Coffee in hand Roger and I plan the day’s hike and archaeological search.
On the way, I nibble black birch twigs. They give off a strong taste of something similar to but better than wintergreen; it’s what birch beer is made of. Supposedly it also has medicinal qualities as a pain killer.
Mak is such a picky water drinker, this was worth a photo. He actually drank several times during the hike but prefers only water from his home tap. I baby my boys but that is a level of sissy-ness I try not to indulge… particularly since “we” lick urine spots with no apparent displeasure. In his day, Jonesy would drink from almost any organic source sometimes prompting me to worry about leptospirosis.
We located the stone chamber. Last time we were here, five or six years ago, I ran out of battery power and always wanted to come back. Unexplained stone chambers dot the northeast. Distribution maps I’ve seen have them from New Jersey to Maine. I’ve been to seven or eight of them. Many theories regarding their purpose and who built them abound but few are plausible. Sadly, despite their antiquity and unsolved status, they are sometimes wantonly destroyed by developers and builders – with no penalty. Also unexplained is why the academic world doesn’t study them in a serious way and shun those who do as amateurish “crackpots.” The typical blow off explanation is that they were “root cellars” for colonists though they were documented to be here when the colonists arrived.
This one was of rectilinear design but is unusually large and with twin supporting columns. From the back facing the entrance:
And from entrance wall facing the back:
Of course surrounded by the primitive requires equipping oneself with appropriate weaponry. I brandished a contemporary scramasax (Kershaw’s Camp 10)…
…while Roger ate lunch outside.
No cold lunch for this archaeologist. I made a fire in a damp spot of leaves,
and had organic chicken sausages on whole wheat, good conversation, the best dog in the whole wide world by my side… and the scramasax in case of zombies.
Mak appreciated my sweatshirt and showed his fatigue by actually lying on it.
We were out for five hours, much of it walking through woods. Not bad for seventy-nine year old Roger, if you ask me. Back at his place we had a simple outdoor meal of Irish brown bread he’d baked, beans I made overnight in a crock pot then brought in a sauce pan and fresh brewed coffee from a stove top brewing pot. On our ride home, Mak and I agreed, it had been a fulfilling day even if we never found zombies to dispatch.