During the summer of 1993 I lived in New York City, in the East Village on 2nd street. My pal Billy took me in as a roommate for about eight months. During that time I put a lot of energy into climbing at an area just north of the city called the “Gunks.” It was about a 90 minute drive from the apartment to the town of New Paltz.
I had a lot of friends in the small community of climbers, and it was always easy to meet people. The actual area of rock formations is a private reserve, and it’s remarkably beautiful and pristine, even though it's so close to the city.
The way the cliff system has emerged from the terrain around is a typical slip fault system, it’s steep on the cliff side, and then on top there are huge expanse of bare rock. The white rock on top is tipped at just a slight angle so the view off the back seems open and expansive. And the forested area below is free of any houses because it’s part of the preserve. It’s a truly beautiful place, and I deeply enjoyed every moment I spent there.
I had found a perfectly lovely spot to sleep out, just a small patch of rock in a sea of slightly tilted rock. I loved sleeping there, outside during the warm and humid summer. The level sleeping spot is just big enough to fit me and my sleeping bag. I’ve spent many a night sleep there, comfortably under the stars.
There was one night during that summer when I was wrestles all day. I was in the the apartment, and it was getting late. It must have been midnight and I suddenly couldn’t stand it anymore, I got in my little Subaru and started driving towards New Paltz, so I could sleep on my sacred spot, and the next morning I could find a climbing partner and spend the day on the rocks.
During the drive north, somewhere on the East Side of Manhattan, I realized how strange it was that I was driving so late at night. I had never done anything like this before.
I suddenly had the thought, “Man, they sure are pushin’ hard tonight.”
That just popped into my head, and I didn’t quite know what to make of it.
There is no dramatic climax to this story. I arrive at my lovely little sleeping spot around 2:AM, and (as I recall 15 years later) went to sleep under the stars.
I never thought anything of it, but just a bout a year ago, I read a report on Whitley Streiber’s web-site, where he talked about some of the events that happened in his cabin. Accompanying the text was a photo of a castle like tower perched high on a cliff. I knew this structure well, it’s located on the same series of rock cliffs where I would climb and sleep.
As I read the article, Whitley noted that his cabin was just a mile or so from that old tower. And I realized that my sleeping spot was about a mile from that exact same location. How close had I been to that infamous paranormal hotspot. It was a weird feeling.
A few years ago, I went back to that very spot during a visit to New York. I walked along the path in the woods, and I stepped off at just the right spot and began my short hike toward the open flatness of the white rock. It was like my feet knew just wear to walk, considering how many times I had done that walk in the dark. Everything was the same, as I approached the small level platform on the sloping rock.
And - right on the exact spot where I had slept, someone had spray painted a pentagram in a circle, with red paint.
Why had someone picked this one spot, in this vast ocean of rock, to paint a superstitious piece of graffiti?
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M. Well past twilight. In sept or oct (or maybe very early nov?) the sun goes down early, and the football games were lit with big lights.