An annual fall tradition Donna and I have is to take a day
trip to the Catoctin Mountains, about an hour north and west of us between
Frederick, Maryland and Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. It’s a beautiful drive, with
farms and livestock dotting the landscape foreground while behind is the
foliage displaying its pre-death flameout of color.
We arrived around 10:30 and the parking lot at the visitor
center we normally park at was full. We parked illegally just long enough to
get directions from a ranger to a different nearby lot, and drove up Center
Road to find it, at the head of a trail we hadn’t tried before.
The 2-1/2-mile hilly hike through the thick woods took about
an hour and a quarter. The quiet and sense of serenity is remarkable. The
weather was spectacular -- sunny, crisp air, and temperature in the mid-60s.
However,
as in previous years, we didn’t see, as I had hoped, elk, mountain lions, giant
pandas, pythons or zebras. In fact, the only wildlife we observed was a fuzzy caterpillar
at the very beginning of our trek. (In the spirit of full disclosure and
transparency, the accompanying photo was staged using a dead specimen we found later
on; I didn’t bother to photograph the live bug, thinking we would record the much
larger game we were sure to encounter.) A satisfactory response to my strongly
worded letter of complaint has thus far not been received.
Our reward for expending the dozens of calories we burned
hiking was to treat ourselves to a fine lunch at the wonderful Shamrock
restaurant on Route 15 in Thurmont, less than 10 minutes from the trail head.
It’s about as close as you can get to a real Irish restaurant, except the food
is better.
The waitress brought us a well-poured Guinness for me and a Harp for
my little harpy, sandwiches and a basket of onion rings. The table was laid with
a real Irish linen tablecloth (under protective glass). Through the ceiling
piped soft strains of traditional Irish music, and the walls, window sills, and
every square inch of the place was adorned with Irish stuff. The pub, through a
passageway from the dining room, is a place I’ve never patronized but would very
much like to some chilly, damp afternoon.
Our final stop, a couple hundred yards away, was the
Catoctin Orchard, where we stock up on apples, cider and preserves. In years
past, we would walk through the orchard, covertly picking and eating apples.
The motivation was two-fold: the amazing flavor of just-picked fruit, and the
satisfaction of enjoying ill-gotten gains.
This year, however, the business had a new feature: tractor
rides that take you to the fields for pick-your-own fun. Institutionalizing
what had been our clandestine adventure ruined it for us. We boldly eschewed
the tractor traffic, walked along the gravel path, and Donna brazenly picked an
apple. It tasted as good as the ones from years past, but somehow, it wasn’t as
satisfying. We went back to the orchard’s store, bought our usual goods
(including the two-pack of oatmeal-raisin cookies for the return trip) and came
home.
Eep. I finally took the time to read my first post. As exciting as Rob promised!
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