It took a while to find an exotic sounding place to picnic with Uncle Warren.
I think it’s the name that did it. And it turns out that Miles Standish did indeed hunt in the pine barrens.
K was tired from the drive, but when the bathrooms turned out to be on either side of a nature center where you could feel fox pelts and handle skunk skulls, she became enthused. Especially when she spied the baby box turtle in the goldfish bowl.
The interpreter had a bag of bog iron samples, including a 17th century rake head.
We wanted to know if our bogs were like the British ones (hence the colonial understanding that they could get iron by smelting peat) did we have bog bodies like they find in Europe?
The answer was, “No doubt.” But the bogs in question are currently in cranberry production and privately owned.
Well, I love my cranberries, so I can see why archeology has to wait – even indefinitely.
We plan to head back with our canoe and the fishing license we will have bought by then, the woods and ponds were lovely, and we had perfect weather for our visit.
I asked my Mom why we hadn’t explored there before, she and Dad were great at finding day trips. She said she’d been icked out because that’s where the murder victims of a serial killer had been found in the ’80s, but she’s brave enough to hike there with us now.
Oh. Good reason, Mom.