips until I come upon a tree with octopus roots.
Ahh, now this tree deserves closer scrutiny. Deja vu? Or maybe it’s called something else when you’ve actually been to the place before. Indeed, this is called “planning ahead” as I’ve apparently hidden a chilled pint of Hop Devil (or suitable facsimile) beneath the rock here within the octopus’ grasp, and now it is in my grasp, as I lie back in the arms of the tree….ahhh.
Well, maybe one day you’ll enjoy walking and perusing Tyler Park yourself. I walk this same circuit often, so look for me on the trails, and say hello. And don’t take it personally if, while lost in contemplation, I forgo a response and glide on past. Sometimes the texture of a Sycamore’s bark, the traffic patterns of no-see-ums, or the rustle of a breeze threading its way through the leafy canopy enchants me. And sometimes a fond memory takes me far, far away.