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  • Patrick Baechle

Husky Haven


The trail today was magnificent. It was lined with blooming rhododendron. It must be the peak because they are starting to lose their petals, leaving carpets of white fluff along the sides of the trail



I have become a hobo now. I eat food cooked on a propane burner. I get a little apprehensive about venturing back into the real world. I've left the trail a few times to seek out supplies, like ice water, only to be unpleasantly reawakented to the crazy, noisy, chaotic world that lies right on the otherside of the tree line. I don't miss it, and I am not anxious to rejoin it. I'm liking wilderness living. I'm talking to the dear now as they hide from me in the bushes as I ride by.




At about 6pm I checked into Husky Haven Campground in Rockwood. I couldn't find it at first. It was just a ranch house on a side street of this tiny borough. There were no campsites nearby. There was a sign that said "office in basement". I was kinda leary, but I went in. There was nobody there but, there was a buzzer on the wall to push. I did, and the owner of the campsite arrived. (Wherever tat is)

We had a nice conversation. The name of the campground comes from the fact that he raises Alaskan Huskies and pulls sleds with them. He had a beautiful hand crafted dog sled in his basement, on display. He also had a big binder full of photos of all the huskies he ever owned. "Where's the campsite? " I finally I asked. "Right over there across the river" he said.

So, the water and showers are behind his house and the campground is on the other side of the river. No water there but he gives you a used milk jug to haul it over. (On your bike!)

I picked good site and emptied my packs to lighten up riding back and forth over the bridge to get a shower and groceries. The bike was so light now, I felt naked riding it. I bought some ground beef, hamburger helper and a couple of beers and settled down for the night.

A couple of trains went by on the tracks across the river; a nicely illuminsted Amtrack, out of Cumberland, and a CSX freight. Then another CSX freight train went by again an hour later. I went to bed. A freight train went by every hour all night long. I know my dear father, who was a federal railroad inspector would be very happy to know that the engineer of each one of those trains blew his horns as loud as he could at least ten times before approaching that crossing......300 yards across the river from my campsite. Ten horn blows every hour. Did I say the trains went by every hour? Those were the Westbounds.







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