It's just a little after midday when Jenn and Frank finally set off for Blackstone Rock. According to the map, Blackstone is a good two miles or so Northwest of the lake, and the sun is already at it's highest vantage to roast the air with early summer heat. The two follow a trail that runs along a steep ravine, and Frank and Jenn are kept company by the sound of the slowly rushing creek. This path is definitely well maintained, and it's pretty easy at this point to discredit everything that was said by the crazy armed farmers the other night. As the trail winds higher, the two can begin to see a jagged rocky formation of dark grey stone peaking over the treetops. Even in the protective shade of the forest, Jenn and Frank find themselves sweating, especially with the weight of their hiking packs. It gets even warmer when the trail winds away from the ravine.

The two are just leaving the blanketed protection of the forest, as the trail clears out into the final stretch before reaching Blackstone Rock, when the air is split by the thunderous sound of rifle fire. The blast is so loud that it's at first impossible to tell the proximity of the shot. But as the ringing in their ears begins to clear, a man calls out, "Oh ****! Sorry about that!" No more than thirty yards to the left of the trail is a rangy looking man with a scraggly mess of brown hair and an equally tangled long beard. He's got a red wife-beater on and camo patterned cargo pants covered in pockets, and is hoisting a smoking matte black hunting rifle over his shoulder. The man takes a step away from his open red ice cooler to walk towards Jenn and Frank, his arm extended as if in greeting. "Are you two okay?" he hollers.