Bad boy, bad boy, what'm I gonna do?

People get a certain thrill doing bad things. I'm a people. And a closet rebel with a confession to make.
I trespassed last Saturday.
Twice.
Now, you may be thinking, Larry, you are a paragon of moral, ethical, and legal conduct, how could you possibly have trespassed twice in one day?
Easy.
The first time came and went quick and easy through someone’s backyard as they barbecued on the porch at the end of a road in the lovely little town of Cannelton, out near Darlington. (What you’ve never heard of it, even though you’ve lived in Beaver County all your life? Amazing.). Sarah just walked through the yard into the woods, and I just followed.
It felt wrong, felt strange, but it felt good. I felt a little dirty. I felt a little excited marching right through this backyard, with the smell of steaks frying and quest of the Face in front of me.
My life of crime had started.
I have an extremely boring book that told me on a high knob, half a mile South of Cannelton, on an unused road, over an iron stringer bridge with most of the floorboards missing, a face was carved into a rock.
I trespassed in pursuit of The Face on the Hill.

We walked right into the woods, and up onto an overgrown path (which is an understatement) we didn’t know was there. I could have used a machete in spots. I wouldn’t have been surprised to stumble across someone and hear, ‘Livingstone, I presume.’
But the random path lead to the iron stinger bridge with most of the floor boards missing - and by that I mean all of them.
We crossed it anyway (one of us faster than the other), found the knob, climbed the only side that was climbable, and found the face.
It was creepy. (but I kissed it)
On the way back, we decided to just follow the river, along the side of the hill we were just on thinking it would eventually lead to the bridge.
That lasted about 3 minutes until it was impassable. So we crossed the creek, and trespassed into someone’s backyard.
I felt dirty again, but I think that was mostly from the creek which smelled like sewer.
This backyard contained a trailer from a tractor trailer truck (that’s what we call a storage shed), and a lot of plastic toys. The front yard consisted of a rusted out tractor, a dead car, a driveway that went in two directions and two dogs, neither of which were leashed.
We hurried down what seemed to be the driveway out, through the trees and between two fields, one overgrown with weeds, and the other caged in with an electric fence.
The dogs were still barking and circling, and I heard a voice behind us say, “Can I help you?”
Trespassing can be dangerous.
The electric fence pen contained a real horse, a tiny horse, a donkey and a bull. A big bull. Big scary bull. No trespassing there. We were stuck. So we turned to face the lady, obviously annoyed we’d been trespassing. (some people.) We explained our situation and she opened a gate into the weeds, to let us through.
Wow, what a narrow escape!
I’d like to say my trespassing days are over, but the thrill, the excitement of the wrongness, the bad boy in me might be too much. More, again!
Perhaps tomorrow, I will speed.