Mountain Retreat

Nestled    in    the    not    so    mountainous    mountains    of   western Maryland,   is    a    state   forest   that   has    somehow    managed    to    elude the    eyes    of   developers,    and    those   who    prefer    brick   to    bark. Greenridge   has    for   many   years    been    my    escape   from   the   urban jungle,    and    it's    close    enough    to   visit   without   planning.    Taking the    three    hour   drive    to    the    forest    is    like   traversing   time    and space,    and    landing   in    a simpler   world.    A   world    abound   with beautiful   vistas,   warm    smells,    peaceful    sounds,    and    awe    inspiring creatures.

Between    the   forest's    southern    border   and    West   Virginia, flows    the    majestic    Potomac    river.    Her   teal   waters    meander through    the   mountains    like   a    shimmering   snake,    gliding effortlessly     through    a    marsh.    Cutting    a    path    through    the   forest, is   the   retired    C & O    canal,    now   a   popular   hiking   and    cycling trail.    From    any    of   the   sparsely    arranged    camp    sites,   you    can't be    seen    or   heard    by    campers    in    another   site.    The    indigenous wildlife    is    both    diverse    and    abundant.    The    forest   teems   with    all the    familiar   critters.    Deer   roam    the    hillsides    foraging,    like people   ambling   without   a   care   down   a   shady   country   lane.    A lucky    camper    may    catch    a    fleeting   glimpse    of   a    black   bear, bobcat,    or   a    ring-necked    pheasant.    The   cool   night    air   is occasionally    cut    by    the    sharp    howl    of   a    coyote,    or   screech    owl.

I   have    been    visiting   Greenridge    for   many   years,    and    I've introduced    my   family    to    it's   wonders.    Camping   at   Greenridge has    always    been    like    therapy    for   us.    My   wife    and    two    sons become    giddy   with    anticipation    upon    mentioning    Greenridge.

 

Aaaaah, Nothing To Do

Like many of my friends that come to the mountains to get away, I lead a very hectic life. I slave all week at work, and put in time at home. Some one always needs to go somewhere, or be somewhere. Something always needs to be fixed, and of course, something that's been fine for ages needs to be changed. Why on earth are we always so hyped for the weekend, when the weekend usually means more work? However, there are those rare occasions when you're miraculously all caught up, (or you say "to hell with it") and that's when you get out of town before something comes up to hold you back.

When you're away from home, you're often tormented by thoughts of things that you should have done, or should be doing. You worry about the house, the pets, the family, the state of the union, etc... It's different when you go to the mountains. The further you get from the city, the more those thoughts of dereliction seem to melt away. It's when you get there, get all set up and crack that first cold brew, you realize there's nothing to do.

I hope that you can appreciate "nothing to do" as much as me. I'm not saying that you should do nothing at all, but if you choose to do nothing at all, it's perfectly okay. I know for some folks, Green Ridge means "Oh boy, we're here, there's so much to do". For me Green Ridge means "Hallelujah, I'm here and there's absolutely nothing to do". I like to fish and go rafting. I

like to drive around and see the sights and landmarks of Green Ridge, but sometimes I just don't want to. Sometimes I want nothing to do.

GETTING HOOKED

We've all heard fish tales about the proverbial "one that got away", or similar hard to swallow stories. Upon hearing these yarns that go through a metamorphosis each time they are told, one may wonder if they're expressions of joy, or excursions of sorrow. I've been going fishing for forty years,   and as a child I considered it a boring, loathsome chore.   I'm now forty five years old, and the father of two teen boys, and going fishing has become one of life's greatest pleasures.   The transition was miraculous and wonderful.

Saturday mornings, eleven or twelve years old, asleep in my nice warm bed and wanting to stay that way.   "Five o'clock, let's get   a move on" Dad would bellow, as if I were the only person in the world left asleep. I'd throw myself into some old jeans,   a shirt that I wouldn't   realize is on backwards for hours, and my tattered old fishing sneakers. "Hurry up, the good spots will be taken" he'd threaten as I'd clumsily collect the fishing crap. "I sure as hell hope so", I'd mumble.   An hour later I'd be sitting on an upturned bucket, almost awake, and fostering the foulest of moods, while Dad ritualistically arranged the crap.   I'd grab my   rod and start the process of murdering a small fish, in order to murder a bigger fish. It wouldn't be long before I'd tell Dad that my line was snagged.   "Walk along the bank until it comes loose" was the inevitable cure for a snagged line.   It was also inevitable that I'd snap the line, losing not only the  previously impaled   bait,

but the precious tackle.   As the fishless hours passed, the boredom would overcome me, and I'd start playing with the bait. "You'll never catch any fish by goofin' around" he'd grumble.   "I could care less" was my usual response to myself.    I hated walking along the bank, as much as I hated getting up before the sun, and as much as I hated fishing. Knowing that Dad wanted me there made it bearable, and I could sense that there was more to it than catching fish. There were times when I had really pissed him off, but he was fishing, and patience would prevail.   I'd sit at the dinner table on the evenings of our trips, and act as though the fish "He" caught was delicious, when in fact I'd be close to chumming.   That's "tossing cookies" for the non -fishing sector.

I'd   sometimes bring   friends to share my misery.   As seasons passed, Dad got busier and couldn't go fishing as often, so I'd fish with just my friends. The weekend would arrive, and I'd ask Dad to go fishing. "Not this week Mike, too much to do". The weeks turned into years, and years turned into decades.   I started fishing alone after my friends had gotten "too busy".   I even learned to actually catch fish, and eating a fresh fish dinner is now like a birthday present that I wouldn't return. Thanks to Dad's teachings, I can clean and filet anything from a small flounder, to a two hundred pound grouper.

I somehow came to enjoy this reprehensible hobby, and I even plan family vacations around fishing. Five o'clock on Saturday mornings I eagerly spring from bed and yell   for my sons, " C'mon guys, let's get a move on". I