For Thursday, October 23, 1997 Drummer Column, Gibbs, 722 words

Rocks of ages

As a growing boy in rural Pennsylvania, one of my favorite places to play was Devil's Den, a convoluted rock garden on a heavily wooded hillside a mile south of town.

Devil's Den cost no money and required no electricity. It was just rocks 30 feet high in the middle of a flat forest. Some were clustered together, forming florid mazes of cracks, crevices and crawlspaces. Others stood alone, challenging young climbers to reach the top.

Coming upon Devil's Den was like happening on ancient ruins. The trail ran between scattered monoliths that grew bigger and closer together. Beyond, in the shadows, we'd eventually see the central cluster of boulders. As we neared it, the trail would dissolve, because everyone entered Devil's Den in different ways.

We could climb up in eight directions or walk around either corner and find eight more. Once inside Devil's Den there were no trails. We preferred that and never left markers. The fun was in clambering around aimlessly for hours, exploring, or re-exploring. We could never get lost for long because, like Cinderella's Castle in Disneyland, Devil's Den had a remarkable center attraction.

In the center was this enormous overhanging rock ledge that we could stand under, like an open-faced cave. In the center of that, as an act of natural luck, grew a ragged ring of good sitting rocks. Here we converged to spend many summer days roasting marshmallows and hot dogs. We watched years of storms from under that smoke-scarred ledge.

When we got older we learned about a far-away place known as Miles Rocks, said to be five miles out of town and five times bigger than Devil's Den. A steeper trail led the way. We had to check it out.

We did. It was five times bigger. It was a rock garden of major proportions, stretching for miles, towering above us, full of caves, tunnels, and secret passageways. Across the smooth surfaces grew blueberries and gnarled trees. The major attraction was the southern rim, a long, sheer cliff perfect for rappelling and rock climbing. We converged to spend many summer days out on that white stony ridge.

Miles Rocks was too far away and too hard to reach for most people. In all our years, we never saw another person up there. That is, until one day.

One day my buddy, Joe, and I drove up to Miles Rocks on our dirt bikes. We parked and climbed up to the southern rim. We were just sitting there commenting on how beautiful and isolated the place was when we saw this guy in his late teens climb over the top of a distant ridge. Behind him came another guy. Then a couple of girls appeared. Then more guys and girls appeared. They just kept coming. Turned out to be 30 of them.

Joe and I walked over and introduced ourselves. They told us they were from Kent State University, way out west in Ohio. One guy had once lived in our area, and he had got everyone so excited about the big rocks that they'd decided to make a pilgrimage.

"Where are you camped?" I asked, curious because the terrain around the rocks was terribly rugged.

"Down in that ravine," someone said, pointing east. That couldn't be, I figured. The eastern region was a God-forsaken hellhole.

"Show me," I asked. They took us to their bog camp, 200-feet down a steep muddy slope. Their tents were strewn in a mushy, rocky creek bed. To compound their travail, they had come in from the east, the farthest and most difficult route to the nearest highway. They were muddy and tired, so Joe and I didn't laugh too hard. Also, some of the girls were cute.

We spent the day rock climbing, and accepted their invitation to spend the night. The next morning we awoke early to the sound of helicopter blades and an amplified voice over a bullhorn saying, "This is the state police. You are illegally camped on state game lands. Please wait for officers on foot to arrive."

The chopper drifted back to make visual contact with its ground troops. I hunted around for Joe. He was already putting on his helmet. I grabbed mine. We said hasty good-byes, wished everyone luck, and buzzed off straight up the slope. In minutes we were following the gas-line road back to town.

Epilogue: We returned three hours later to learn that they had each been fined one dollar and told to vacate. They said the troopers laughed harder than Joe and I did.