Rusty Relics in New Jersey

I was up at 4am on Sunday to meet with urbexing pals and head up to New Jersey where we were going to photograph a salvage yard. And not just any old salvage yard, this one's draw was the photos we'd seen earlier from the outside, showing large hulks of planes, suspended in the air, stacked and balancing on old school buses or trucks.

After signing waivers with the owner we were handed a map of where we could go and where we couldn't go and then we were off, shutter caps hastily tugged from lenses in eagerness to start shooting. We all started down the same path into the depths of the junk, marveling at how high the husks of airplanes were stacked. It was overwhelming to see so much stuff, but as we gradually got accustomed to the sights and started focusing on what we would take photos of, people filtered off down their own paths into the ruins of rust, and chatter gave way to concentration.

It really was a novelty seeing these huge plane hulks appearing to be balanced precariously atop old school buses whose roofs no doubt had caved under the weight. Cockpits were wide open for anyone who wanted to scramble up and look in, there were huge chambers of jet engines, still shiny inside, cockpit glass clouded by time and the elements, wires and fuselage trailing down towards the ground. Some massive jet engines, minus their propellers had been stacked in a row, looking like huts, and steel glinted, stained in a spectrum of colors by old fuel and oils leaking over the years.

The planes themselves could have kept me busy all day, but deep in the woods were more gems to be discovered. Old buses and cars from the 30's, 40's and 50's were standing quietly, most stripped of their paint, and now colored orange and brown, their rust the same color as the deep leaves they were nestled in. These leaves hadn't been disturbed for years, in places they were 6" or more deep, I stumbled frequently as I made my way around them. Occasionally I would hear someone behind me, and would chuckle as they lurched about, looking just like a zombie invasion, stepping high over tree roots, ducking low under branches, or stumbling over holes in the ground, hidden by the thick mantle of leaves.

Liz took a photo of me as I took shelter in an old bus, a plane shell hanging above me, keeping off the rain which was making yet another appearance. A good time to reflect on what I'd seen and what I should revisit or even what I'd missed. This place wasn't actually that huge, but there was certainly a lot packed in it. A veritable feast for the photographer or explorer. Old vehicles and equipment everywhere. I didn't have time to look inside all the buses or cars, and there were also old camper vans, trucks, RV's bicycles and motorcycles, as well as the usual household and yard junk. There was even an old coffin dumped on the side of a path; I'd walked past it at least three times before I finally noticed it.

I took some final photos of an old plane that still had its propellers in place and then stopped. I was burned out, having taken so many photos in such a short time. And it seemed the others felt the same way. The rain was coming down again as we met up outside and then drove onto a pizza joint for lunch.

A beer or two had to be consumed at some point during the day so we decided to visit the local brewery. On the way, we stopped at a huge abandoned greenhouse where we snapped a few photos before a neighbor shooed us off, once she'd let us know it had once been part of a commercial grower's site, with other greenhouses next to this one, all growing flowers to sell. She didn't want us inside due to injury reasons, since apparently there were some very industrious groundhogs burrowing in there. Luckily my ankles didn't find any holes while I'd been snapping shots.

Passing through Woodstown on the way home, we pulled over by a canning warehouse, drawn to the many quotes that were painted over all the white buildings. The owner Earl Erdner used his own words or quotations that he admired and had them put on display for everyone to see.

"Rise to the occasion - But know when to sit down."

 "To those who talk and talk
This adage doth appeal;
The steam that blows the whistle
Will never turn the wheel."

"In quarreling the truth is always lost."

"The greatest, the most important of the arts is living."

There are supposed to be 170 of these sayings on the walls but much of the black paint was wearing off, rendering some of the wording illegible. Mr Erdner had died in 1975 and it seemed his quotes had not been maintained since then. Some were even chopped in half by later additions to the the buildings. But it had been an interesting place, likely putting Woodstown on the map for folks looking for oddities, and I hope someone starts to restore the walls. All the quotations were hand painted, it would be sad to see that hard work fade away completely or continue to flake off as some have already done.

Our final stop before the long haul homewards was Cowtown, where we were unlucky enough to catch the cowboy outfitters store just as it was closing, but we could at least admire John Wayne on his steed outside on the grass verge. Across the road next to the rodeo grounds was a 20ft muffler man who's been stood here since 1975. He was toppled by high winds in 2005 but was soon repaired and put back in place. There was also a large cow standing close by, the rumors say that its back end faces the town to affront the snooty folk in Woodstown. Cowtown may warrant a trip later in the year, it has the oldest weekly running rodeo in the USA.

Pretty in Pink

After a week of tumultuous torrents, deluged with downpours, and rain that simply ceased to stop falling, the countryside was very, very green. And sodden. New shoots, buds, and sprouts had popped up everywhere, the landscape was like a continuous oasis, with mini waterfalls tumbling in places I'd never seen before, grass had grown a month's worth in a few days and I'd had to go out on to my patio every evening to empty the saucers from under the pot plants so they could drain.
Unfortunately this precipitation continued into the weekend. There was a Civil War reenactment that I wanted to see in Front Royal, but when I arrived the clouds burst open again to dump another couple of watery inches. From my warm dry car I watched sympathetically as confederate soldiers huddled together under porch roofs and shop doorways, collars pulled up high and their demonstration exhibits left to turn soggy on lawns and the roads, closed for the occasion. There were no spectators at all. I felt sorry for them and sat, happy to wait out the shower, but realizing after checking the forecast that this was going to continue through the day. There was supposed to be a battle reenactment at 1pm, but I hoped for the soldiers' sakes it would be cancelled. I left Front Royal and took the long route home through country lanes.

There were few cars on the roads so I pottered along slowly until I came to narrow gravel lanes with grass verges filled with a pretty pink, purple or white flower that reminded me of phlox. The rain had eased off a little so I took some photos with my jacket held over my head.

The Shenadoah River had burst its banks, muddy water spinning and tumbling down its course, with logs and other debris caught up in the current, eddying to who knows where. There were no fishermen along the banks today.
I looked up this flower when I got home, discovering that it is actually an invasive species, originally from Europe, but is also sold as an ornamental flower here. It seems to have escaped the confines of gardens and is now regarded as a 'pull-worthy' weed, taking over roadsides and woodland edges. It actually has a lovely fragrance and has been cultivated for its essential seed oil and used in perfumes. The young leaves are also rich in vitamin C and can be eaten in salads. When searching Google, most sites were bemoaning the plant's worth, encouraging people to yank it up and thwart its growth. But one site spoke of it only in favorable tones, but the published date was 1996...I guess Dame's Rocket has made itself a little too comfortable in the countryside, but I for one, was pleased to make its acquaintance today

Biking from Big Pool

Saturday was threatening rain but I decided to go on a bike ride anyway and headed for Big Pool, MD. Heavy dark clouds pressed down above me as I drove but I was determined to test ride the bike I'd bought from Jason, eager to find out if it would be an easier ride on rough trails than the heavy silver Pacifica I've been riding. The air was thick with humidity, the first experience of it this year, and definitely not welcome.

 I stopped briefly at C and O markers on the roadside along the way, just to be nosy and see what gems were at the end of each divertion. The warm weather had drawn out canal volunteers who were busy planting and tidying up the flower beds around a lockhouse, with others inside sweeping away the cobwebs. I just had to drive under this tunnel because the road was so close to the water, but then backed out again quite quickly once I discovered it led to private residences. I bet they hate curious people like me!
At the trail head, the weather decided to test my resolve, dropping huge rain drops on my head and shoulders as I unloaded the bike. if I had been riding the Bianchi, then I would have loaded the bike straight back into the vehicle again, but because this new bike is for rougher conditions, I decided to continue with my ride, hoping the showers would abate. It was hot and steamy as I started pedaling and I was glad I'd smothered myself in bug deterrent.

 The paved trail was the Western Maryland Railroad trail heading west to Hancock. I was finishing the trail that I'd ridden a couple of weeks earlier, that time heading west from Hancock. This side of the town was less interesting and although it was beautiful to see the new lush vegetation sprouting up from the ground and from branches above, it was very much the same all the way along. After a couple of miles, the trail followed I-70 very closely and from that point the ride was hell. All the way to Hancock, the sound of heavy traffic was deafening, stripping away any enjoyment from the bike ride. I was conscious of every pedal push, just wishing the miles away as I rode. The only place where my attention was distracted from the din was Park Head Cemetery, where I dismounted to have a look. Later research showed that there was once a settlement here called Millstone, which was a stage coach stop, and apparently one night it failed to stop, ending up in the canal.
I was very pleased to reach Hancock and without a break I dropped down to begin riding back on the canal path, but was dismayed to find that the sound of traffic would still accompany me.

 Just out of town are the remains of the Tonoloway Creek Aqueduct, built between 1835 and 1839. This is a beautiful piece of artwork, with curved wrought iron railings still intact, although many of them have been destroyed by debris from flood waters. But it is still easy to picture how it must have looked 100 years ago, a stunning piece af architecture that carried boats over the creek.

The path was pretty to ride along but that horrendous traffic noise was ever present, making it impossible to regard this as a tranquil place of beauty. Which was a shame because the path, with the canal on one side and the river on the other, bright green vegetation and spring flowers popping up everywhere, was a joy to behold. I tried very hard to ignore the engine noises, stopping occasionally to enjoy the wonder of Spring erupting all around me, the cool canal water with turtles, big and small, plopping off their logs as I came past, the ferns finishing their unfurling and proudly spreading their fronds. A picnic area had a water pump, treated with iodine, and a dish for dogs below it, firewood stacked by the tables, covered with plastic sheets against the spring showers. Butterflies flitted alongside me and sycamore seeds spun past like mini helicopters

Ahead of me I spotted a frantic flutter of butterflies on the trail, their attention gripped by something I couldn't see. They were Eastern Tiger Swallowtails with one Spicebush Swallowtail with them. Because they eat nectar I could only assume it was a fallen flower from the previous night's rain. I walked my bike around them, keeping as far away from them as possible so I didn't disturb them. I had to take my photos from a distance too, not wanting to interrupt their obvious rapt attention to whatever it was they were crowding around.

Jack in the Pulpits were growing rampantly under trees and I even spotted some paw paw flowers, nearly missing their dark blooms. I was succeeding in engrossing myself in nature but then realized my bike was harder to pedal and there were some odd noises coming from the back end. I looked down and saw a flat tire. And I had another 6 miles to cover before I got to the car. Determined not to get dejected, I wiped myself with a fresh bug spray wipe and started walking, pushing the bike along beside me. I did ride it some of the way but for the most part I marched. I eventually got back onto the paved Railroad Trail and then received a lot of offers of help, to patch my inner tube or even replace it. Since by then I only had less then 2 miles at this point I declined with many thanks, not wanting to spoil their ride when I only had a short distance to cover. I got back to the car, where 2 guys who had offered me help earlier smiled and waved, shouting, "You still look good!", cheering me up immensely as I felt very hot and bothered. But I'd made it in 70 minutes so was very pleased. The bike, despite the flat, had passed with flying colors. And even with the stress of the return journey I realized that throughout my ride I hadn't once suffered from aching shoulders, which had been a regular occurrence on the old bike.
Once the car was loaded up, I decided to explore a little of the canal. I drove down a road with a sign saying McCoy's Ferry. There's a campsite at the end of the road and a ramp where the ferry likely operated from but I was more in awe of the tunnel and the trestle bridge.

 There was once fierce competition between the railroad and the canal for business and this huge bridge is a monument to the railroad's might. It was impressive looking across at it from higher up and even more so standing beneath it and marveling at its structure, as sturdy and strong now as it was back in its heyday. The tunnel was equally thrilling, especially since I was driving through with a much taller vehicle now. It was dark and drippy inside and a tight fit, width as well as height, but I still had a couple of drive throughs, glad that there was no one to witness my childishness.

The roads I was driving along were the back roads, steering clear of any highways, and the journey was a little like riding a rollercoaster. Even keeping within the speed limit of 35mph, the hillocks, humpback bridges and corners were real tummy jugglers, I almost left my seat at times while hanging tight onto the steering wheel and sporting a manic grin. I passed some interesting sights, an amazing gateway that appeared to have once belonged to a rather stately home, which wasn't standing today, the mailbox of a religious zealot. It said, 'REBEL NOT AGAINST THE LORD', on the other side.

The last photos I stopped for before the drive home was the site of a demolished leather factory, which I wished I'd discovered before it was razed to the ground, and driving through Martinsburg I spotted a store sign that made me chuckle. The word, 'boutique', and an image of an elderly spinster just didn't seem to gel, but I sure hoped her business was sprightly!