Lesson 891: Bench Hole

 Hello, Readers.

Eloise spies some spring skies!

(and so does this guy,

from atop his Firman Road telephone pole)

Heavy clouds

have moved in,

bearing cold rain 

over the lake.

I love a good, open-sky shot.

Even if it is 

over the Walmart parking lot.

And this neat capture

is from atop the Foxwood subdivision.

Some of the Lamp Posters

left the 'burbs 

last weekend

and headed south.

It was Maple Syrup weekend,

and we made a stop at 
Yeany's in Marienville.

We got a tour of their operation

and a pancake breakfast!

We retuned to the cabin to walk off

the carbs.

The colors of spring were 

starting to emerge.

Green

Purple

Orange

There are always stories

when it comes to camp.

Eloise is a storyteller,

so you are getting the story of

Bench Hole tonight.

Hang a right out of the cabin

and follow the path 

straight into the 

Allegheny National Forest.

Walk about a football field down the horse trail

and you'll come 

to this pretty creek bend.

Just around that bend

you'll find a bench,

right there in the middle 

of the 

Allegheny National Forest.

It's a very unlikely spot for a bench!

Here is the story:

For years and years,

across from our cabin,

a red bench sat at the edge of Spring Creek

on the property of Bert and Cheryl Nemcik,

now deceased,

but very much alive

in spirit and in the legends 

of storytelling.

Hundreds of people

rested and reflected

on that red bench on the water's edge.

In the Big Snow of 2017,

there was subsequently 

the Big Melt of 2018. 

The fast flowing waters 

of the fast-melt

uprooted the red bench.

It wound its way downstream,

and landed upright

perfectly in this spot,

as if angels themselves

delivered it there

for fishermen to sit on.

Since then,

the fisherman have referred to the spot

as Bench Hole.

Fast forward a few years,

and the conglomerate from

East Southwoods Lane

missed their bench and wanted it back.

After an afternoon of imbibing,

a girl gang at the neighboring camp

decided to bring the bench back.

They made the trek,

chanting 

Bench, bench, bench!

Swam across the stream

and brought it back to its original home.

Unbeknownst to anyone,

an old, local fisherman witnessed the event.

In a casual conversation about fishing,

the old man told the story to a family friend

who loves nothing more 

than to spend a Saturday afternoon.

fishing that hole.

The old man relayed his version of the story

to our friend

"...they was chanting Bench, bench, bench!

And it was a bunch of women!"

The old fisherman marveled at the girls' brute strength,

but lamented his resting spot.

It was not two weeks later

that Eloise had a second bench flown in

to the spot the fishermen love to sit.

This time,

not on the wings of angels,

but the wings of butterflies.

Enjoy your peace,

fishermen.

Eloise