RUDIMENTS, pt. 224
Making Cars
'No one out of the ordinary
need apply.' If life had its
categories and placards, this
would surely be one; or so it
seemed to me. I squirmed and
I fidgeted, but it just never
worked. Not that any alarm
bells went off or anything. It
wasn't that kind of crisis; it
was more like having to look
at a huge, wide-open future
and, seeing nothing, realizing
you're not in it. I had a long
way to go, and no way to get
there. But, being steadfast, I
stayed the course, or 'a' course.
-
The first time I saw Hacklebarney
was about 1966, and then off and
on, as I was around and had wheels.
We returned often, and over and
again. When I was at the Studio
School one of the girls there that
I was friendly with, Judy, she used
to pepper me with some barbs
about leaving the city and going
'to the provinces' for a few days
or a weekend. To her it was funny,
as she was well-traveled - Paris,
Italy, and all that. I imagined one
had to be possessed of an entirely
different frame of reference to say
something like that. I had no thought
at all about 'going to the provinces.'
Hell, it was a drive out of the city,
and around the back-end of Jersey
to some rivers, woods and rocky
crags. Provinces, indeed. If you
don't know Hacklebarney, I'll
fill you in. New Jersey doesn't
have too many wild, topographical
and relatively unkempt places.
Probably less now than ever, but
the ones it still possesses are good.
Hacklebarney is, technically, a
State Park - with Park Rangers
around, some rules and regulations,
off-road vehicles to patrol with,
a ranger station, and fire-pits and
things strewn all about. You're
not 'supposed to' remain in there
overnight. But it's been, let's say,
'known to' happen. It has the
Black River, deep in, and out on
the fringes there's something
called Rhinehart Brook. Tall
trees, rocky trails, slippery
passes, wet areas, crossovers,
wooden bridges and logs. It's a
throwback, even though currently
development rings its approaches,
more and more. But, the geography
of the place precludes building;
so it's safe in that regard and you
can really get pretty deep inside
there, walking waterways, rocks,
paths. The first visits there were
awesome - back then it was still
hard-packed dirt roads - and there
still are a few good ones there that
I love to drive along, entering
in that fashion. It's really a few
miles from Chester, and a few
from Pottersville, either way.
-
Originally, getting there and out of
NYC was a drastic difference, as
shocking as night and day. Mostly,
New Jersey plays deuce with its
beaches and shoreline, but that's
all second-tier to this. Shade and
mysterious tall trees; ferns; mushrooms;
the gurgle of brooks and falls; there's
a sort of sound deep in there in which
you can, like, 'hear' others, if there
are any around, when they are still
far off - their voices resound,
tuba-like, in some slightly hollow,
distorted way. The approach has
a dimensional feel. There are spots
in there too, flat spots, that suddenly
open to sunlight, where the waters
pool. Could leave one speechless.
As I was saying, the first few visits
in there - free, just park askew
and start walking - we used to
always find this grand creature, a
very beautiful Weimaraner hound.
Whether living wild and at bay, on
its own, or part of some ranger's or
an adjoining property, it was always
there, coming to us, going away -
the dog ran the shallow waters
mostly, more than the rocky, dirt
paths. It was pretty amazing how it
navigated. Princely. Dog-princely.
It apparently 'knew' of humans, but
cared little for the species. I can see
that dog in my mind's eye like
yesterday was right now. I love
dogs, but I hate them for their
lifespan. It sucks.
-
Seems like everyone lives with
something that cranes their neck.
Hacklebarney does mine. (Hey!
Call me provincial, will ya?)...
You'd need to realize, of course,
that for me this was a first. I'd
grown on the new lots of Avenel,
where nothing was nothing except
ordinary, new, mostly all marked
and accounted for. Then I went to
the seminary - which was a crazy,
pine-barren sand-wash of wide
sand roads, dirt roads, and paths
through pine-woods. Getting to
Hacklebarney was like going to
Colorado, by contrast : Rocks,
NJ versions of cliffs and jags,
logs to walk on over streams and
rapids, little as they might have
been. Every so often you'd come
across a person or two, out in
'the dense,' what we called it. You
knew they were serious about
their solitude - walking with a
cut limb as a walking stick,
maybe a fry-pan and some utensils
hanging from their belt. One guy
alone, two guys, guy and girl, or
whatever - back then it was just
right. Raggedy people. Certainly
none of today's coordinated hiking
outfits, L.L.Bean shoulder packs,
cameras and hygiene. That was all
in the future, like toothpaste, like
toilet paper.
-
People would pass, or cross, with
a nod, or a wave - or comparing
a note about this or that; small talk
took but a second. The cursory scan
would fill you in on the other's
condition. Scrapes, cut, bandages,
etc. It's kind of like today when
you get to one of those places
where the Appalachian Trail
crosses - old time hiker-types,
in Euro-clothes and packs, talking
German, all hairy and seedy;
serious, serious walkers with
not a care for the everyday
comfort we take for granted.
There's one of those Appalachain
Trail stopover stations out by, or
above, the Delaware Water Gap.
I sometimes stop there now too,
out driving. Park and walk, just
to catch the flavor, see what's up.
You can meet all sorts of people.
Trail people who've been
hiking up from Georgia since
March, figuring to be in Maine
by September; nonchalant as
can be, hiking along, finding
here and tree a stop to eat, or,
as here, a way-station with
showers and a few chairs
and a snack bar, to kick back
for a few hours. It's high up,
to nowhere, but nice.
Probably beats Hacklebarney,
but only in that respect. It's
high and light. Hacklebarney
gets and stays shadowy and
moist . Water flows, like
from the heart and soul.
-
It gets tiresome to say this, over
and over, about the 'old' days of
1967, but bear with me. You could
get down to fundamentals and the
rigidities of being, back then. Things
were elemental more, strong, sure,
made you think. If you go into
Hacklebarney these days, the usual
Summertime frolickers abound;
with their phones and their sickly
sounds, scarcely dressed for the
place they're in, if dressed properly
at all. They act as if this place was
owed to them and you were in the
way. It's lethal, enough to infuriate.
I'm surprised the Rangers don't find
dead bodies along the way as they
patrol the area. 'Damn provincials,
at it again...'
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