While the power's still on, I'm going to send out reports from the path of the hurricane.
Spitfire and I are holed up in the mountain hideaway, Dingmans Ferry, PA, 41 degrees and 13 minutes north, 74 degrees and 52 minutes west on the old latitude/longitude grid. We're sixty-seven and a half miles northwest of Rat City, and those rats are swimming today.
We've got a sustained wind speed of around 48 mph right now and lost our first tree about 45 minutes ago. I stepped out on the porch to get some more firewood, heard something coming from the left and looked up to see a sixty-foot maple coming down slow and gentle, whoomping softly to the earth, cradled by the top branches, the trunk never touching the ground. If it had been born eight feet closer to the house we'd have had some real damage. Another tree, a birch, I think, was in its path and the maple clipped the birch and brought it down too. The birch is now resting against the back of the house, I'm looking at the branches against the window.
It's mostly just windy as hell, not a lot of rain yet. We're stockpiled with chili, baked chicken, shepherd's pie, firewood and that Russian-type whiskey the Russians drink, the wodka. Going to ride it out in the mountains tonight. Worst is supposed to be around midnight, crazy rain and stronger wind just blowing through the night.
Almost certain to lose power at some point, it's all power lines running through the woods and more trees will fall before night does. Even if it doesn't take out our lines, they have to shut down parts of the system to repair one downed line, so the odds are not in our favor.
And, needless to say, we're having the time of our lives.
I'll check back in every couple of hours if I can.
This is your on-the-scene meteorologist Scrappy Jack, reporting live from Dingbat's Junction, PA.