It’s scary, really.
Three minutes ago, I turned 24. As in, I’ve been on this earth for 8,760 days, 210,240 hours, 12,614,400 minutes — you get the point.
I’m old. No, not compared to John Chaney. But compared to, well, me of yesteryear. Or even last year.
Consider my past year, probably the most exciting and peripatetic of my life.
A year ago today, I was getting readjusted to life in the United States. I was four days removed from being abroad, having returned from a three-and-a-half-month stay in Australia and a three-day vacation in New Zealand.
Living across the world was the best part of my life. Sure, there was school and an internship, but there was no stress. It basically was an extended vacation. I enjoyed every minute of it.
Then came my final semester of school at Albion College, which turned out to be, contrary to what I anticipated, my best few months at Albion. With a lighter workload than during my first three years, I enjoyed myself more — despite working five days a week — and as the final days approached, I dreaded the end.
But, sadly, it came. On May 12, I graduated from Albion — and was thrown out into the real world.
OK, that’s a lie. I moved back in with the nicest people in the world, my parents, and they didn’t even charge rent or room and board. I commuted 40 minutes each way to my part-time job at the Jackson Citizen Patriot. But I knew I couldn’t live at home and earn $9.50 an hour at a 28-hour-a-week job for long.
So in July I finalized plans to make the first major move of my life — an emigration to North Carolina to move in with my cousin/brother J-bo.
Late July and early August were great. Some of the best times of my life. First, my boy Tick and I went on our second annual baseball trip, visiting Milwaukee’s Miller Park, and Chicago’s Wrigley Field — my first time — and U.S. Cellular Field. In August, I flew to Utopia — aka Sandwich, N.H. — for two amazing weeks of hiking with J-bo and others.
And then the wait began. Late August and September slogged along until, at long last, I shed a few tears — seriously — and packed my Honda Civic for Durham, N.C. After a three-day stop in D.C., I arrived on a hot, humid day in early October.
… And now here I am, 24 — celebrating my birthday for the first time away from home. When I go to church tonight, there won’t be any animals — as is the tradition in telling Jesus’ story at the church in Ann Arbor. Tomorrow, I’ll bring in Christmas without any white stuff outside and without Mom, Bust and Ro sitting around me.
It’s all weird, kind of scary, kind of exciting. Yes, plenty of emotions.
But, honestly, I don’t feel 24 years old (I guess that’s a good thing). I feel about 18, maybe 19. I still love acting a kid. You wanna shoot hoops in the rain? I’m down. You wanna scalp cheap tickets then move down at a game? You better. The way I see it, you’re only old if you act old.
So now I move forward, with 365 days left until the Big No. 25. Will the next year of my life be as crazy and transient as this past one?
I can’t give a definitive answer, I really can’t, because I don’t want to commit to anything. There are only a few guarantees I can give:
I won’t step into a mall if I don’t have to. I’ll continue to watch hundreds of hours of sports games, and I’ll probably continue to write about sports.
I’ll eat a lot, I’ll probably sleep a lot, and I’ll definitely exercise a lot.
Lots of tennis, hoops and chess are in the works. I’ll also put to use my video camera, creating some YouTube classics for all you (one or two people) interested.
And maybe I’ll start living on a normal schedule, such as going to bed by 12 and waking up by 8.
Then again, that’s unlikely. After all, I don’t want to show any signs that my youth is fading. And if I can’t live by a college student’s hours, what kind of message will I be sending?
I know, that sounds nonsensical.
But forgive me. I’m still just a kid.
Monday, December 24, 2007
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
12.18.2007: Keys to being frugal
When you’re making $8.50 an hour washing dishes.
When your freelance checks never arrive in your mailbox.
When you’ve got rent to pay, plus TV, Internet, electricity, water and newspaper monthly bills.
Yes, you have to be extremely frugal to get by.
So here, for anyone interested, are my keys to frugality:
— Absolutely no buying of clothes except for socks and boxers.
— Related to the above, get enough socks and boxers to only have to do laundry once a month; you can do it in two loads.
— Never turn the thermostat above 65, which really isn’t that cold to begin with.
— Drive a car that gets at least 35 mpg, but only drive when you can’t bike.
— If your workplace has food, eat as much as you can while there and bring some home to cut down on the need to buy groceries.
— Never use a light in the apartment unless needed. Turn off when done.
— Don’t buy a home phone. The only need for one is if there’s an emergency and you can’t tell the police your address.
— Rarely go out, and when you do, buy that night’s special.
— Use newspapers as wrapping paper.
— Never turn down a free meal.
— Use the apartment complex’s gym unless you work at a gym and get free access.
— Instead of buying books, join a library.
— Never eat out.
— Don’t date.
— Limit your friends. The more of them, the more you spend.
— Don’t travel.
— And, finally, never buy gas when it’s more than $3.00 a gallon. Be patient.
Unfortunately, I can’t say I’ve abided by all the rules listed above. As a result, I’ve volunteered to work Christmas Day — I normally don’t work Tuesdays — if anyone wants off.
Hey, you gotta do what you gotta do.
Talk to you next week,
Jake
When your freelance checks never arrive in your mailbox.
When you’ve got rent to pay, plus TV, Internet, electricity, water and newspaper monthly bills.
Yes, you have to be extremely frugal to get by.
So here, for anyone interested, are my keys to frugality:
— Absolutely no buying of clothes except for socks and boxers.
— Related to the above, get enough socks and boxers to only have to do laundry once a month; you can do it in two loads.
— Never turn the thermostat above 65, which really isn’t that cold to begin with.
— Drive a car that gets at least 35 mpg, but only drive when you can’t bike.
— If your workplace has food, eat as much as you can while there and bring some home to cut down on the need to buy groceries.
— Never use a light in the apartment unless needed. Turn off when done.
— Don’t buy a home phone. The only need for one is if there’s an emergency and you can’t tell the police your address.
— Rarely go out, and when you do, buy that night’s special.
— Use newspapers as wrapping paper.
— Never turn down a free meal.
— Use the apartment complex’s gym unless you work at a gym and get free access.
— Instead of buying books, join a library.
— Never eat out.
— Don’t date.
— Limit your friends. The more of them, the more you spend.
— Don’t travel.
— And, finally, never buy gas when it’s more than $3.00 a gallon. Be patient.
Unfortunately, I can’t say I’ve abided by all the rules listed above. As a result, I’ve volunteered to work Christmas Day — I normally don’t work Tuesdays — if anyone wants off.
Hey, you gotta do what you gotta do.
Talk to you next week,
Jake
Monday, December 10, 2007
12.10.2007 two-month update from North Carolina
For my weekly update this time around, I won’t bore you with self-deprecation or pester you with countless anecdotes. Rather, how ‘bout some numbers?
Saturday marked the two-month mark of my stay here in the shopping metropolis of Durham, North Carolina. So here, ladies and gentlemen, are some fascinating figures from my first 60-plus days in this beacon of college hoops.
1 — Number of times I have done laundry. I must admit, however, that I’m just days (and a couple dirty socks) away from being due again.
1 — Number of times, out of 17, J-bo has beaten me in tennis.
66 — Number of times J-bo and I have played chess (I lead 41-25).
0 — Number of times J-bo has played me in Boggle. If he did, he’d have a very large advantage.
3 — Number of times I have gone out on Franklin Street. This needs to increase.
2 — Duke basketball games I’ve covered. Hopefully more games — including ACC battles — to come.
20 — Number of dollars I owe my uncle Buzz from when he helped me buy furniture.
3,750 — Approximate amount of money I’ve burned since arriving. No worries, though. I’m back to my frugal ways, and I’m making a lofty $8.50 an hour washing dishes.
0 — Friends I’ve made outside of my family (and they were already my friends). Again, need to get out more.
137 — Approximate number of hours I’ve spent in front of our high-def, 37-inch, LCD TV. Again, I need to get out more.
3 — Number of sports magazines I now subscribe to — SI, ESPN, Sporting News. Which is two more than before the move. Yes, I know I need to diversify.
0 — Times I’ve been west to the mountains or east to the beach. Again, not cool.
1,418 — Estimated number of dishes I’ve already washed (not including at home).
804 — Amount of miles it took for J-bo and I to drive to Chicago for Thanksgiving.
2 — DVD documentaries I’ve made during my time here. Maybe I’ve found a new passion.
53 — Approximate number of whole carrots I’ve eaten. And my eyesight — except when it was blurred by some friendly work bleach — is very good.
12 — Estimated number of times J-bo and I have jumped in the community swimming pool after playing tennis. A few times, the water temperature was in the low 50s, according to J-bo’s expert analysis. Cold, very cold.
84 — Number of times I’ve gone up and down the three stories of stairs leading to our crib. No, this is not an exact figure.
OK, folks, I know the numbers are becoming stale. I promised not to put you to sleep. Hope you enjoyed. And, yes, a carrot a day is never a bad idea.
Saturday marked the two-month mark of my stay here in the shopping metropolis of Durham, North Carolina. So here, ladies and gentlemen, are some fascinating figures from my first 60-plus days in this beacon of college hoops.
1 — Number of times I have done laundry. I must admit, however, that I’m just days (and a couple dirty socks) away from being due again.
1 — Number of times, out of 17, J-bo has beaten me in tennis.
66 — Number of times J-bo and I have played chess (I lead 41-25).
0 — Number of times J-bo has played me in Boggle. If he did, he’d have a very large advantage.
3 — Number of times I have gone out on Franklin Street. This needs to increase.
2 — Duke basketball games I’ve covered. Hopefully more games — including ACC battles — to come.
20 — Number of dollars I owe my uncle Buzz from when he helped me buy furniture.
3,750 — Approximate amount of money I’ve burned since arriving. No worries, though. I’m back to my frugal ways, and I’m making a lofty $8.50 an hour washing dishes.
0 — Friends I’ve made outside of my family (and they were already my friends). Again, need to get out more.
137 — Approximate number of hours I’ve spent in front of our high-def, 37-inch, LCD TV. Again, I need to get out more.
3 — Number of sports magazines I now subscribe to — SI, ESPN, Sporting News. Which is two more than before the move. Yes, I know I need to diversify.
0 — Times I’ve been west to the mountains or east to the beach. Again, not cool.
1,418 — Estimated number of dishes I’ve already washed (not including at home).
804 — Amount of miles it took for J-bo and I to drive to Chicago for Thanksgiving.
2 — DVD documentaries I’ve made during my time here. Maybe I’ve found a new passion.
53 — Approximate number of whole carrots I’ve eaten. And my eyesight — except when it was blurred by some friendly work bleach — is very good.
12 — Estimated number of times J-bo and I have jumped in the community swimming pool after playing tennis. A few times, the water temperature was in the low 50s, according to J-bo’s expert analysis. Cold, very cold.
84 — Number of times I’ve gone up and down the three stories of stairs leading to our crib. No, this is not an exact figure.
OK, folks, I know the numbers are becoming stale. I promised not to put you to sleep. Hope you enjoyed. And, yes, a carrot a day is never a bad idea.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
12.5.2007 — updating my state of affairs
Sorry, folks, it’s been so long. And, no, I can’t even give the “I’ve been busy” excuse. A man who sleeps in until 2:36 p.m. on a non-descript Tuesday has no “busy” excuses.
And, plus, I’m not a man full of excuses. I tend to tell it how it is.
So let me get right to the juicy fat of my current situation. All of my free time lately — not including my sleepy time — has provided me plenty of opportunities to think about what I’m doing in life.
It’s an interesting thought process.
Currently, my life is like reading three hours out of boring textbooks each night with 10 minutes of stimulating novel reading sprinkled in.
Last Tuesday, I had the pleasure of covering the Wisconsin-Duke game for wral.com. Before the game, I sat in a press room that included ESPN commentator Dick Vitale and famous basketball author John Feinstein among other well-established writers. That right there made my night.
But it was only the beginning. Since there were numerous important media types at the nationally televised game between ranked teams, there wasn’t room for me on Duke’s press row. So I was relegated to the baseline of the court. Yes, I sat my ass on the wooden floor right next to the photographers.
And I was all over ESPN. Every time there was a scuffle under the basket for the ball or a fastbreak coming straight toward me, I prepared myself to be bowled over by huge, muscular basketball players. But, luckily, I never had to deal with this. Instead, when I retuned home later that night, I saw myself on SportsCenter’s “Top 10” plays twice.
Sure, I was paid a measly $65 to cover the game — not exactly enough to live on — but it still made my night. I’m banking on covering more games at Cameron Indoor Stadium in the days to come. It’s the best place to watch or cover a college hoops game.
The following night, I was scrubbing toilets for $7.50 an hour at the Hilton Garden Inn by the RDU airport. Boy, how I can go from the top of the world to its darkest dungeon in the course of 24 hours. While I want to cover sports for a living, the bitter reality right now is that with the intermittent stringing jobs I have, I need money on the side just to get by.
That means washing dishes four days a week at the Hilton for $8.50 an hour (and occasionally scrubbing johns). Not exactly a great job for a college graduate, but it’s what I gotta do, so I accept it. And — I must say — I’m the best damn dishwasher in the state of North Carolina. You got a pan you think isn’t cleanable? Bring it by my place and I’ll scrub it for you (at the cost of a six pack, of course).
While I’ve been encouraged by my opportunity to write game stories and features for wral.com and the Associated Press — I’m covering one of the high school football state championship games this Saturday — I’m resigned to the fact that I’m going to have to leave this area to procure my first full-time sports writing job. So every day I check journalism websites to see what’s available, to see if there’s anything worth applying for.
No luck so far, but it’s something I have to do if I want to achieve my goal of becoming a well-respected sports journalist.
While Thanksgiving in Chicago was fun this year — as it always is — it also was depressing. Every time I’m around my older cousins, Lou and Pete, I can’t help but feel inferior. Lou is now making $80,000 a year with the potential to make an additional $40-or-so K each year in Boston. Pete is in his first year of law school, all but certainly on his way to a bright career.
I know comparisons are ill-advised, but I can’t help placing myself next to them and their friends whenever I’m in their presence. Hmmm, let’s see. Law school vs. washing dishes. It’s like New England vs. Miami. I guess we’ll have to wait until Week 16 (but I’m pretty sure of the result).
But whatever. All I can do is move forward and live my life. One thing I’m proud of is my frugality. I know how to not spend money. I can make ends meet without a full-time gig despite $500-a-month rent and bills. And I own J-bo in tennis and chess.
In this cold world, you have to focus on the positives. If you don’t, the negatives will drown you.
All right, folks, I’m out. It’s getting late, and I actually plan on waking up before 2:36 tomorrow.
With peace and love,
Jake “Bloat” Lloyd
And, plus, I’m not a man full of excuses. I tend to tell it how it is.
So let me get right to the juicy fat of my current situation. All of my free time lately — not including my sleepy time — has provided me plenty of opportunities to think about what I’m doing in life.
It’s an interesting thought process.
Currently, my life is like reading three hours out of boring textbooks each night with 10 minutes of stimulating novel reading sprinkled in.
Last Tuesday, I had the pleasure of covering the Wisconsin-Duke game for wral.com. Before the game, I sat in a press room that included ESPN commentator Dick Vitale and famous basketball author John Feinstein among other well-established writers. That right there made my night.
But it was only the beginning. Since there were numerous important media types at the nationally televised game between ranked teams, there wasn’t room for me on Duke’s press row. So I was relegated to the baseline of the court. Yes, I sat my ass on the wooden floor right next to the photographers.
And I was all over ESPN. Every time there was a scuffle under the basket for the ball or a fastbreak coming straight toward me, I prepared myself to be bowled over by huge, muscular basketball players. But, luckily, I never had to deal with this. Instead, when I retuned home later that night, I saw myself on SportsCenter’s “Top 10” plays twice.
Sure, I was paid a measly $65 to cover the game — not exactly enough to live on — but it still made my night. I’m banking on covering more games at Cameron Indoor Stadium in the days to come. It’s the best place to watch or cover a college hoops game.
The following night, I was scrubbing toilets for $7.50 an hour at the Hilton Garden Inn by the RDU airport. Boy, how I can go from the top of the world to its darkest dungeon in the course of 24 hours. While I want to cover sports for a living, the bitter reality right now is that with the intermittent stringing jobs I have, I need money on the side just to get by.
That means washing dishes four days a week at the Hilton for $8.50 an hour (and occasionally scrubbing johns). Not exactly a great job for a college graduate, but it’s what I gotta do, so I accept it. And — I must say — I’m the best damn dishwasher in the state of North Carolina. You got a pan you think isn’t cleanable? Bring it by my place and I’ll scrub it for you (at the cost of a six pack, of course).
While I’ve been encouraged by my opportunity to write game stories and features for wral.com and the Associated Press — I’m covering one of the high school football state championship games this Saturday — I’m resigned to the fact that I’m going to have to leave this area to procure my first full-time sports writing job. So every day I check journalism websites to see what’s available, to see if there’s anything worth applying for.
No luck so far, but it’s something I have to do if I want to achieve my goal of becoming a well-respected sports journalist.
While Thanksgiving in Chicago was fun this year — as it always is — it also was depressing. Every time I’m around my older cousins, Lou and Pete, I can’t help but feel inferior. Lou is now making $80,000 a year with the potential to make an additional $40-or-so K each year in Boston. Pete is in his first year of law school, all but certainly on his way to a bright career.
I know comparisons are ill-advised, but I can’t help placing myself next to them and their friends whenever I’m in their presence. Hmmm, let’s see. Law school vs. washing dishes. It’s like New England vs. Miami. I guess we’ll have to wait until Week 16 (but I’m pretty sure of the result).
But whatever. All I can do is move forward and live my life. One thing I’m proud of is my frugality. I know how to not spend money. I can make ends meet without a full-time gig despite $500-a-month rent and bills. And I own J-bo in tennis and chess.
In this cold world, you have to focus on the positives. If you don’t, the negatives will drown you.
All right, folks, I’m out. It’s getting late, and I actually plan on waking up before 2:36 tomorrow.
With peace and love,
Jake “Bloat” Lloyd
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Three weeks in the Triangle
October 30, 2007
Three weeks. As I sit here this Tuesday, in a rotating chair in Duke’s Bryan Center, which makes me a bit dizzy, I have now been a resident of Durham, N.C., for just about three weeks, 21 days, 504 hours, 30, 240 minutes, 1,814,400 seconds.
I have assembled my bedroom (which is now, appropriately, as messy as can be). I have bought a map, which hopefully I won’t have to use for too much longer (although this place can be downright confusing). I have found two football stadiums where I can run steps (that’s a good thing).
I have attended three basketball media days and a Duke scrimmage. I have not found a job (yet). I have beaten J-bo, my cousin and roommate, several times in both tennis and chess — the best way to boost my self-esteem after a tough day of biking around aimlessly (but now, I must admit, J-bo is gaining on me in both competitions).
Yes, I have been somewhat active since my relocation from Ann Arbor. But yet, at times, I still feel lost. I miss Ann Arbor, my hometown my entire life. I miss the fall leaves. I miss being able to bike anywhere in the city on residential roads. Here, by contrast, I have to deal with highways just about everywhere I go.
Of course my longing for Ann Arbor, I believe, is understandable. After all, it was my home for a whopping 23 years. And it was — basically — perfect. It spoiled me.
Things are different here. The Wal-Marts are red (yes, I had to shop there once to buy recycling bins, and they charged me for an extra bin). So are the Best Buys. Our area is dominated by shopping centers. I’m not exaggerating when I say there are at least 12 shopping outlets within three miles of our home in Alexan Farms apartments. If the rest of the world outside of the Triangle was destroyed by aliens/terrorists, we’d have enough supplies to last for at least a few years.
Which, of course, I hate. I can’t stand shopping centers. A “Target” is about as appealing to me as target practice (and you’ll never catch me clutching a gun in this lifetime). Not only that, but the stores all around give us an excuse to go buy things (such as an ice cream scooper, J-bo) even if we don’t need ‘em. I’d rather be 20 miles from the nearest store and have to survive on our supplies.
Oh, and let me mention the highways. Our apartment is off Garrett Road, which intersects with 15-501, a three-lane highway between Durham and Chapel Hill, just en eighth of a mile from our apartment. So in order to go anywhere (downtown Durham, downtown Chapel Hill, those shopping centers, the Boreykos house) we have to turn onto 15-501 or at least cross it. This is usually a time-consuming ordeal (especially during rush hour).
And then there’s the issue of biking places (which has to be a part of my daily routine). In order to bike to UNC’s campus, I have to cross 15-501 twice and climb the longest hill in the Western Hemisphere on Franklin Street (yeah, it’s, uh, a great workout). Overall, it’s about a 10-mile ride to the center of campus. Today I rode to Duke’s campus — where I am now — for the first time. While I was able to take a back way that didn’t involve crossing 15-501, it was one heck of a ride. I think it took close to an hour.
So I’m pretty sure I’ll be getting daily workouts on my Trek. On a pleasant side note, the odometer on the bike eclipsed 2,000 miles yesterday. I am so proud of my bike. I’ve had it now for at least seven or eight years, and it’s never given me a problem (including during the 650-mile ride around half of Lake Michigan).
Life with J-bo is interesting. We get along just fine. We disagree on things, but they’re all minor (“Why the $&#$*^% did you buy an ice cream scoop?”; “Take out the #$%$%^* trash”). Recapturing the magic of New Hampshire has been difficult, what with J-bo doing that graduate school thing every day and church thing on the weekends and me blogging, eating and reading — but we’ve persevered by playing tennis and chess on a regular basis.
Additionally, I’ve taught J-bo about the nuances of sports (the art of the onside kick) and he’s taught me how to play that guitar Playstation2 game.
Life with J-bo is fun, but I’ve come to the realization that if I want to have a nighttime social life, I’m gonna have to make some, um, friends. J-bo likes to hit the sack early — especially on the weekends — which isn’t exactly my style. I’ve never gone to bed at 10:30 p.m. on a Friday night except when I did paper routes, and although I could get a route here, the idea of waking at 5 a.m. every morning of the week to deliver papers is about as appetizing as six-month-old lasagna.
I have yet to experience the surrounding nightlife, but I figure to get my first taste of it tomorrow night at the Halloween extravaganza on Franklin Street, Chapel Hill’s main street. According to trusted sources (the Boreykos), some 60,000 raging lunatics crowd Franklin St. late into the night each Oct. 31, scaring each other and destroying anything in sight (OK, I made up that last part, but I wouldn’t be that surprised).
So that should be interesting. I still need to find a costume, however. Any ideas? I need to know soon.
Now I know I’ve been pretty negative to this point about my new home, so let me change gears a bit. There are some great things about the area, such as the passion for college basketball. OK, that was an understatement. People around here are nuts about college hoops.
Let me explain…
First, on my initial Friday in town, I attended “Late Night with Roy,” North Carolina’s version of “Midnight Madness.” It was such a big deal in Chapel Hill, the university brought in ESPN’s Stuart Scott to emcee. And 19,000 people showed up to watch members of the two UNC hoops teams perform skits and then — finally — scrimmage.
While many of the UNC fans should be ashamed of themselves for leaving during the actual scrimmage — isn’t the basketball supposed to be the night’s highlight? — it remained to me pretty remarkable that so many people attended the event. A student I ran into later said she stood in line for three hours to grab a good seat.
But “Late Night with Roy” was just prepping me for Duke’s Blue-White scrimmage, which I covered — as a stringer — for the television station WRAL’s website. It was nuts. If I wasn’t aware that it was Oct. 27 and that the regular season doesn’t commence until the second week of November, I would have thought it was a February ACC game.
The Cameron Crazies are, indeed, crazy, and the Blue Devils played with an intensity and furry that completely belied the non-importance of the 30-minute game. Afterward, members of the White team, which lost, were actually disappointed about the game’s outcome.
Covering a game at Cameron Indoor Stadium is a one-of-a-kind experience, let me tell you. In order to claim your spot on press row, you have to slide over the press table because the students are so close to the press chairs, there’s no room to walk in front of them. During the entire game, the students are literally breathing down your neck, screaming their guts out, chanting players' names after a big play, booing the refs…
Yeah, I hope I get the opportunity to cover more games inside the tiny arena (and it really is miniscule — I am surprised they fit 9,000-plus fans in there each game). There’s not a bad seat in the house. Cameron is easily the best basketball arena I’ve ever been inside. Experiencing a game there is like nothing else (yes, I agree with Dick Vitale on that one).
So as basketball season nears, excitement builds here in The Triangle. UNC is projected to be one of the top three teams in the country and win the ACC. Duke is expected to finish second in the league, and NC State has high hopes as well. Basketball season here should keep the blood pressure high until sometime in March.
Even as a Michigan football fan, I must admit basketball here seems to be a little bigger than football in Ann Arbor. Just by a little.
Another positive I can (kind of) point to is the weather. I can’t completely endorse it because we just experienced a terrible drought, which prevented me from washing my dirty Honda Civic. Water restrictions were put in place — people could only water their plants a certain number of times per week. There was a story about a family using dirty bath water to nourish the plants. Yeah, it got that bad.
And despite two full days of rain last week, we’re not out of the water yet (hah hah). The drought might have taken a two-day vacation, but don’t expect it to disappear forever. Well, at least my car’s now clean.
The temperatures have been excellent. No complaints from me. After two or three days of nasty 90-degree weather, global warming headed elsewhere, and we’ve been visited by temperatures in the 60s — and even 50s recently (I could actually see my breaths last night during a spirited tennis match).
Autumns here, though, are far from beautiful. Not compared to Michigan falls at least. Leaves remain on the trees. There are no pretty colors. Just massive Home Depots and Harris Teeters to look at.
But I am looking forward to winter, when it will be 50 here and 20 in Ann Arbor. Or so I hope. I want to be playing tennis here while hearing about massive snow shoveling missions taking place in Michigan.
That might boost my spirits a bit. Only time will tell.
In boring news, I’m still looking for part-time work to start rebuilding my bank account after the massive hit I’ve taken here in October (to the tune of $2,500). I opened an account at Wachovia Bank. Now there’s the issue of filling it with currency. I’m also looking for stringing work at the local newspapers. So far, not much luck, although WRAL might have some more Duke events for me to cover.
Again, only time will tell.
In the near future, I’d like to take trips out to the coast (about two and a half hours away) and to the beautiful Smoky Mountains (more like four hours to the west). Body surfing in the Atlantic and hiking in the Smokys are two options I didn’t have in Michigan. I’d be a fool to not take advantage of them. Don’t let me forget.
But for now it’s back to biking on back roads, driving on highways, playing lots of chess and tennis, and looking for work.
Oh, and I’ve been sleeping in lately.
There are everyday certainties (seeing shopping centers) and questions to consider every day when I wake up (what kind of work will I find?).
It’s been three quick weeks and much remains up in the air. Check back with me in another 21 days and the landscape could be different.
Only time will tell.
Three weeks. As I sit here this Tuesday, in a rotating chair in Duke’s Bryan Center, which makes me a bit dizzy, I have now been a resident of Durham, N.C., for just about three weeks, 21 days, 504 hours, 30, 240 minutes, 1,814,400 seconds.
I have assembled my bedroom (which is now, appropriately, as messy as can be). I have bought a map, which hopefully I won’t have to use for too much longer (although this place can be downright confusing). I have found two football stadiums where I can run steps (that’s a good thing).
I have attended three basketball media days and a Duke scrimmage. I have not found a job (yet). I have beaten J-bo, my cousin and roommate, several times in both tennis and chess — the best way to boost my self-esteem after a tough day of biking around aimlessly (but now, I must admit, J-bo is gaining on me in both competitions).
Yes, I have been somewhat active since my relocation from Ann Arbor. But yet, at times, I still feel lost. I miss Ann Arbor, my hometown my entire life. I miss the fall leaves. I miss being able to bike anywhere in the city on residential roads. Here, by contrast, I have to deal with highways just about everywhere I go.
Of course my longing for Ann Arbor, I believe, is understandable. After all, it was my home for a whopping 23 years. And it was — basically — perfect. It spoiled me.
Things are different here. The Wal-Marts are red (yes, I had to shop there once to buy recycling bins, and they charged me for an extra bin). So are the Best Buys. Our area is dominated by shopping centers. I’m not exaggerating when I say there are at least 12 shopping outlets within three miles of our home in Alexan Farms apartments. If the rest of the world outside of the Triangle was destroyed by aliens/terrorists, we’d have enough supplies to last for at least a few years.
Which, of course, I hate. I can’t stand shopping centers. A “Target” is about as appealing to me as target practice (and you’ll never catch me clutching a gun in this lifetime). Not only that, but the stores all around give us an excuse to go buy things (such as an ice cream scooper, J-bo) even if we don’t need ‘em. I’d rather be 20 miles from the nearest store and have to survive on our supplies.
Oh, and let me mention the highways. Our apartment is off Garrett Road, which intersects with 15-501, a three-lane highway between Durham and Chapel Hill, just en eighth of a mile from our apartment. So in order to go anywhere (downtown Durham, downtown Chapel Hill, those shopping centers, the Boreykos house) we have to turn onto 15-501 or at least cross it. This is usually a time-consuming ordeal (especially during rush hour).
And then there’s the issue of biking places (which has to be a part of my daily routine). In order to bike to UNC’s campus, I have to cross 15-501 twice and climb the longest hill in the Western Hemisphere on Franklin Street (yeah, it’s, uh, a great workout). Overall, it’s about a 10-mile ride to the center of campus. Today I rode to Duke’s campus — where I am now — for the first time. While I was able to take a back way that didn’t involve crossing 15-501, it was one heck of a ride. I think it took close to an hour.
So I’m pretty sure I’ll be getting daily workouts on my Trek. On a pleasant side note, the odometer on the bike eclipsed 2,000 miles yesterday. I am so proud of my bike. I’ve had it now for at least seven or eight years, and it’s never given me a problem (including during the 650-mile ride around half of Lake Michigan).
Life with J-bo is interesting. We get along just fine. We disagree on things, but they’re all minor (“Why the $&#$*^% did you buy an ice cream scoop?”; “Take out the #$%$%^* trash”). Recapturing the magic of New Hampshire has been difficult, what with J-bo doing that graduate school thing every day and church thing on the weekends and me blogging, eating and reading — but we’ve persevered by playing tennis and chess on a regular basis.
Additionally, I’ve taught J-bo about the nuances of sports (the art of the onside kick) and he’s taught me how to play that guitar Playstation2 game.
Life with J-bo is fun, but I’ve come to the realization that if I want to have a nighttime social life, I’m gonna have to make some, um, friends. J-bo likes to hit the sack early — especially on the weekends — which isn’t exactly my style. I’ve never gone to bed at 10:30 p.m. on a Friday night except when I did paper routes, and although I could get a route here, the idea of waking at 5 a.m. every morning of the week to deliver papers is about as appetizing as six-month-old lasagna.
I have yet to experience the surrounding nightlife, but I figure to get my first taste of it tomorrow night at the Halloween extravaganza on Franklin Street, Chapel Hill’s main street. According to trusted sources (the Boreykos), some 60,000 raging lunatics crowd Franklin St. late into the night each Oct. 31, scaring each other and destroying anything in sight (OK, I made up that last part, but I wouldn’t be that surprised).
So that should be interesting. I still need to find a costume, however. Any ideas? I need to know soon.
Now I know I’ve been pretty negative to this point about my new home, so let me change gears a bit. There are some great things about the area, such as the passion for college basketball. OK, that was an understatement. People around here are nuts about college hoops.
Let me explain…
First, on my initial Friday in town, I attended “Late Night with Roy,” North Carolina’s version of “Midnight Madness.” It was such a big deal in Chapel Hill, the university brought in ESPN’s Stuart Scott to emcee. And 19,000 people showed up to watch members of the two UNC hoops teams perform skits and then — finally — scrimmage.
While many of the UNC fans should be ashamed of themselves for leaving during the actual scrimmage — isn’t the basketball supposed to be the night’s highlight? — it remained to me pretty remarkable that so many people attended the event. A student I ran into later said she stood in line for three hours to grab a good seat.
But “Late Night with Roy” was just prepping me for Duke’s Blue-White scrimmage, which I covered — as a stringer — for the television station WRAL’s website. It was nuts. If I wasn’t aware that it was Oct. 27 and that the regular season doesn’t commence until the second week of November, I would have thought it was a February ACC game.
The Cameron Crazies are, indeed, crazy, and the Blue Devils played with an intensity and furry that completely belied the non-importance of the 30-minute game. Afterward, members of the White team, which lost, were actually disappointed about the game’s outcome.
Covering a game at Cameron Indoor Stadium is a one-of-a-kind experience, let me tell you. In order to claim your spot on press row, you have to slide over the press table because the students are so close to the press chairs, there’s no room to walk in front of them. During the entire game, the students are literally breathing down your neck, screaming their guts out, chanting players' names after a big play, booing the refs…
Yeah, I hope I get the opportunity to cover more games inside the tiny arena (and it really is miniscule — I am surprised they fit 9,000-plus fans in there each game). There’s not a bad seat in the house. Cameron is easily the best basketball arena I’ve ever been inside. Experiencing a game there is like nothing else (yes, I agree with Dick Vitale on that one).
So as basketball season nears, excitement builds here in The Triangle. UNC is projected to be one of the top three teams in the country and win the ACC. Duke is expected to finish second in the league, and NC State has high hopes as well. Basketball season here should keep the blood pressure high until sometime in March.
Even as a Michigan football fan, I must admit basketball here seems to be a little bigger than football in Ann Arbor. Just by a little.
Another positive I can (kind of) point to is the weather. I can’t completely endorse it because we just experienced a terrible drought, which prevented me from washing my dirty Honda Civic. Water restrictions were put in place — people could only water their plants a certain number of times per week. There was a story about a family using dirty bath water to nourish the plants. Yeah, it got that bad.
And despite two full days of rain last week, we’re not out of the water yet (hah hah). The drought might have taken a two-day vacation, but don’t expect it to disappear forever. Well, at least my car’s now clean.
The temperatures have been excellent. No complaints from me. After two or three days of nasty 90-degree weather, global warming headed elsewhere, and we’ve been visited by temperatures in the 60s — and even 50s recently (I could actually see my breaths last night during a spirited tennis match).
Autumns here, though, are far from beautiful. Not compared to Michigan falls at least. Leaves remain on the trees. There are no pretty colors. Just massive Home Depots and Harris Teeters to look at.
But I am looking forward to winter, when it will be 50 here and 20 in Ann Arbor. Or so I hope. I want to be playing tennis here while hearing about massive snow shoveling missions taking place in Michigan.
That might boost my spirits a bit. Only time will tell.
In boring news, I’m still looking for part-time work to start rebuilding my bank account after the massive hit I’ve taken here in October (to the tune of $2,500). I opened an account at Wachovia Bank. Now there’s the issue of filling it with currency. I’m also looking for stringing work at the local newspapers. So far, not much luck, although WRAL might have some more Duke events for me to cover.
Again, only time will tell.
In the near future, I’d like to take trips out to the coast (about two and a half hours away) and to the beautiful Smoky Mountains (more like four hours to the west). Body surfing in the Atlantic and hiking in the Smokys are two options I didn’t have in Michigan. I’d be a fool to not take advantage of them. Don’t let me forget.
But for now it’s back to biking on back roads, driving on highways, playing lots of chess and tennis, and looking for work.
Oh, and I’ve been sleeping in lately.
There are everyday certainties (seeing shopping centers) and questions to consider every day when I wake up (what kind of work will I find?).
It’s been three quick weeks and much remains up in the air. Check back with me in another 21 days and the landscape could be different.
Only time will tell.
Friday, September 7, 2007
9/7/2007: Passing the time
What, exactly, is my purpose on this earth?
I hate to be asking such a deep, mind-wending question, but I can't seem to get past it right now. My life is at a crossroads. At times I'm a glibber, not worrying about a thing, telling myself that the only way to live is humorously.
Don't take anything too seriously. Live lightly. Be delectable.
At the same time, however, I exhort myself to not become chaff. I read articles — every day, it seems — about men who have overcome so much to become very successful members of society. As I move from paragraph to paragraph — which detail the drug-induced siblings and friends shot to death — I always tell myself that with my facile upbringing, I'm not going to be a nobody.
I'm going to do big things with my life, with my amazing opportunity in this world...
This thinking process usually lasts about a day before I drift back into my indolent mode, which isn't to say that I'm a lazy person — just a comfortable person.
It's hard to overcome, too. Sometimes I wish I didn't have such an easy upbringing. Sometimes I wish I had had to overcome a large obstacle as a child, like a divorce, or a tragedy.
Just something to push me forward. To make my life more urgent now.
Then again, maybe I'm simply still transitioning to post-college life. To not having my fall planned out. At times it's scary, but at time's it's nice as well.
No papers. No tests. While I yearn for school again, I'm sure that if I were back in the classroom, I might not feel the same way.
— 9/7/2007
I hate to be asking such a deep, mind-wending question, but I can't seem to get past it right now. My life is at a crossroads. At times I'm a glibber, not worrying about a thing, telling myself that the only way to live is humorously.
Don't take anything too seriously. Live lightly. Be delectable.
At the same time, however, I exhort myself to not become chaff. I read articles — every day, it seems — about men who have overcome so much to become very successful members of society. As I move from paragraph to paragraph — which detail the drug-induced siblings and friends shot to death — I always tell myself that with my facile upbringing, I'm not going to be a nobody.
I'm going to do big things with my life, with my amazing opportunity in this world...
This thinking process usually lasts about a day before I drift back into my indolent mode, which isn't to say that I'm a lazy person — just a comfortable person.
It's hard to overcome, too. Sometimes I wish I didn't have such an easy upbringing. Sometimes I wish I had had to overcome a large obstacle as a child, like a divorce, or a tragedy.
Just something to push me forward. To make my life more urgent now.
Then again, maybe I'm simply still transitioning to post-college life. To not having my fall planned out. At times it's scary, but at time's it's nice as well.
No papers. No tests. While I yearn for school again, I'm sure that if I were back in the classroom, I might not feel the same way.
— 9/7/2007
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
New Hampshire 2007: It passed too quickly
New Hampshire 2007…
Usually I write this in the Red House Journal. Unfortunately, as the following words will dictate, this year’s stay at the Red House passed way too quickly — so fast, in fact, that I didn’t even get a chance to make my annual journal post.
So, blessed by the graciousness of technology, this year’s entry is going on the Internet. As a disclaimer, if you don’t like mountains and hiking, you’d probably be better off spending your morning/afternoon/evening reading the obituaries, but if bushwalking is your thing (or, of course, if you’re a RHSR — Red House Summer Resident), then read on.
This is for you…
It started with the traverse and concluded with the annual three-day hike. In between, there was some ladder hiking, a tribute hike, and lots (I mean LOTS) of bocce ball.
In all, J-bo — my primary hiking companion — and I hiked 66 miles over the course of two weeks. What follows is the approximate breakdown:
The Traverse — 24 miles
Morgan & Percival — 5 miles
Whiteface — 8 miles
Three-day hike — 29 miles
Total — 66 miles
It was easily our best hiking summer ever, which is pretty impressive considering all the summers we’ve spent amid New Hampshire’s White Mountains (I can only remember missing one summer). In the past I’ve usually been able to shape my summer job around two and half weeks (or more) of time in Sandwich, N.H. But this year, my first as a college graduate, getting two weeks from my current employer — even though I only work part-time — wasn’t easy.
At least I think I made the most of the time.
Tennis nearly every day. Did I mention bocce ball? Swimming in Squam Lake nearly daily. Mini golf twice (more on that later). Our annual movie-seeing experience (go see “The Bourne Ultimatum”). Great family dinners. Another pretty successful field day (the negative later). And the hiking.
I flew into Boston in the morning of Sunday, July 29. By that late afternoon (after a dreadful stop — instigated by my big cousin, Pete “Franchise” Wolf — at the Tilton outlets) I was in Sandwich swimming with J-bo, my cousin Caitlin, 15, my aunt Vick and Franchise.
The first two days consisted of plenty of tennis, swimming and board games, mainly “Sorry” with Caitlin, now known to us close to her as “Pudds” (greatest nickname ever), and “Stratego,” aka “Strat” with J-bo.
The Red House is probably the main reason why I haven’t lost my love for board games. We play them every day. They are intense, crazy competitive. Especially “Strat.” This year it even got to the point where J-bo surreptitiously went online to look up strategies.
They didn’t work. Although he managed to steal the summer’s final game from my grasp, I won the series 5-4. J-bo has pledged to bring the phenomenal game to our new apartment in Durham, N.C. It’s safe to say that there will be plenty of strategizing as soon as I make the move down South.
The Traverse
On Wednesday morning, J-bo, his friend Mark, 34, and I woke up at 3:10 a.m. (the earliest I’ve ever awakened for a reason other than taking a leak or watching a Tigers game live from Australia). It was time for the traverse; that is, the climbing of New Hampshire’s 11 presidential mountains, 10 of which are 4,000-plus feet.
It was crazy. Vick called us insane.
But toward the end, I named it “the greatest day of my life.”
No kidding.
For record-keeping purposes, here is the order of the 11 summits we ascended:
Webster (the lone sub-4,000-footer), Jackson (4,000), Pierce (4,300), Eisenhower (4,700), Franklin (5,000), Monroe (5,300), Washington (6,200), Clay (5,500), Jefferson (5,700), Adams (5,800) and Madison (5,500).
We began hiking at 5 a.m. and finished at 9:30 p.m. That adds up to 16 and a half hours on the trail. As J-bo would say, “So fast, so furious.”
We hiked at a steady pace the entire way, stopping briefly on each peak for pictures, a video marking the accomplishment of reaching the summit (also a chance for me to make inane comments), and food/water.
Luckily, three of the AMC’s wonderful huts — Mitzpah, Lake of the Clouds, and Madison — were right along the trail, providing us the opportunity to refill our water bottles. Because of this, each of us needed just two water containers each to complete the traverse without dry throats. It should also be mentioned that at LOTC, we ate some absolutely ravishing chocolate chip brownies fresh out of the oven. I don’t know if I’d have made it up Washington — the next summit — if not for the warm delight.
Despite the length of the traverse, we managed to remain satiated throughout. We packed four sandwiches apiece (two turkey, two PB&J) and an assortment of energy bars and candy bars. I don’t want to think about all the glucose I absorbed throughout the day.
But it was worth it. Way worth it. Despite my affinity for rain, I must admit the day of the traverse needed clear skies to make the trek successful. That’s what we got. As soon as we beasted up Webster’s steep trail, we were greeted by amazing visibility in all directions.
Once we reached the top of Jackson, we could see most of our journey in front of us. At the time, Washington’s ugly, building-and-tourists-infested top was in the clouds. But, amazingly enough, as we hiked, the sky seemed to open up for us. From the top of Franklin, which — unlike the other peaks — wasn’t easy to find, we had a really cool view of Washington right behind Monroe’s false and actual summit.
We had perfect visibility the rest of the day, even seeing Chocorua and Whiteface, two mountains close to Sandwich, from many of the peaks.
J-bo wasn’t shy about letting other hikers know our journey. Whenever they asked him the customary, “Where y’all heading today?” he responded, “We’re doing all 11 presidentials!”
This, usually, was followed by a gasp, a “wow” or a look that said, “You crazy??” While J-bo wasn’t exactly modest in describing our hike, he said there was a reason for disclosing it to the hordes of people we saw on the trails.
“It might give them the idea,” he said, “just like we got it last year.”
And he was right. We had never thought of the traverse until we met two young fellows a year earlier doing it who gave us the idea. While the casual hikers J-bo told are sure not to duplicate our feat, it’s possible that J-bo was inspiration for a couple of future traversers.
The peaks
By 6:30 p.m. we were sitting on top of Madison, trying to fathom the fact that we had just summated 11 pretty big (not to mention rocky) hills. We had survived injuries — Mark had a bad knee the entire hike, amazing us with his gutsy ability to drag on and even stay in front of J-bo and I for most of the final half of the traverse, which is the toughest part. J-bo also twisted his ankle, but simply walked it off.
We had also seen hundreds of fellow hikers (no fellow traversers, though) and a handful of headstrong dogs, including Enma and Toby, two beautiful dogs belonging to a older-aged man we met on top of Eisenhower. The man shocked me when he said that Enma, just four and a half, had ascended all 48 of New Hampshire 4,000-footers. Enma’s feat proved to be motivation for J-bo and I, who plan to summit all 48 within in the next couple years (we’ve already got about 20).
The best part of the traverse, of course, was getting to sit on top of 11 large mountains, which afforded incredible views and simply made us feel as though we were on top of the world. When you’re up there, you forget any real-world worries. You forget about crime, war, poverty. There’s nothing better. Believe me.
After the hike, J-bo and I ranked the 11 summits based on the views they afforded, their rock shapes, and their comfortability. Here are our lists:
J-bo
1. Adams
2. Monroe
3. Clay
4. Eisenhower
5. Jackson
6. Jefferson
7. Madison
8. Franklin
9. Pierce
10. Webster
11. Washington
Me
1. Monroe
2. Clay
3. Adams
4. Madison
5. Jackson
6. Eisenhower
7. Jefferson
8. Franklin
9. Pierce
10. Webster
11. Washington
The end
It’d be pretty difficult for a 24-mile hike to go completely smoothly. Ours did.
Until, about, the final longgggggggg mile.
So here’s what happened (from my standpoint; J-bo, feel free to add to this). We started down the Watson Craig trail, which was supposed to take us to our final path of the day, the Valley Way. Our previous trails had been the Webster Cliff Trail (to Mitzpah), the Crawford Path (to LOTC, then up Washington), and the Gulfside Trail (to Madison).
Well, I got way ahead of J-bo and Mark, mostly because Mark was having a very difficult time with the descent, rightfully so, because of his bad knee. I, meanwhile, kept a steady pace until the path finally crossed the stream I’d been seeking. There I stopped to soak my feet in ice cold water (I couldn’t keep them in for more than 30 seconds, no joke).
About 15 to 20 minutes passed before my comrades graced me with their presence long enough to take a picture of me in front of a mini waterfall and continue on (I think they wanted Frosties that badly). Figuring they’d continue at a slower pace, I took my time putting my wool socks and New Balance sneakers back on and preparing for the easy final stage of our long journey.
And then I hit the trail. I came to a sign, which said to bear right for the Brookside trail, which, apparently connected with the Valley Way. I was interested in the Valley Way, so I went that way. After about a mile, with dusk starting to set in, I spotted something black in the middle of the trail roughly 30 yards ahead of me. Warning: The next sentence will sound really stupid; if you don’t enjoy stupid sentences, skip ahead two paragraphs.
I thought it was either a black bear or a large puddle.
Maybe I was hallucinating or being delusional, but all I can say for myself is that I thought a big, strong bear might be in my way. With no one near me and darkness on its way, that was a scary proposition.
So I turned around.
I headed back up the path (yes, back up the mountain). I ran. I sweated. I began thinking things like…
“Isn’t this when all the animals come out??”
“What if there’s a crazy guy who appears at night and eats lost hikers like me?”
Yeah, I almost lost it.
But I didn’t. Unfortunately for you readers, the rest of the story is pretty boring. I took a ridge trail out of my way to get to Inlook Trail, which finally starting going down the mountain as I was enveloped by black (causing me to get out my savior, my trusty headlamp).
I called J-bo, my brotha from another motha, who directed me the rest of the way, on about 17 different paths. I ran the whole way and somehow never fell (don’t ask me how; it must have been the black New Balances).
Remarkably enough, despite hiking about an extra 2 miles, I made it to Vick’s car just 10 to 15 minutes after J-bo and Mark did via the good ‘ole Valley Way. According to J-bo, Mark had become delusional on the way down, swaying back and forth and falling several times. I like my bear story better.
Even though I would be teased for several days after the traverse about my bear story, it was worth it. It added a little excitement to the usual business-like descent. When I think about it now, it was the perfect ending to our hectic, insane, amazing day.
The Copper Tribute Hike
I hate to break this to you, but I despise resting. Even after a 24-mile hike. So, no, I didn’t spend the days after the traverse sitting around the Red House twiddling my thumbs. I did stuff.
More tennis. More beach. A little biking. Plenty of Strat. Not to mention another mountain climb.
On Friday, less than two days since the beginning of the traverse, J-bo and I decided to tackle Morgan and Percival, a two-summit hike (they’re both a little higher than 2,000 feet) off the curvy road (Route 113) between Sandwich and Holderness. It was a nice “cool-down” hike, and we met a bunch of young campers on top, who scared us (by talking about flying while on the peak of a steep mountain) and loved J-bo (“We’ll remember you,” a 13-year-old girl kept telling him).
Easy, J-bo.
Despite ruining the mountains with their loud shouting, the campers were great. So J-bo and I invited them into our picture on top of Percival before waving goodbye. And as far as I know, they all made it down the mountains, which wasn’t a bad accomplishment, considering all the “flying” talk and stumbling they were doing.
That hike wasn’t just a cool-down from the traverse, however. It was also a warm-up for the Copper Tribute Hike, which took place the following Tuesday. I decided before my trip to NH that we would hike up Whiteface Mountain, all 4,020 feet of it, in honor of Copper, my family’s amazing Golden Retriever (we think; he might have had some Irish Setter in him), who passed away earlier this summer at the age of 7.
Just two years ago, Copper accompanied J-bo and I up Whiteface’s steep cliffs under a searing sun. We had to help him up a couple rock faces, and he became absolutely exhausted, but he made it to Whiteface’s peak (then slept for the next two days). I’ll always remember that climb as one of Copp’s crowing moments.
(My mom prefers to call it one of the dumbest decisions I’ve ever made).
So it was only appropriate that we hiked Whiteface once again to remember Copp. And as I climbed up cliff after cliff, I felt more and more amazed that Copp, who weighed a solid 95 pounds, had been able to scale them.
When J-bo, Pudds and my uncle Buzz stopped on a cliff for a short water break, a beautiful orange and black butterfly appeared. Only later, when the creature reappeared on the mountain’s summit, did I begin to believe that it represented Copper’s spirit. I’ll never forget that butterfly.
On the peak, I gave a brief speech in memory of Copp — maybe the second speech I’ve presented in my non-oratory life — and each of us released a pinchful of Copp’s ashes into the high-altitude air. It was the perfect tribute to a dog that I’ll never forget.
The end is near
The days that followed before my stay’s climax, the three-day hike, were one final opportunity to enjoy all of the things that make the Red House and Sandwich so perfect every summer.
On Tuesday night, I saw my cousin Kristen and her boyfriend, Brad, for the first time, meaning I had seen all the usual family members during my stay. (Franchise left that Sunday after beating me in tennis, leaving him unbeaten for the summer… yeah, I was a bit peeved).
Wednesday was the second rainy day in three days, but there’s not a day to waste in Sandwich, so we made the most of it, playing bocce at Squam, buying hiking shoes and playing some hardcore tennis. (During the first rainy day, I should mention, Pudds, Vick and I took an incredible swim during a downpour in a very tranquil Squam). That night the cousins played mini golf one last time, and I put together my best round ever, a 3-under-par 37. I didn’t ace any holes, but I didn’t need to. The night before the first round of golf’s fourth major, the PGA Championship, I felt like Tiger.
(OK, that was an awfully inaccurate sentence. How about, I felt like one of those kids who wins the annual putt-putt championship and a gift certificate to Chucky Cheese?)
Thursday, despite being the day before the hike, was no time to rest. After treating J-bo, the birthday kid, the 22-year-old, to breakfast at the general store (and stuffing myself with hash browns, which would keep my stomach on lock until dinner time), we played a couple of great final tennis sets.
First, my aunt Sal and I bested Brad — the top player among us — and J-bo, 7-6 (4), coming back from a 4-0 deficit in the tiebreak. Then I beat J-bo in singles, 7-6(7). It was the perfect way to close out what had been nearly two weeks of great tennis. I feel like I improved leaps and bounds as did my competitors, especially J-bo, whom I will play with daily down in North Carolina.
Then it was time for the annual Old Home Week event we call “Field Day.” Some things never get old. Field Day is certainly one of them. It’s an afternoon filled with races. The rotten kids run and so do the adults. Ribbons are handed out to the top three finishers in each race.
As is usually the case, the Red House members didn’t disappoint, bringing home an array of blue (first place), red (second place) and yellow (third place) ribbons. The highlight race had to be the 50-yard three-legged version, in which J-bo and Brad finished second and Rose and I took third. I thought we had a real chance to pull off the upset (I never beat J-bo in that race, but that’s usually because he’s with Seth Duda, and their chemistry is impeccable), but we stumbled about midway through when we had the lead, and we had to accept the yellow. It wasn’t bad, however, considering Ro and I had never raced together.
Following the races and a terrible defeat in the Camp Hale-Sandwich tug-o-war (you have to understand, Camp Hale is made up of strong men; Sandwich, during the summer, is infiltrated with 5-year-olds), it was time for the main event, the blueberry pie-eating contest.
I guess I understand that most people don’t consider it the prime competition. In fact, most adult men are too embarrassed to compete in it or give 110 percent (see, J-bo), but not me. In my mind, it’s what friendly competition is all about.
The rules are simple. Eat the pie in front of you, with your arms behind your back, faster than your fellow eaters. Accomplishing the feat is another story. In this year’s version of the BPEC, I got a great start — two gigantic bites and swallows — but when J-bo, who wasn’t even pretending to eat his pie, starting laughing, I lost my concentration and any hope of winning the darn thing.
It was disappointing, frustrating mal-nourishment at its best. To say I’m already thinking about next year would be an understatement. It’s the only Field Day event in which a Lloyd/Wolf/Boreyko has never ribboned. I want to make the family proud.
The Mountains
The most difficult part of each summer is the day after the three-day hike. Returning to the valley. Seeing cars again. Having to look up at the mountains.
That was even tougher this summer after probably the best three-day hike I’ve ever experienced.
We had a record number of family members put on their hiking shoes and packs this summer. There were the regulars — my dad, Bust, J-bo, Sal, me, Brad, Kristen & Pudds — but Rose also participated in her first three-day hike and my cousin Lou, recovering from many ailments, was able to return after missing it the past two years. It was great to have so many loved ones in tow.
But that didn’t mean that I waited for them at each sign. My goal entering the hike was to summit all nine possible 4,000-footers, and that’s exactly what I did.
On the first day, we hiked up the Gale River Trail to Gailhead Hut. From there, some of us made the most of the late afternoon window before dinner (one thing I’ll never do is miss a hut dinner; the bread it out-of-this-world good), making the steep ascent to South Twin and North Twin Mtns.
And, boy, were we rewarded. The view from the top of South Twin (approximately 4,900 feet) was the best I’ve ever had from the top of a mountain. Yep, better than the view from any presidential. I mean, we could simply rotate our heads and see nothing but peaks in every direction. No buildings, not the ugly Mt. Washington Hotel in the valley (it was perfectly blocked by a summit). As I lay on the flat rock atop the peak, I literally thought I was in heaven. It was unbelievable.
The South Twin experience didn’t ruin the last two days of the hike, however. They were just as amazing. On Saturday, we hiked the up-and-down-and-back-up-then-down Garfield Ridge Trail through trees and rocks. We stopped for a good while on the summit of Mt. Garfield, which afforded us splendid views of what lay ahead of us (mainly Mt. Lafayette), and presented a good spot to bust out our second-day food (mainly PB&N sandwiches — that’s, peanut butter and Nutella, for those unfamiliar).
On that subject, let me quickly tangent to the food on mountains subject. I’ll be blunt. While I love food all the time, wherever I am, there is no doubt that food tastes better when eaten on a mountain. No doubt about it. Cheese and crackers at 5,000 feet is tantamount to steak and potatoes at sea level. Don’t question me on this one. It’s true.
Now back to the hike. After leaving Garfield, we continued on the ridge to the summit of Lafayette, or “Lafers,” as J-bo would later eloquently term it. The hike up “Lafers” showed another one of the mountains’ great attributes: crazy weather.
Winds were gusting at up to 30 mph, we were in the clouds, we couldn’t see farther than 30 or 40 yards. My adrenaline level kept increasing… and increasing as we climbed past false peak after false peak before finally locating the actual top of the mountain (the 5,000-footers really make you earn them; there are no gimmes in mountain climbing).
But when you do reach the top of a 5,000-footer, there’s nothing better in the world. Especially when the sky is clear, as we learned on Day 3.
After a delicious meal from an awesome Croo at Greenleaf Hut and an unofficial win in hearts by J-bo (it wasn’t over when the other participants declared bedtime), Day 2 was in the books. I was less than 48 hours away from being in Ann Arbor, staring at 100-foot green hills, wondering where all the mountains went. But I wasn’t there yet on Sunday, and along with J-bo and Brad, I made sure to take advantage of one final day up above reality.
While the other members of our group decided to take a shorter route down, the three of us didn’t take it “easy” on Day 3. In fact, we took it hard. We made it our toughest day of hiking. But also our most rewarding.
We hiked the 1.1 miles back up to Lafers’ summit (the third time J-bo and I had traversed that path — we ascended it to relieve Sal and Ro of their packs late Saturday). And then we headed to Lincoln, aka “The Linc,” Little Haystack, aka “Stackers,” Liberty, aka “Libs,” and Flume, aka “Flumer.”
None of us had ever climbed any of the four 4,000-plus-footers, so the terrain was new to us. And for bushwhackers like us, there’s nothing more exciting than traveling on a new path with clear skies.
J-bo stopped every few minutes to put the digital camera to use. Brad climbed out on a precarious, totem-pole-looking rock structure for a picture that will remain a classic for generations to come. We were followed by an interesting Appalachian Trail hiker who was excited about a condo a woman was letting him use once he reached the valley (but he was not pleased that she didn’t come with its use; gotta love them through hikers).
Day 3 encompassed what hiking is all about. And I haven’t even gotten to the climax yet.
OK, I’m there now. The Flume Slide Trail. The trail that the AMC book specifically said NOT TO DESCEND. The trail that we told Bust and Sal we wouldn’t go down. We didn’t want to worry them. But by the time Brad had climbed onto the totem pole (what could be more dangerous?), we had decided that we HAD to experience the FST. It would be the perfect ending to our trip. Just like hiking the Knife’s Edge at the conclusion of the AT.
We had heard horror stories about the FST. Guys in the hut, apparently, told Bust how they fell 25 feet trying to go up it. Imagine what could take place going down. As we sat on the top of Flume, which, appropriately, was jagged and not suited for the comfortable meal, eating our cheese and crackers, we professed our death wishes. I told Brad and J-bo that it would be a successful descent if two of us survived.
Well, I guess it was super successful, because not only did we all survive, but only one of us fell and no one got hurt. That’s not to say, however, that the trail wasn’t difficult. We had to participate in more butt-sliding than the normal person does in a lifetime. We had to constantly be on the lookout for footholes. It took us about an hour and a half to slide down the .8 miles of slides.
BUT WE MADE IT!
We survived. I survived to write about the experience. And now we’re all ready to go up it (no easy task either) in the near future. On our way down, we passed about 15 people and two dogs, including a beautiful 8-month-old Golden named Jackson. Free bones to both dogs for tackling such a beast of a trail.
After the slides, there was nearly 4 more miles of mild, simple hiking. The woods were quiet, the vegetation very green. It was a great time to think and reflect on my time in New Hampshire’s woods.
As I plodded along, my new shoes climbing over endless roots and navigating stepping rocks at what seemed like 10 different stream crossings, I dreaded the end of the trail. I detested the thought of hopping on a plane less than 24 hours later and returning to civilization.
I knew I couldn’t escape what was coming… the car ride to Boston, the night at Lou’s nice condo, the subway rides to the airport, the plane, the car ride back home, the work the next night.
It was all inevitable. It was my life.
But I told myself, with each step, that I’d do whatever it takes in the years to come to make the mountains, and New Hampshire, and my extended family (and bocce ball) central parts of my life.
Because what else would I have written 4,540 words about when I have laundry piling up and cat litter to empty?
PS — I hate to say this, but Brad won our annual bridge-guessing contest. He surmised an astronomically low 30 bridges for the entire three-day hike, but won after we crossed just 98. Pudd’s guess of 221 placed her second.
Usually I write this in the Red House Journal. Unfortunately, as the following words will dictate, this year’s stay at the Red House passed way too quickly — so fast, in fact, that I didn’t even get a chance to make my annual journal post.
So, blessed by the graciousness of technology, this year’s entry is going on the Internet. As a disclaimer, if you don’t like mountains and hiking, you’d probably be better off spending your morning/afternoon/evening reading the obituaries, but if bushwalking is your thing (or, of course, if you’re a RHSR — Red House Summer Resident), then read on.
This is for you…
It started with the traverse and concluded with the annual three-day hike. In between, there was some ladder hiking, a tribute hike, and lots (I mean LOTS) of bocce ball.
In all, J-bo — my primary hiking companion — and I hiked 66 miles over the course of two weeks. What follows is the approximate breakdown:
The Traverse — 24 miles
Morgan & Percival — 5 miles
Whiteface — 8 miles
Three-day hike — 29 miles
Total — 66 miles
It was easily our best hiking summer ever, which is pretty impressive considering all the summers we’ve spent amid New Hampshire’s White Mountains (I can only remember missing one summer). In the past I’ve usually been able to shape my summer job around two and half weeks (or more) of time in Sandwich, N.H. But this year, my first as a college graduate, getting two weeks from my current employer — even though I only work part-time — wasn’t easy.
At least I think I made the most of the time.
Tennis nearly every day. Did I mention bocce ball? Swimming in Squam Lake nearly daily. Mini golf twice (more on that later). Our annual movie-seeing experience (go see “The Bourne Ultimatum”). Great family dinners. Another pretty successful field day (the negative later). And the hiking.
I flew into Boston in the morning of Sunday, July 29. By that late afternoon (after a dreadful stop — instigated by my big cousin, Pete “Franchise” Wolf — at the Tilton outlets) I was in Sandwich swimming with J-bo, my cousin Caitlin, 15, my aunt Vick and Franchise.
The first two days consisted of plenty of tennis, swimming and board games, mainly “Sorry” with Caitlin, now known to us close to her as “Pudds” (greatest nickname ever), and “Stratego,” aka “Strat” with J-bo.
The Red House is probably the main reason why I haven’t lost my love for board games. We play them every day. They are intense, crazy competitive. Especially “Strat.” This year it even got to the point where J-bo surreptitiously went online to look up strategies.
They didn’t work. Although he managed to steal the summer’s final game from my grasp, I won the series 5-4. J-bo has pledged to bring the phenomenal game to our new apartment in Durham, N.C. It’s safe to say that there will be plenty of strategizing as soon as I make the move down South.
The Traverse
On Wednesday morning, J-bo, his friend Mark, 34, and I woke up at 3:10 a.m. (the earliest I’ve ever awakened for a reason other than taking a leak or watching a Tigers game live from Australia). It was time for the traverse; that is, the climbing of New Hampshire’s 11 presidential mountains, 10 of which are 4,000-plus feet.
It was crazy. Vick called us insane.
But toward the end, I named it “the greatest day of my life.”
No kidding.
For record-keeping purposes, here is the order of the 11 summits we ascended:
Webster (the lone sub-4,000-footer), Jackson (4,000), Pierce (4,300), Eisenhower (4,700), Franklin (5,000), Monroe (5,300), Washington (6,200), Clay (5,500), Jefferson (5,700), Adams (5,800) and Madison (5,500).
We began hiking at 5 a.m. and finished at 9:30 p.m. That adds up to 16 and a half hours on the trail. As J-bo would say, “So fast, so furious.”
We hiked at a steady pace the entire way, stopping briefly on each peak for pictures, a video marking the accomplishment of reaching the summit (also a chance for me to make inane comments), and food/water.
Luckily, three of the AMC’s wonderful huts — Mitzpah, Lake of the Clouds, and Madison — were right along the trail, providing us the opportunity to refill our water bottles. Because of this, each of us needed just two water containers each to complete the traverse without dry throats. It should also be mentioned that at LOTC, we ate some absolutely ravishing chocolate chip brownies fresh out of the oven. I don’t know if I’d have made it up Washington — the next summit — if not for the warm delight.
Despite the length of the traverse, we managed to remain satiated throughout. We packed four sandwiches apiece (two turkey, two PB&J) and an assortment of energy bars and candy bars. I don’t want to think about all the glucose I absorbed throughout the day.
But it was worth it. Way worth it. Despite my affinity for rain, I must admit the day of the traverse needed clear skies to make the trek successful. That’s what we got. As soon as we beasted up Webster’s steep trail, we were greeted by amazing visibility in all directions.
Once we reached the top of Jackson, we could see most of our journey in front of us. At the time, Washington’s ugly, building-and-tourists-infested top was in the clouds. But, amazingly enough, as we hiked, the sky seemed to open up for us. From the top of Franklin, which — unlike the other peaks — wasn’t easy to find, we had a really cool view of Washington right behind Monroe’s false and actual summit.
We had perfect visibility the rest of the day, even seeing Chocorua and Whiteface, two mountains close to Sandwich, from many of the peaks.
J-bo wasn’t shy about letting other hikers know our journey. Whenever they asked him the customary, “Where y’all heading today?” he responded, “We’re doing all 11 presidentials!”
This, usually, was followed by a gasp, a “wow” or a look that said, “You crazy??” While J-bo wasn’t exactly modest in describing our hike, he said there was a reason for disclosing it to the hordes of people we saw on the trails.
“It might give them the idea,” he said, “just like we got it last year.”
And he was right. We had never thought of the traverse until we met two young fellows a year earlier doing it who gave us the idea. While the casual hikers J-bo told are sure not to duplicate our feat, it’s possible that J-bo was inspiration for a couple of future traversers.
The peaks
By 6:30 p.m. we were sitting on top of Madison, trying to fathom the fact that we had just summated 11 pretty big (not to mention rocky) hills. We had survived injuries — Mark had a bad knee the entire hike, amazing us with his gutsy ability to drag on and even stay in front of J-bo and I for most of the final half of the traverse, which is the toughest part. J-bo also twisted his ankle, but simply walked it off.
We had also seen hundreds of fellow hikers (no fellow traversers, though) and a handful of headstrong dogs, including Enma and Toby, two beautiful dogs belonging to a older-aged man we met on top of Eisenhower. The man shocked me when he said that Enma, just four and a half, had ascended all 48 of New Hampshire 4,000-footers. Enma’s feat proved to be motivation for J-bo and I, who plan to summit all 48 within in the next couple years (we’ve already got about 20).
The best part of the traverse, of course, was getting to sit on top of 11 large mountains, which afforded incredible views and simply made us feel as though we were on top of the world. When you’re up there, you forget any real-world worries. You forget about crime, war, poverty. There’s nothing better. Believe me.
After the hike, J-bo and I ranked the 11 summits based on the views they afforded, their rock shapes, and their comfortability. Here are our lists:
J-bo
1. Adams
2. Monroe
3. Clay
4. Eisenhower
5. Jackson
6. Jefferson
7. Madison
8. Franklin
9. Pierce
10. Webster
11. Washington
Me
1. Monroe
2. Clay
3. Adams
4. Madison
5. Jackson
6. Eisenhower
7. Jefferson
8. Franklin
9. Pierce
10. Webster
11. Washington
The end
It’d be pretty difficult for a 24-mile hike to go completely smoothly. Ours did.
Until, about, the final longgggggggg mile.
So here’s what happened (from my standpoint; J-bo, feel free to add to this). We started down the Watson Craig trail, which was supposed to take us to our final path of the day, the Valley Way. Our previous trails had been the Webster Cliff Trail (to Mitzpah), the Crawford Path (to LOTC, then up Washington), and the Gulfside Trail (to Madison).
Well, I got way ahead of J-bo and Mark, mostly because Mark was having a very difficult time with the descent, rightfully so, because of his bad knee. I, meanwhile, kept a steady pace until the path finally crossed the stream I’d been seeking. There I stopped to soak my feet in ice cold water (I couldn’t keep them in for more than 30 seconds, no joke).
About 15 to 20 minutes passed before my comrades graced me with their presence long enough to take a picture of me in front of a mini waterfall and continue on (I think they wanted Frosties that badly). Figuring they’d continue at a slower pace, I took my time putting my wool socks and New Balance sneakers back on and preparing for the easy final stage of our long journey.
And then I hit the trail. I came to a sign, which said to bear right for the Brookside trail, which, apparently connected with the Valley Way. I was interested in the Valley Way, so I went that way. After about a mile, with dusk starting to set in, I spotted something black in the middle of the trail roughly 30 yards ahead of me. Warning: The next sentence will sound really stupid; if you don’t enjoy stupid sentences, skip ahead two paragraphs.
I thought it was either a black bear or a large puddle.
Maybe I was hallucinating or being delusional, but all I can say for myself is that I thought a big, strong bear might be in my way. With no one near me and darkness on its way, that was a scary proposition.
So I turned around.
I headed back up the path (yes, back up the mountain). I ran. I sweated. I began thinking things like…
“Isn’t this when all the animals come out??”
“What if there’s a crazy guy who appears at night and eats lost hikers like me?”
Yeah, I almost lost it.
But I didn’t. Unfortunately for you readers, the rest of the story is pretty boring. I took a ridge trail out of my way to get to Inlook Trail, which finally starting going down the mountain as I was enveloped by black (causing me to get out my savior, my trusty headlamp).
I called J-bo, my brotha from another motha, who directed me the rest of the way, on about 17 different paths. I ran the whole way and somehow never fell (don’t ask me how; it must have been the black New Balances).
Remarkably enough, despite hiking about an extra 2 miles, I made it to Vick’s car just 10 to 15 minutes after J-bo and Mark did via the good ‘ole Valley Way. According to J-bo, Mark had become delusional on the way down, swaying back and forth and falling several times. I like my bear story better.
Even though I would be teased for several days after the traverse about my bear story, it was worth it. It added a little excitement to the usual business-like descent. When I think about it now, it was the perfect ending to our hectic, insane, amazing day.
The Copper Tribute Hike
I hate to break this to you, but I despise resting. Even after a 24-mile hike. So, no, I didn’t spend the days after the traverse sitting around the Red House twiddling my thumbs. I did stuff.
More tennis. More beach. A little biking. Plenty of Strat. Not to mention another mountain climb.
On Friday, less than two days since the beginning of the traverse, J-bo and I decided to tackle Morgan and Percival, a two-summit hike (they’re both a little higher than 2,000 feet) off the curvy road (Route 113) between Sandwich and Holderness. It was a nice “cool-down” hike, and we met a bunch of young campers on top, who scared us (by talking about flying while on the peak of a steep mountain) and loved J-bo (“We’ll remember you,” a 13-year-old girl kept telling him).
Easy, J-bo.
Despite ruining the mountains with their loud shouting, the campers were great. So J-bo and I invited them into our picture on top of Percival before waving goodbye. And as far as I know, they all made it down the mountains, which wasn’t a bad accomplishment, considering all the “flying” talk and stumbling they were doing.
That hike wasn’t just a cool-down from the traverse, however. It was also a warm-up for the Copper Tribute Hike, which took place the following Tuesday. I decided before my trip to NH that we would hike up Whiteface Mountain, all 4,020 feet of it, in honor of Copper, my family’s amazing Golden Retriever (we think; he might have had some Irish Setter in him), who passed away earlier this summer at the age of 7.
Just two years ago, Copper accompanied J-bo and I up Whiteface’s steep cliffs under a searing sun. We had to help him up a couple rock faces, and he became absolutely exhausted, but he made it to Whiteface’s peak (then slept for the next two days). I’ll always remember that climb as one of Copp’s crowing moments.
(My mom prefers to call it one of the dumbest decisions I’ve ever made).
So it was only appropriate that we hiked Whiteface once again to remember Copp. And as I climbed up cliff after cliff, I felt more and more amazed that Copp, who weighed a solid 95 pounds, had been able to scale them.
When J-bo, Pudds and my uncle Buzz stopped on a cliff for a short water break, a beautiful orange and black butterfly appeared. Only later, when the creature reappeared on the mountain’s summit, did I begin to believe that it represented Copper’s spirit. I’ll never forget that butterfly.
On the peak, I gave a brief speech in memory of Copp — maybe the second speech I’ve presented in my non-oratory life — and each of us released a pinchful of Copp’s ashes into the high-altitude air. It was the perfect tribute to a dog that I’ll never forget.
The end is near
The days that followed before my stay’s climax, the three-day hike, were one final opportunity to enjoy all of the things that make the Red House and Sandwich so perfect every summer.
On Tuesday night, I saw my cousin Kristen and her boyfriend, Brad, for the first time, meaning I had seen all the usual family members during my stay. (Franchise left that Sunday after beating me in tennis, leaving him unbeaten for the summer… yeah, I was a bit peeved).
Wednesday was the second rainy day in three days, but there’s not a day to waste in Sandwich, so we made the most of it, playing bocce at Squam, buying hiking shoes and playing some hardcore tennis. (During the first rainy day, I should mention, Pudds, Vick and I took an incredible swim during a downpour in a very tranquil Squam). That night the cousins played mini golf one last time, and I put together my best round ever, a 3-under-par 37. I didn’t ace any holes, but I didn’t need to. The night before the first round of golf’s fourth major, the PGA Championship, I felt like Tiger.
(OK, that was an awfully inaccurate sentence. How about, I felt like one of those kids who wins the annual putt-putt championship and a gift certificate to Chucky Cheese?)
Thursday, despite being the day before the hike, was no time to rest. After treating J-bo, the birthday kid, the 22-year-old, to breakfast at the general store (and stuffing myself with hash browns, which would keep my stomach on lock until dinner time), we played a couple of great final tennis sets.
First, my aunt Sal and I bested Brad — the top player among us — and J-bo, 7-6 (4), coming back from a 4-0 deficit in the tiebreak. Then I beat J-bo in singles, 7-6(7). It was the perfect way to close out what had been nearly two weeks of great tennis. I feel like I improved leaps and bounds as did my competitors, especially J-bo, whom I will play with daily down in North Carolina.
Then it was time for the annual Old Home Week event we call “Field Day.” Some things never get old. Field Day is certainly one of them. It’s an afternoon filled with races. The rotten kids run and so do the adults. Ribbons are handed out to the top three finishers in each race.
As is usually the case, the Red House members didn’t disappoint, bringing home an array of blue (first place), red (second place) and yellow (third place) ribbons. The highlight race had to be the 50-yard three-legged version, in which J-bo and Brad finished second and Rose and I took third. I thought we had a real chance to pull off the upset (I never beat J-bo in that race, but that’s usually because he’s with Seth Duda, and their chemistry is impeccable), but we stumbled about midway through when we had the lead, and we had to accept the yellow. It wasn’t bad, however, considering Ro and I had never raced together.
Following the races and a terrible defeat in the Camp Hale-Sandwich tug-o-war (you have to understand, Camp Hale is made up of strong men; Sandwich, during the summer, is infiltrated with 5-year-olds), it was time for the main event, the blueberry pie-eating contest.
I guess I understand that most people don’t consider it the prime competition. In fact, most adult men are too embarrassed to compete in it or give 110 percent (see, J-bo), but not me. In my mind, it’s what friendly competition is all about.
The rules are simple. Eat the pie in front of you, with your arms behind your back, faster than your fellow eaters. Accomplishing the feat is another story. In this year’s version of the BPEC, I got a great start — two gigantic bites and swallows — but when J-bo, who wasn’t even pretending to eat his pie, starting laughing, I lost my concentration and any hope of winning the darn thing.
It was disappointing, frustrating mal-nourishment at its best. To say I’m already thinking about next year would be an understatement. It’s the only Field Day event in which a Lloyd/Wolf/Boreyko has never ribboned. I want to make the family proud.
The Mountains
The most difficult part of each summer is the day after the three-day hike. Returning to the valley. Seeing cars again. Having to look up at the mountains.
That was even tougher this summer after probably the best three-day hike I’ve ever experienced.
We had a record number of family members put on their hiking shoes and packs this summer. There were the regulars — my dad, Bust, J-bo, Sal, me, Brad, Kristen & Pudds — but Rose also participated in her first three-day hike and my cousin Lou, recovering from many ailments, was able to return after missing it the past two years. It was great to have so many loved ones in tow.
But that didn’t mean that I waited for them at each sign. My goal entering the hike was to summit all nine possible 4,000-footers, and that’s exactly what I did.
On the first day, we hiked up the Gale River Trail to Gailhead Hut. From there, some of us made the most of the late afternoon window before dinner (one thing I’ll never do is miss a hut dinner; the bread it out-of-this-world good), making the steep ascent to South Twin and North Twin Mtns.
And, boy, were we rewarded. The view from the top of South Twin (approximately 4,900 feet) was the best I’ve ever had from the top of a mountain. Yep, better than the view from any presidential. I mean, we could simply rotate our heads and see nothing but peaks in every direction. No buildings, not the ugly Mt. Washington Hotel in the valley (it was perfectly blocked by a summit). As I lay on the flat rock atop the peak, I literally thought I was in heaven. It was unbelievable.
The South Twin experience didn’t ruin the last two days of the hike, however. They were just as amazing. On Saturday, we hiked the up-and-down-and-back-up-then-down Garfield Ridge Trail through trees and rocks. We stopped for a good while on the summit of Mt. Garfield, which afforded us splendid views of what lay ahead of us (mainly Mt. Lafayette), and presented a good spot to bust out our second-day food (mainly PB&N sandwiches — that’s, peanut butter and Nutella, for those unfamiliar).
On that subject, let me quickly tangent to the food on mountains subject. I’ll be blunt. While I love food all the time, wherever I am, there is no doubt that food tastes better when eaten on a mountain. No doubt about it. Cheese and crackers at 5,000 feet is tantamount to steak and potatoes at sea level. Don’t question me on this one. It’s true.
Now back to the hike. After leaving Garfield, we continued on the ridge to the summit of Lafayette, or “Lafers,” as J-bo would later eloquently term it. The hike up “Lafers” showed another one of the mountains’ great attributes: crazy weather.
Winds were gusting at up to 30 mph, we were in the clouds, we couldn’t see farther than 30 or 40 yards. My adrenaline level kept increasing… and increasing as we climbed past false peak after false peak before finally locating the actual top of the mountain (the 5,000-footers really make you earn them; there are no gimmes in mountain climbing).
But when you do reach the top of a 5,000-footer, there’s nothing better in the world. Especially when the sky is clear, as we learned on Day 3.
After a delicious meal from an awesome Croo at Greenleaf Hut and an unofficial win in hearts by J-bo (it wasn’t over when the other participants declared bedtime), Day 2 was in the books. I was less than 48 hours away from being in Ann Arbor, staring at 100-foot green hills, wondering where all the mountains went. But I wasn’t there yet on Sunday, and along with J-bo and Brad, I made sure to take advantage of one final day up above reality.
While the other members of our group decided to take a shorter route down, the three of us didn’t take it “easy” on Day 3. In fact, we took it hard. We made it our toughest day of hiking. But also our most rewarding.
We hiked the 1.1 miles back up to Lafers’ summit (the third time J-bo and I had traversed that path — we ascended it to relieve Sal and Ro of their packs late Saturday). And then we headed to Lincoln, aka “The Linc,” Little Haystack, aka “Stackers,” Liberty, aka “Libs,” and Flume, aka “Flumer.”
None of us had ever climbed any of the four 4,000-plus-footers, so the terrain was new to us. And for bushwhackers like us, there’s nothing more exciting than traveling on a new path with clear skies.
J-bo stopped every few minutes to put the digital camera to use. Brad climbed out on a precarious, totem-pole-looking rock structure for a picture that will remain a classic for generations to come. We were followed by an interesting Appalachian Trail hiker who was excited about a condo a woman was letting him use once he reached the valley (but he was not pleased that she didn’t come with its use; gotta love them through hikers).
Day 3 encompassed what hiking is all about. And I haven’t even gotten to the climax yet.
OK, I’m there now. The Flume Slide Trail. The trail that the AMC book specifically said NOT TO DESCEND. The trail that we told Bust and Sal we wouldn’t go down. We didn’t want to worry them. But by the time Brad had climbed onto the totem pole (what could be more dangerous?), we had decided that we HAD to experience the FST. It would be the perfect ending to our trip. Just like hiking the Knife’s Edge at the conclusion of the AT.
We had heard horror stories about the FST. Guys in the hut, apparently, told Bust how they fell 25 feet trying to go up it. Imagine what could take place going down. As we sat on the top of Flume, which, appropriately, was jagged and not suited for the comfortable meal, eating our cheese and crackers, we professed our death wishes. I told Brad and J-bo that it would be a successful descent if two of us survived.
Well, I guess it was super successful, because not only did we all survive, but only one of us fell and no one got hurt. That’s not to say, however, that the trail wasn’t difficult. We had to participate in more butt-sliding than the normal person does in a lifetime. We had to constantly be on the lookout for footholes. It took us about an hour and a half to slide down the .8 miles of slides.
BUT WE MADE IT!
We survived. I survived to write about the experience. And now we’re all ready to go up it (no easy task either) in the near future. On our way down, we passed about 15 people and two dogs, including a beautiful 8-month-old Golden named Jackson. Free bones to both dogs for tackling such a beast of a trail.
After the slides, there was nearly 4 more miles of mild, simple hiking. The woods were quiet, the vegetation very green. It was a great time to think and reflect on my time in New Hampshire’s woods.
As I plodded along, my new shoes climbing over endless roots and navigating stepping rocks at what seemed like 10 different stream crossings, I dreaded the end of the trail. I detested the thought of hopping on a plane less than 24 hours later and returning to civilization.
I knew I couldn’t escape what was coming… the car ride to Boston, the night at Lou’s nice condo, the subway rides to the airport, the plane, the car ride back home, the work the next night.
It was all inevitable. It was my life.
But I told myself, with each step, that I’d do whatever it takes in the years to come to make the mountains, and New Hampshire, and my extended family (and bocce ball) central parts of my life.
Because what else would I have written 4,540 words about when I have laundry piling up and cat litter to empty?
PS — I hate to say this, but Brad won our annual bridge-guessing contest. He surmised an astronomically low 30 bridges for the entire three-day hike, but won after we crossed just 98. Pudd’s guess of 221 placed her second.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
