Sleeping Giant
I spent my adolescent life in south-central Connecticut, hiking, swimming, and generally goofing around in the woods of Sleeping Giant traprock mountain, always ending up at Wentworth’s Ice Cream Parlor at the foot of one of the ridges.
I went spelunking this summer, finding a fairly well-hollowed cave at the top of a peak. I have always enjoyed the outdoors, and my childhood thought that “I’m climbing on the stomach of a giant, sleeping Indian chief” seemed to only enhance the experience.
After today though, I will never hike that mountain again.
And this is why:
That’s right, according to Wikipedia, which never lies, “Sleeping Giant is also an important seasonal raptor migration path.”
Now, I know what you’re thinking: “They don’t mean Velociraptor, they mean, like, bird raptor.”
Bullshit, I say! You can keep reassuring yourself that a vicious dinosaur will never come through the bushes and cut open your stomach with its razor-sharp claw and eat you while you watch, screaming.
I will not be caught off guard, thank you very much.
