My own Shangri-La

It was usually around the second week of July when Boredom set in. Now, most people would think that spending a hot summer month at a cottage would be fun. Let me tell you from experience, are not always fun. I did, however have ways of dealing with these occasional bouts of boredom. I would head into the kitchen and prepare a lunch (always nutritional, of course) peanut butter sandwiches, marshmallows and cola. Then I would pack it away for the journey. This task usually took me no time at all, because I did not want to get caught. You see where I was going for my picnic, was taboo for me, even though I was nearly a man at ten years old.

With my picnic lunch packed and a can of cola in my hand, I would head out on my trek. The picnic lunch was an absolute necessity for a hike of this magnitude, it was, after all, a whole two miles to my secret spot. I would always double check my pockets for the necessary pennies, which were always in abundance at our cottage. With the jingle of a handful of pennies, I was set! The journey could begin.

I remember climbing those steep mountainous paths and alongside cavernous drops. Some would call these treacherous path were called gravel roads, but to me they were the most dangerous mountain passes anyone would dare travel. Those hills after all, were as steep as mountains and about the tallest ones I had ever dared conquer. It seemed at the time, that to get to the midway point in my journey would take me at least 3 or 4 hours. This midway point was my rest stop and the locals called it "The Bridge'. I suppose it was because there was an old rickety, perilous and unstable log bridge log bridge traversing the most deadly swamp in that part of the world. No one in their right mind would cross it. Even at the best of times it was a death-defying act. I don't wonder how many cottagers were lost in those depths as they negotiated their way to their own retreats. I would spend quite some time resting there before edging my way over that gorge to continue my second leg of my pilgrimage. Although I did not always rest while I was there. I would throw stones into the swamp, catch frogs and sometimes I even caught the odd venomous snake. However one must never dawdle when one is on such a trek as this, and soon I would be off again.

Now I can tell you from experience that the second leg was always far more hazardous than the first part. Several hours later, Tired and hungry, my destination finally within my sights, I would stop for a quick drink from a fresh water spring that lay just a few hundred feet of the trail. A few hundred feet through the darkest, sinister, most forbidding forest imaginable. But I would always achieve the goal of fresh water. However I had to travel through that same wooded area to get to my final destination, despite the fact that it was just chuck full of dangers unimaginable by most men, let alone a ten year old boy (who was almost a man). It took a real adventurer to hack through the dark forest and its pitfalls. But the rewards were well worth the risk and as I pierced the darkness into the light I saw it. There it was! A trail, barren except for the two tracks that ran fro horizon to horizon. I had finally made it, my very own Shangri-la. As I sat there eating my lunch (Nutritious, of course), safe in the knowledge that no beast, demon or man would ever venture in to endanger me here in my holiest of holies.

After my lunch I would follow the ritual. First one must kneel down and place an ear to the closest track and listen very closely. One must be as quiet as a thought, careful not to disturb the natural surroundings. This action was an absolute necessity, a very integral part of the ritual being performed. They say that if you are very quiet you can hear the beast through the tracks they use. I actually can't recall ever hearing anything but the sound of nature herself. But then, I may not have been quiet enough. Having completed that part of the ceremony, I stood up. After surveying the area with the attention of an Indian tracking the great buffalo I would reach into my pocket.

Ah yes there it was, the unmistakable sound of pennies. The great sacrifice to the gods of the tracks. I pulled those precious coins from the depths of my pockets and proceeded to lay each coin onto the flat parts of the tracks. All that was left to do now was wait for the. After all freight trains don't run all that often. But I couldn't stand there exposed, I had to hide myself from view. If I stayed out in the open, the railway police would put me in jail forever, I was sure of that.

After several hours, sometimes less than an hour there came the unmistakable sound. The mad rumbling of an oncoming freight train. At this point I would become so intensely excited. When the train finally reached my position, I was usually shaking with the thrill of the moment. The wind from the passing train would press me against the rock wall where I stood. My ears were deafened by the tumultuous rumble of the steel wheels passing mere feet away from me. The smile on my face went form ear to ear. I don't ever remember being that excited.

The long freight train would pass far too quickly; I suppose that is the way of things of that magnitude, especially for a boy at that age. Now came the task of finding all the pennies that I had laid on the tracks. They were always scattered far and wide, but I usually managed to lose but a few of those cherished coins, but it had all been worth the effort and the dangers involved in getting there. I looked at each flattened defaced penny with great pride. I had a treasure worth a king's ransom.

I really do miss those days, for they are gone forever for me. However I still have and will always remember those moments fondly. I hope that the tradition is still alive out there in that wilderness and that many other adventurous boys continue the legacy.