As many of you already know, Penn State is at the geographic center of the state, directly in the midst of the Allegheny mountains, in the appropriately named Happy Valley. It was named that before the University got here, I’m told. In any case, the mountains are old, and were under several miles of ice under numerous ice ages. The ice retreating left interesting rock formations, such as Devil’s Den at Gettysburg, or really wavy ridges in the mountains, like those southeast of here on the north face of Blue Mountain.
Map: Google maps
While those ridges are the setting for this entry, I’ve never been there. I’ve driven past them on Rte. 322 more times than I can count (322 is the main route from Harrisburg and the southeastern part of the state to State College). And, that’s kind of the point.
First, I need to give a little background. In summer 1988, I stayed up at PSU to complete two classes so I could graduate “on time” after five years of college: two at Drexel and three at PSU. The summer before, I met a guy named George at bartending class. Yes, he’s good with me using his name, as I used it in my book Men of the Skull. George was/is a brother of Lambda Chi Alpha, and… well, I’ll include a short book chapter here.
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Chapter 70: Kamikazes
Monday, June 15, 1987 Arms pact reportedly is at hand
So it was the last bartending class. The idea was that each team of students would bring alcohol and make one kind of drink. Then, we would all sample each other’s drinks. Not really a final exam, but sort of. More of a pride thing.
Lambda Chi George, myself, and this one blond had been a team for a while. We decided to make Kamikazes! He said he’d bring the vodka, she brought triple sec and all I needed to do was buy the damn lime juice (as I was still underage.) Simple enough, right?
Of course I forgot.
So I arrived early to class just to have George ream me out a bit. I ran across a road and a parking lot to a grocery store to pick up the juice. Felt like a fucking idiot. I returned sweaty and out of breath just as class was starting.
Every group was doing simple shit like martinis and screwdrivers. We did Kamikazes that had three ingredients. Yeah- go us!
George brought a yellow plastic cocktail shaker from homecoming last year. So as Paul said “ReadyReady!” and called out a drink for us to make, George was loudly shaking kamikazes. Never mind that you really don’t need to shake kamikazes.
“Readyready: vodka martini rocks with a twist.”
SHAKESHAKESHAKE
Soon, Paul figured out that the class was descending into chaos. Oh well. Everyone drink and enjoy!
“Are you going to be good to drive home?” Paul asked George.
“Sure, no problem!” George replied, and gave him a kamikaze I made.
Damn good one too.
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In any case, George was up for the summer as well, and we hung out a LOT, usually going to the bars or fraternity parties together at night, when George would find his latest hookup and I, his wingman, would fail miserably. I also helped him with his business course by editing his papers for grammar (his other summer course was golf.)
George lived near enough to me back home that we would share rides back when necessary. I think we went four times. The trip with George was an experience, as he liked to drive fast, and would stop at every bar on the way. Every bar. They all knew him by name, and one particular bar near Dauphin (long gone) would see him walk in and know his drink AND food order before he said a word. This made the usual three-hour trip into a five or six hour rather dangerous one.
Each time we passed those particular ridges, we noticed how steep they were, and the fields of loose rock dotting their sides. I'd seen this sort of thing before this: on the eastern face of Mount Misery at Valley Forge park, where it plunges to Valley Creek below. However, Mount Misery is only about 577 feet high, while these ridges southeast of Lewistown are a bit over 2000 feet.
Close up of one of many stone fields visible from the road (Google maps)
George and I would say the same thing every trip: "we have to climb that someday." The subject came up occasionally while we were drinking, including the last time I saw him in 1994, but we never made plans. Hell, I don't even think we considered how hard that climb would be, and what equipment we'd need.
In summer 1989, I was driving through Valley Forge Park with my friend Mike, and decided that I'd climb that rock field on Mount Misery. So I went, with Mike following reluctantly behind. I was wearing penny loafers. I made it to the top, but twisted my ankle several times doing it. That wasn't as steep as those ridges. I would've needed hiking boots for that.
The years drifted by. As I wrote, the last time I saw George was on October 7, 1994, when we went to a Grateful Dead show together. He'd secured a limo so we could drink our faces off, which we certainly did. I didn't know that within a few weeks my life would radically change, as by the end of that month I was living and working in Baltimore.
Now it's (as of this writing) 2021. I'm 54 with bad knees, sciatica, and a host of other issues. I'm nowhere near the 22 year old who was winded climbing Mount Joy. I haven't seen George in nearly 28 years. He lives in Florida now, and has been sober for almost 15 years. We speak and text occasionally. He's one of the friends I did NOT lose when I transitioned.
There is no way I could climb that mountain now, just like there's no way George would appear at my door asking me to do so. It's like so many other plans I had. Someday I'm gonna... You know someday I really will... We all have these, right? Regrets. I seem to be the queen of them.
In many ways, that mountain: steep and impassable; that I've passed so many times is a metaphor dragged out of its cliché closet. I can't look at it without thinking about those summer trips and the idea that my youthful limbs would carry me (and, undoubtedly some drinks) to the summit. There George and I would down a few while gazing around the landscape.
So many plans for little things that would've meant so much. So many regrets piled up in my memory and my soul.
Perhaps, after I've passed through the veil, my spirit will climb that mountain and finally see that view that, in my youth, I never bothered to seek. I hope it's a clear day, so I can see forever.
Be well.
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