 |
 |
||||
 |
|||||
 |
|
|
|
|
|
 |
||
|
|
|
|
6 | (continued) One of the places I often biked to, where I could fill my containers with truly good water, was a public spring on a concession road several miles east of my woods and well north of the highway. The place had a broad parking lot beside a low concrete wall, from which four pipes extended, none of them with valves, steadily pouring forth the most drinkable water in the county. The place was never deserted during the day, and probably had floodlights on at night, for all I know—I did very little biking at night. But it was a delight to wheel in there on a hot summer afternoon, drink my fill, soak my arms and head, and load up with as much water as I could safely carry. |
||
|
|
|
|
|
||
|
|
|
