Black Rock

Lou, age six.....
"....Your great-grandmother bought this farm when she first brought her family to America," my grandmother told me. "When your grandfather grew up, he bought it from her. He was training to be a priest, but he left the seminary to marry me, and worked on this farm."
I sat on the couch, listening to her talk about the past. I was staying overnight at my grandparents' house, and a storm was going on outside. It was like a couple of years ago, when a hurricane had flooded the river and trapped us inside the house for days.
She said,"There were Indians here, long ago. We still find arrowheads around the property, and there's an Indian altar at the top of the mountain, where they used to do their ceremonies."
"I want to go see it," I said.
My grandmother smiled. "Well, not tonight for sure. Maybe your grandfather will walk you out to it sometime. And when you're older, you can go explore."
"I like that!"
"You're going to be an explorer. I can tell already. You're going to grow up to have adventures," she said.

Lou, now.
I took three steps and leaped, just narrowly avoiding getting hit by the oncoming train.
I landed in the grass, rolling. A moment later, my friend C Squared landed next to me. The train thundered past.
"Seriously?" I said. "You heard these tracks were haunted?"
"Sure," he said. "They say some guy got killed on them a long time ago."
I stood up, brushing myself off. "Come on, man. Who's gonna get run over by an oncoming train?"
"Well, we almost did."
"Let's get out of here."
We ran to the nearby Ford Escort, a tiny red car that looked like someone had hit the side with a rake. Kline looked up at us as we jumped in.
"No ghosts?
"Nothing," I said. "Let's get home."
He started the car and pulled out, heading back for Slatington. Kline said,"So what now? You guys gonna come back and look again over the weekend?"
I shook my head. "I need a break. I'm gonna stay overnight with my cousin in Phoenixville, and go on out to my grandfather's farm. Black Rock. There's a story of an old Indian altar that I'd like to look into."
"Sounds cool," said Kline.
"I'll bring you back a photo."
"Bring me one of your cousin, too," he said. "She's cute."
"Kline. For fuck's sake."

"Do you need anything?" my cousin asked. I was sitting on the couch at her place, my sleeping bag next to me.
I shook my head. "No. No, I'm okay. Thanks, Marci."
"So what are you attempting here?" she asked, sitting down beside me.
"A long time ago, when I was little, my grandmother told me about an Indian altar on top of the mountain," I said. "I'm gonna hike up there, and see if I can find it."
"Can she give you some idea where it is?" Marci asked. Marci is on my mom's side of the family, and that grandmother was on my dad's.
I shook my head. "She's not too coherent these days. It can be hard to get through to her."
"I'm sorry."
"It's been happening for a long time. When I was little, she used to be a really good grandmother."
"How come you're going out after this thing?"
"I needed to get out of Slatington for the weekend. I needed a break."
"Why are you so into this stuff all of a sudden?"
"I been into this most of my life, Marci."
"Yeah, I remember you watching Raiders of the Lost Ark fourteen times. But lately, it's like you're obsessed with this stuff. We've all noticed. All of a sudden, you're always out looking for something, some dangerous thing to get yourself killed."
"I made some lifestyle changes," I said. I handed her my thermos. "And I'll tell you all about it sometime. So fill this with coffee in the morning, and give me a lift to Black Rock. Okay?"

I hiked up though the forest and over the mountain. It was about nine in the morning, and I was well on my way.
I stopped, sitting down on a rock. I set down my pack for a rest, got out my thermos, and drank some coffee while I looked down over the river.
The Schuylkill River, where there was said to be a water monster. I could see my grandfather's old farmhouse, and the meadow in front of it. The barns across the property, and the pond in the background. I drank my coffee and looked it over from high up.
After a while, I packed everything back away, put my pack back on, and started walking again.

It was about ten AM when I came across the ruins of the old clubhouse.
It had been my father's. I stopped and looked it over, walking around the exterior. A couple of walls remained, and a little bit of the roof---It looked to have been constructed of boards, almost certainly stolen ones. Weather and time had done their damage; I could see it had been a clubhouse, but it wasn't much of a shelter anymore.
I'd known my dad and his best friend Clint had built something like this up here. He'd told me about it. I'd never seen it before.
My father had a secret place in the woods. A place to come and hide with his best friend. Someplace that has parents never knew about.
My father was like me once.
It was a surprising thought. My father had been my age once, had done stuff like me. I had known it in some logical sense, but it hadn't really sunk in until I saw that ruined clubhouse in the woods.

Not far after, I got to the field.
The neighboring property, behind my grandfather's farm and up the mountain, was owned by a man named Jim Kirk. Seriously. I was at the edge of one of his fields, and I had the option to either skirt around the edge, or cut right across it, which would save me some time.
I started walking across it. In the summer, it would be potatoes or something, but right now it was just a wide, empty field.
I was about halfway across when I heard the dog begin to bark.
It was in the barnyard, in the distance at the edge of the field, maybe six hundred yards away. I could see it---It was a big one, dark-colored, and running across the barnyard toward me.
I felt a moment of terror. I was out in the open, like a bug on a plate. There was no way I could outrun this dog; it was way faster than I was. If it was in a mood to bite---And it sounded really pissed off---There wasn't a whole lot I could do about it. There were no trees to climb anywhere near me; I was far from the edge of the field.
I turned and bolted.
I got out my whip as I ran. I needed obstacles. I couldn't outrun the dog, but if I could get to the tree line I stood a chance. I raced for the edge of the field, not turning to check, hearing the dog bark angrily as it came in my direction.
It was one long, stressful run---Probably it seemed longer than it really was----But I made it to the tree line with the dog still a good distance away. I dashed into the forest, dodging and zigzagging, and put some trees and logs in between me and the dog.
I kept running, and then slowed down. I couldn't hear it. Chances were it had lost interest once I was thoroughly out of sight. I had trouble picturing your average farm dog stalking me silently through the woods like a Chupacabra.
I slowed down to walk, breathing heavily. After a while, I got my breath, and I was again just walking pleasantly on the mountain, on the edge, with a visible cliff ahead.
That meant I had to be near the top, east of my grandfather's house, far above the river.
Another minute of walking, and my feet shot out from under me.
I slid, landing on my back. In the fallen leaves, I slid down the slope in a lying position, heading directly for the cliff.
I reached up as I slid under a fallen limb, grabbing it and hanging on. It held, and I clung to it, my feet dangling over the edge of the cliff.
Slowly, I pulled myself back up, gripping onto the limb. I crawled along it, struggling until I got to a good place, stood up, and went back uphill and to the top of the mountain.
And I found it. There it was.
It had to be the altar. It couldn't be anything else. It was a large, flat black stone, maybe four feet by three feet, sticking out of the ground by several inches. Clearly, it hadn't shaped this way on its own; someone had worked it. This was it---This was the Indian altar.
It may very well have not been actually an altar; by calling it that, my family was making the same mistake a lot of archaeologists make. They'd confused an unknown function with a religious function, which happens to the best of us. But, looking at it, I realized something else, too.
This thing had been here for centuries. It had been here longer than my entire family. And, given the color, it was very likely that this was where the family farm, Black Rock, had gotten its name.
I sat on the edge of the rock, looking out over the river.

Late that afternoon, with the sun just beginning to go down, Marci picked me up.
"How's it going?" she asked as I got in the car.
"Pretty good," I said. "I had a good hike."
"You find what you were looking for?"
I smiled.
"Yeah," I said. "I think I did."
She pulled the car out, and we headed toward home.