We pick up where we left off, on Berme Road. A few inches of blacktop have been added to the surface, so it isn't easy to find a place for the "Ferrari" to ease onto the shoulder. But Silent Panther and I work it out, with the sound of tires scrunching on the gravel. The last time we were here, a year ago, we were rescuing dogs. Berme Road winds on for miles, with rarely a passerby in either direction. We head West.
The most amazing sound is the absence of sound. We walk among ghosts: along the towpath of the old D&H Canal, not hearing the shouts and animal noises of yesteryear...along the railroad bed, over chunks of coal, not hearing the steam trains.
Bridge on the Canal Towpath
An exquisitely beautiful community of houses and trailers, so rich in Nature. Kids home for Yom Kippur, playing with dogs, joyful sounds. We cross not only the gorgeous Rondout Creek, babbling yet brilliant, but also the Ver Nooy Kill, smaller in stature, and eager to make up for that with enthusiasm. Happy noises of aeration and deposition. Epic bridges.
Through the cornfields...the ears are still there! Perhaps they must dry out before they become food for dairy cows. The wind makes a mysterious sound as it disturbs the leaves...it sounds like people whispering, or maybe spirits. I suppose that Corn Spirits would be benevolent. We wonder why raccoons or crows haven't eaten the corn.
Across 209, and left on Lundy Road. It would be tough to get pizza delivery up here, but what an amazing neighborhood. The babbling of the Ver Nooy Kill is constant yet ever-changing. Rapids and pools, water moving around bedrock and snags tells stories of adventures upstream.
The electrical wires on the poles diminish to one. Pavement is a distant memory. The river sounds more confident now, rarely having to compete with human noises. A dam. Rapids. A swimming hole. Steep slopes all around. The sounds get stranger! An oddly human cry repeated at intervals turns out to be a rooster...could there really be a farm or a home up there?
Gunshots! We wince instinctively. People use the wild lands in different ways. Hopefully the target-shooter has good aim...we would like to hike without being hit. The shots are in groups of 5, repeated in intervals. Hopefully he is hitting something appropriate. Shortly he drives back down, a grim look on his face. We breathe a sigh of relief.
Upon reaching the quarry parking lot, we turn around. The next leg of the Path will have to wait til the bone spur in my right foot decides to be more accomodating. Right now, 5.6 miles is about all I can handle!
Magic moment. The shadow of my vulture passes right in front of me, on the trail It seems that the same bird has been leading me for years now. I don't catch a glimpse this time, but I'm sure that one wing feather is still askew. Big smile.
We scramble down to a gorgeous waterfall and pool on the Kill. The sound is inscrutable, ancient and bold.
We began to feel lightheaded on the way back down. The Autumn leaves falling, in their thousands,sound like distant applause. We take our bows, stumbling downhill through the dappled sunlight. Silent Panther moves beyond his name, reminiscing about paths traveled, and yet to be met. Next time we will forge onward and upward....10 miles, to heck with the bone spur!
Back at the Ferrari, we say Goodbye to Berme Road. It feels like we have been here many times. Looking around one more time, it seems like such a lonely and valuable place. Maybe it's the sound of all the ghosts, still walking the trails and towpaths. Maybe it needs to be lonely. As Jerry said, "Sometimes the songs that we sing are just songs of our own."
