Raspberry foray
by Jon Worley

There's an invisible geographical boundary in a stand of woods just south of New Freedom, Penn. Invisible, but easy to locate when biking across it. This divide between the Codorus Creek and Gunpowder Falls watersheds lies about a mile north of a better-known division, the Mason-Dixon line, and I cross both during my frequent bike workouts. While working up the Codorus watershed (while biking almost due south), the going can be tough. But about 200 feet into the woods, along a stretch of trail which appears to be perfectly flat, the pedaling suddenly becomes much easier, my speed quickly increasing to half again what it was before. This moment provides me with a natural second wind, at least until I wander into Maryland a ways and decide to turn back. Then my travails begin again until I cross back into the domain of the free-flowing road to York.

For a few strange reasons, I've been exercising a ton this summer. Every day, except when it rains (and it hasn't rained much). One reason is to acclimate myself to warm temperatures (While living in Florida, I spent six months out of the year in air conditioning, refusing even the slightest outdoor exertion in hopes of avoiding migraine headaches). Another thought is to work off a small but persistent beer belly (I can't pinch an inch, but I don't have a six-pack ab set, either). And yet another reason is that Pennsylvania is ablaze with wild fruit in the summer.

Berries, mostly. Along the Appalachian Trail (obviously, higher elevations), there are huge stands of wild blueberry bushes. Last summer I made more than one foray into the Micheaux State Forest section of the trail (about 15 miles west of Gettysburg) just to take in my fill of the luscious blues while scrambling along one of the more strenuous sections of the trail. This summer I bike 20-25 miles two or three times a week. My sojourns begin on the York County Heritage Rail Trail (complete with a operating rail line right along side) and then continue on the Northern Central Railroad Trail (the trail completely replacing the tracks) after crossing into Maryland. I've never ridden the complete NCR Trail, but I understand it gets down to Loch Raven, which is nestled in the northern edge of the Baltimore suburbs. When the York trail is finally extended into York City next year (It now begins about 10 miles south of town) there will be a 40-mile bike trail all set to challenge idiots like me. For now, I'm setting my sights this fall on a complete circuit of the existing 30-mile trail, a total of 60 miles in a day. I'm not Tour de France material, but after last fall's 40 mile trek, 60 would be a nice improvement.

All future dreams aside, both trails are well-stocked with raspberry bushes. And when I say well-stocked, I mean it's impossible to go a mile without seeing a large stretch of red-specked vines. Fresh, ripe raspberries are my favorite treat. I like just about any form of unadulterated (no sugar added) raspberry concoction, be it iced tea or beer or what have you. But the bestest, most satisfying taste in the world is a perfectly ripened fresh raspberry, plucked from the vine.

Raspberries are at their peak when they retain some of the tartness of their unripened state while imparting a healthy dose of ripened sweetness. There is a perfect shade of red achieved by exactly ripe raspberries. I had to get reacquainted with this spotting technique, as the last time I can recall scoring fresh raspberries was at my grandparents' house in Manhattan, Kan., where my grandpa grew all sorts of vegetables and fruits. He had, for a time, a couple of raspberry vines. And I discovered one of my life's true passions.

Often enough, a vine presents only imperfect raspberries, some just past and some a bit before their prime. I feel it is perfectly appropriate to mix one of each, as the blending of the two in my mouth creates the wonderful mishmash of sweet and tart that I crave. Still, I endeavor to find only the prime raspberries, leaving the undone ones for future revelers. And I'm not the only trail fiend who takes in a stop or two for the purpose of scoring the sacred berry; I generally encounter more than one vine which has been picked clean by fellow travelers. And I vicariously imagine their pleasure even as I indulge mine. Not a bad way to spend a few minutes.

After the requisite reverie, it's back to the bike and on toward finishing my daily goal. Ever onward, but not without a wistful look back to my time among the vines. Luckily, the ride back north is downhill all the way, thanks to the ever-growing Codorus Creek, a branch of which accompanies the trail most of the way. I may bike through two states, but my mind resides only in one: the state of bliss.

Jon Worley hopes to move before the rail trail is built into downtown York sometime late next summer.

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