We wake up in the morning and we are still alive. That might sound like an absurd statement, but with all the supernatural hubbub going on in this area is it really? Especially when you consider our run in with Barefoot Brad. Maybe Barefoot Brad was a real dude, with real problems, who really just had too much to drink and ingest and maybe later in the night after ranting about the sonorous merits of Glostik Willy he quietly passed out. Maybe he did get on that Greyhound bus back to Ohio and maybe he’ll get his life back together (or just together). There’s also the possibility that he was a figment of our collective imagination, a manifested tapestry of our conjoined id, the feral human that lives inside all of us, twisted and tortured by the psychic torment of the fractured excess of modern living. Why not? Everyone knows the Hoosac Tunnel is haunted AF. Who knows what kind of maladies would have befallen our troupe had one of our members taken BFB up on his offer to “pass the Kool-Aid around.” The imagination can’t help but conjure the stuff of horror movies: limitless gore and high pressure fountains of blood.
To this day we can’t say for sure who or what BFB was, but we can all agree that the chattering trill of songbirds and the gentle rush of a river is a better alarm clock than an axe through your chest. Needless to say, we looked forward to today. We felt alive. The rain had stopped, the temperature was up and all we had to do was make it to this magical cabin/castle situated in the middle of a syrup planation. We had all day to get there. Everything was going to be fine, we could take our time.
Our plan called for a reprovisioning at the Yankee Pantry in Dorset. You all should know that Dorset is real nice. How nice? We’re talking about houses set back from the road in the midst of expansive and well-manicured estates—sure, you’ve seen nice houses before, but have you seen marble sidewalks? Dorset has em. MARBLE SIDEWALKS. Same material as all those selfie-worthy statues in Europe, same material that you save up for your whole life just to have a few pithy words about your existence immortalized in a lawn of other marble totems.
“This is high dollar stuff, yet in Dorset even the common man can just up and walk upon it, the common man. You, me, us. We can just stroll around on their marble sidewalks. What a world!”
Anyway we had to call ahead to the Yankee Pantry to see if they would stay open late for us—I am not not saying that we spent considerable time in awe of those sidewalks—to our relief they were happy to oblige. I believe they call it noblesse oblige. Anyway the staff was perfectly civil, going so far as to point out the finer home-baked cookies available in their market. With their help we were able to outfit ourselves for the night and make our way up syrup mountain to the Nenorod Cabin in Merck Forest.