Bam and I headed to Montauk for a getaway. New Yorkers affectionately refer to Montauk as "The End"...it's the last thing on Long Island. It's deserted in winter, a fishing village with a pharmacy, two pancake houses, three liquor stores. Montauk has also a famous lighthouse, which we went running to find.
There's nothing more frustrating than a run of indeterminate distance. After a few miles, Bam and I jog into a lot with a "viewpoint" figuring we could see how far to the lighthouse. No luck.
I do spy a trail through the winter woods and decide to follow it. Maybe it's a short cut!
Half an hour later, we are lost in the winter woods. The sticker bushes and branches all look the same so we don't know which direction we came from, or which direction we're supposed to go; I only have a vague sense the ocean is all around us, because it has to be.
But the stickers won't let us go very far.
Bam is resolutely silent and I'm laughing even though I know the sun is going down and this is quickly turning into Blair Witch. We're crawling on hands and knees because the underbrush is so thick. Trying to find a path, but the brambles swallow us up in their prickly embrace.
At last we hear a car. The road! We follow the sound and escape. Two large vehicles are parked, at a posted sign we're crawling out beside. It says "Hunting Season through Dec. 31."
It's hunting season. Ok. So you've got rifle-toting Long Island Elmer Fudds in those woods? Where were we just on all fours? That could've ended worse. That could've been nearly as top-to-the-bottom of the food-chain fabulous as the tiger mauling in San Francisco last week.
We finished the run to the lighthouse along the highway. A new year remains on target.
Mark - Mark, age 6 Centralia, Washington (1968) My first grade teacher Mrs. Carlson wrote on my report card: "Mark is a very sensitive child, wants attention, and...
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