Any time we told a local we were planning hikes they mentioned this tiny town on the other side of Glacier National Park called Polebridge, so yesterday we hopped in our white Chevy Traverse and started the drive. Montana R said it was about an hour and fifteen minutes.
About an hour and fifteen minutes after we started driving we came to a split in our dirt road and a sign that pointed to Canada one way and Glacier National Park the other way. After several moments of map consultation we determined Polebridge lay in the direction of Canada and gunned the Chevy north.
Eventually we reached Home Ranch Bottoms, a tiny store on the side of our dirt road that sold $2 beer and advertized free internet. It turned out Home Ranch Bottoms had no electricity, so I’m not sure how the free internet would have worked, but we chatted with the man working there and affirmed our motion was in the right direction before hopping back in the car yet again.
We bounced along our dirt road for fifteen more minutes before we reached Polebridge – not what I expected. Everyone told us about the amazing bakeries (note the plural) in Polebridge, so I imagined it to be one of those small towns with one central road that sported a few bakeries and some coffee houses.
In fact, Polebridge consists of a sign that says “Welcome to Polebridge”, the “Polebridge Mercantile” (the Merc), and a few cabins behind the Merc. There is not even a central street – the Merc sits beside the “highway”, aka the dirt road on which we drove in.
On the other hand, the cookies and breads at the Merc taste delightful. Upon returning to Whitefish I found myself recommending Polebridge’s “baked goods” (it sounded better in my mind than “single store that happens to produce awesome cookies and breads”). We stopped by the Merc after our hike, somewhat apprehensive, but knowing we could not leave Polebridge without at least trying one baked item. When we walked in a tray of cookies just out of the oven plopped on the counter in front of us and we received a paper plate with three on it, chocolate chips melting everywhere. I bake a lot of cookies but I have never made or tasted anything better than that Polebridge treat.
Our hike in Glacier National Park near Polebridge was uneventful. We ended up with less time than expected since it took us two hours to get there and we just trekked around Bowman Lake for a while, stopping to snack on granola or nectarines when we found a particularly beautiful spot. I took pictures every few steps and the Judge tried to help me with composition, the only part of photography I can really control with my current digital camera (it’s an awesome camera, just like Bruce is an awesome car, but as neither has a manual option you kind of just have to take what they decide upon). By my calculations we hiked about 8 miles on flat ground, but compared to the exertions of previous days it felt as if we’d barely exercised. That’s a weird feeling.
After Polebridge we cleaned up and made our way into Whitefish to meet BG and go to the farmer’s market. As the type of person who could spend every day at a farmer’s market I regretted “attending” one with SB and the Judge, who would rather spend an evening in a pub drinking Going to the Sun (their favorite Montana brew). I convinced them to hang around the market for long enough to purchase two baskets of cherry tomatoes and some huckleberry jam to send AW’s parents, then we retreated to the Black Star Brewing Company and stood on the balcony with our beers listening to the music from the market.
At times like that I think I could move to Montana, but the East in me always brings the wanderer to its senses.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
The Value of Experience
As it turns out biking up mountains in Montana all day exposes your newly muscled legs to more sun than one might expect, so SB and I both ended the day with funny red streaks down one side of the backs of our calves or on the other side of the tops of our thighs. This might have remained an issue for our vanity had we not already planned to go horseback riding the following day – an activity that requires rough jeans rubbing between your sunburned calf backs and the saddle. Since we were already hesitant to sit when unnecessary SB and I decided to down more than the recommended dose of Aspirin before heading out to the Bar W Guest Ranch.
The Judge stepped out of our rental at the ranch and immediately noticed that it smelled like horses. SB and I were less surprised than she seemed, which may be due in part to our extensive beginner experience with trail rides. Each of us attacks rural vacations with a determination to discover a trail ride, but neither of us have ever experienced more than the accidental trot of an excited horse. Impressively I am now at the experience level of “knowing to wear my torn jeans to ride horses because I will inevitably rip them in the crotch area when lunging up during the mount”. Yesterday when SB winced at the sound of my pants ripping I cheerfully said, “It’s okay, that’s why I wore these jeans!”
The Judge suggested I toss them before our return to Georgia so I wouldn’t have to carry useless jeans on the plane, but I knew better. I’m saving those babies for the next trail ride.
Our guide (Horse Lady J), who was shorter and younger than I, let the Judge choose which horse would go with which rider. I imagine Horse Lady J should have assigned us horses according to our experience level (I obviously demonstrated that I deserved the most difficult horse) but, like most people, was too intimidated by the Judge to cross her. The Judge gave SB the tallest horse, a white-gray gentle character named Cayoose (sp? – Blackfoot for “horse”). She took Ike, the shortest and plumpest, for herself, and I was left with Kernel.
Kernel (the Judge kept confusing his name with Colonel and occasionally accidentally referred to him as “General”) was a troublemaker from the start, which I enjoyed thoroughly. For the first mile he kept trying to snatch bites of the leaf buffet and sneezed in consternation when I pulled him back. I think he was used to riders who paid less attention to their rides. Kernel also liked to follow so closely behind Ike that he once ended up sneezing in earnest when horse poop dropped right past his nose. I laughed at him for that a little and he glared at me but then started paying attention to me when I asked him politely to stay back.
Cayoose remained relatively calm but Ike sensed the Judge’s lack of comfort with horses and pranced around more than necessary. It didn’t help that the Judge occasionally removed a foot from the stirrup and propped it up on Ike’s neck. Kernel and I giggled when Ike took such opportunities to snack or trot, and the Judge would hear us and holler, “What are you saying to the General?”
We rode mostly through the woods and the trip really turned out to be a great success, and when I dismounted for good I told Kernel I’d come back to ride him again, at which point he sneezed on me. I think that was his way of saying he’d miss me.
After the mandatory beer run on the drive home we changed and headed back toward Whitefish to hike around what the locals call “Big Mountain” and the guidebooks label “Whitefish Mountain”. It doesn’t open to bikers or zipliners until June 26 this year and the Summit is closed still because of snow, so we made like mountain goats and just hopped around various trails and commented on how weird ski mountains look without snow. Rain and fog cloaked the mountains in the distance and threatened our sense of dryness so we weren’t too disappointed that the peak was closed and once we felt exercised we quickly grew bored of Big Mountain. The Judge declared it half past beer time and we trekked down to Great Northern for a reward.
Today we’re heading back to Glacier via Polebridge, apparently renowned for its fantastic bakeries. Our driving route consists mostly of a dirt road marked by a dashed line on our map and occasionally the Judge and SB stop to argue about whether we’re going the right way or whether Ted Turner owns the ranch were passing. We just drove by a sign that advertised $2 beer and internet at the Home Ranch Bottoms, so SB is pulling in. Polebridge seems a distant goal.
The Judge stepped out of our rental at the ranch and immediately noticed that it smelled like horses. SB and I were less surprised than she seemed, which may be due in part to our extensive beginner experience with trail rides. Each of us attacks rural vacations with a determination to discover a trail ride, but neither of us have ever experienced more than the accidental trot of an excited horse. Impressively I am now at the experience level of “knowing to wear my torn jeans to ride horses because I will inevitably rip them in the crotch area when lunging up during the mount”. Yesterday when SB winced at the sound of my pants ripping I cheerfully said, “It’s okay, that’s why I wore these jeans!”
The Judge suggested I toss them before our return to Georgia so I wouldn’t have to carry useless jeans on the plane, but I knew better. I’m saving those babies for the next trail ride.
Our guide (Horse Lady J), who was shorter and younger than I, let the Judge choose which horse would go with which rider. I imagine Horse Lady J should have assigned us horses according to our experience level (I obviously demonstrated that I deserved the most difficult horse) but, like most people, was too intimidated by the Judge to cross her. The Judge gave SB the tallest horse, a white-gray gentle character named Cayoose (sp? – Blackfoot for “horse”). She took Ike, the shortest and plumpest, for herself, and I was left with Kernel.
Kernel (the Judge kept confusing his name with Colonel and occasionally accidentally referred to him as “General”) was a troublemaker from the start, which I enjoyed thoroughly. For the first mile he kept trying to snatch bites of the leaf buffet and sneezed in consternation when I pulled him back. I think he was used to riders who paid less attention to their rides. Kernel also liked to follow so closely behind Ike that he once ended up sneezing in earnest when horse poop dropped right past his nose. I laughed at him for that a little and he glared at me but then started paying attention to me when I asked him politely to stay back.
Cayoose remained relatively calm but Ike sensed the Judge’s lack of comfort with horses and pranced around more than necessary. It didn’t help that the Judge occasionally removed a foot from the stirrup and propped it up on Ike’s neck. Kernel and I giggled when Ike took such opportunities to snack or trot, and the Judge would hear us and holler, “What are you saying to the General?”
We rode mostly through the woods and the trip really turned out to be a great success, and when I dismounted for good I told Kernel I’d come back to ride him again, at which point he sneezed on me. I think that was his way of saying he’d miss me.
After the mandatory beer run on the drive home we changed and headed back toward Whitefish to hike around what the locals call “Big Mountain” and the guidebooks label “Whitefish Mountain”. It doesn’t open to bikers or zipliners until June 26 this year and the Summit is closed still because of snow, so we made like mountain goats and just hopped around various trails and commented on how weird ski mountains look without snow. Rain and fog cloaked the mountains in the distance and threatened our sense of dryness so we weren’t too disappointed that the peak was closed and once we felt exercised we quickly grew bored of Big Mountain. The Judge declared it half past beer time and we trekked down to Great Northern for a reward.
Today we’re heading back to Glacier via Polebridge, apparently renowned for its fantastic bakeries. Our driving route consists mostly of a dirt road marked by a dashed line on our map and occasionally the Judge and SB stop to argue about whether we’re going the right way or whether Ted Turner owns the ranch were passing. We just drove by a sign that advertised $2 beer and internet at the Home Ranch Bottoms, so SB is pulling in. Polebridge seems a distant goal.
One More Mishap
So Going to the Sun road is how I earned my first cycling shirt. It’s yellow and blue and green and says “Going to the Sun” on the front and “Glacier Cyclery: Glacier National Park” on the back. Technically I’m sharing it and another with the Judge, but I think the “Going to the Sun” one is cooler so I’m thinking of it as mine.
As I noted yesterday we peeled back layers as we ascended the mountain. At the top we piled them on again before starting down, and I made sure to zip two of my shirts pretty high so my chest wouldn’t have the cold wind rushing against it. Apparently this was a good plan but not well enough executed, because when we were almost at the bottom a big black bug flew into the shirts.
At first I thought I could just leave it alone and let it find its own way out. I’d opted for a sports bra and there wasn’t much moving around space inside my shirt so I figured the bug would quickly realize he was in hostile territory and leave. I did not account for the fact that when bugs with stingers decide they’re in hostile territory they begin stinging.
I slammed on the brakes and skidded over to the side of the road, where I started stripping off one layer after another and screaming, “Help! Get it out! Help!”
SB was too far down the mountain ahead of us to hear but the Judge stopped her bike and started running up toward me. My various shirts – I must have worn seven or eight – dropped around me and passing cyclists came close to crashing as they tried to figure out what the crazy lady pulling shirts off over her helmet and screaming had in mind. Finally I got down to just my short-sleeved long underwear layer and the Judge helped me flush the thing out through the bottom of my bra.
I sustained two stings to the left breast.
Here’s the good thing about my cycling shirt: it zips all the way up to the neck and all the way down to the waist.
As I noted yesterday we peeled back layers as we ascended the mountain. At the top we piled them on again before starting down, and I made sure to zip two of my shirts pretty high so my chest wouldn’t have the cold wind rushing against it. Apparently this was a good plan but not well enough executed, because when we were almost at the bottom a big black bug flew into the shirts.
At first I thought I could just leave it alone and let it find its own way out. I’d opted for a sports bra and there wasn’t much moving around space inside my shirt so I figured the bug would quickly realize he was in hostile territory and leave. I did not account for the fact that when bugs with stingers decide they’re in hostile territory they begin stinging.
I slammed on the brakes and skidded over to the side of the road, where I started stripping off one layer after another and screaming, “Help! Get it out! Help!”
SB was too far down the mountain ahead of us to hear but the Judge stopped her bike and started running up toward me. My various shirts – I must have worn seven or eight – dropped around me and passing cyclists came close to crashing as they tried to figure out what the crazy lady pulling shirts off over her helmet and screaming had in mind. Finally I got down to just my short-sleeved long underwear layer and the Judge helped me flush the thing out through the bottom of my bra.
I sustained two stings to the left breast.
Here’s the good thing about my cycling shirt: it zips all the way up to the neck and all the way down to the waist.
Monday, June 14, 2010
How I Earned My Cycling Shirt
When we told the folks at Glacier Cyclery that we planned to bike through parts of Glacier National Park later this week they shook their heads gravely and noted that due to construction we could only bike on the weekends. Though our derrières hurt every time we tried to sit from a 25-miler around Whitefish Lake (on less-than-comfortable seats, I might add), we looked at each other and made the decision to bike on both weekend days. Glacier Cyclery employees recommended Going to the Sun road, a 50-mile highway closed to traffic for most of the year due to snow (the West is less efficient than the East). Going to the Sun road, they said, was due to open to cars next weekend, and although there was construction that would stop us from riding about a mile from the peak at Logan’s Pass they still suggested it. We could go about sixteen miles up and sixteen miles back.
“Where’s the worst uphill part?” my sister asked.
They laughed at us. Eventually one of them said, “Well, when you reach The Loop you’re halfway up the mountain, and then you can see how far you have left to go, and you think, ‘Oh, God, I’m never going to make it.’ That’s probably the worst part, but with sixteen miles of uphill it’s really hard to say.”
When SB and I were around nine and ten the Judge took us on a 14-mile ride up the Blue Ridge Parkway, so we rolled our eyes at the obviously inferior hardcore-ness of the bike guys and loaded our three bikes into the back of our rented Chevy Traverse. (Unfortunately the bike rack Montana R lent us – or any bike rack, according to the Glacier Cyclery crew – would not fit on the back of the Chevy and so our only transportation option was to remove the front wheels and jam the bikes in the SUV. It took some work and some lessons on how to remove a front wheel for SB but in the end it saved us from having to buy a bike lock.)
I guess we should have been more intimidated by the bike boys’ reactions, but all I can say is that if any of us had known what we were in for when we drove through the West entrance of Glacier National Park we would have turned the car around – or at least turned our bikes around at the halfway point. However, we were too stupid to pay attention and too naïve to know what we were in for, so we happily bounced through the park until we reached the gate that closed off Going to the Sun road to cars and then used SB’s new skills to reassemble the bikes. The car thermometer read about 43˚F at 9:30am. We kept on our sweatpants and hurried to attach our bag to SB’s bike, which had a small rack over the back wheel, with clumsy gloved hands, hoping we wouldn’t freeze at the top.
A note on the bag: after riding around on Saturday without a good way to carry extra sunscreen, snacks, keys, phones, layers, etc, we decided to find a nice lightweight backpack for the rest of our trip. We ended up at a store called “The Sportsman and Ski Haus”, which boasted numerous bags – but none felt quite light enough or rolled up small enough to fit into our bags for the plane ride home. The salesman helping us – a burly sportsman who probably spent his spare time hunting on skis – tentatively suggested we look at fanny packs. I laughed in his face.
We spent a bit of time speaking with the cycle guys at The Sportsman, too, and SB and the Judge kept returning to the fanny pack idea. To quell this notion, I announced that I refused to carry or be seen with a fanny pack unless it was a camouflage fanny pack.
Later SB asked me, “Did you say that because you saw a camo fanny pack?”
No. I thought of camo because to get from bags to cycles we’d passed through the hunting section, and I thought surely no one would manufacture a camo fanny pack.
SB and the Judge promptly found a camo fanny pack, and it turns out the thing had the added bonus of costing only $9.99. To my shock and dismay we purchased it and SB and the Judge chatted the entire ride home about how they could fill it up with little baggies of granola and bananas for our Going to the Sun road excursion. I’m glaring at the bag now as it sits across me on the table. Somehow it simultaneously screams masculinity and yet emasculates even such unisex objects as that table.
Anyway, we packed the camo back with granola baggies and Craisin packets and M&Ms and cookies (rewards for reaching the top) and shed our sweatpants, hoping we would warm up during the ride. If the Glacier Cyclery guys were reading this they would laugh out loud at that last sentiment.
We reached The Loop and took our first food break. The entire way up we’d been dazzled by the scenery and even came across a mule deer that calmly crossed the road in front of us. We were exhausted but pretty sure we could make it halfway more, and by The Loop we’d shed most of our outer layers. We chatted with some veterans who said they biked the road every weekend starting in April and liked to see how much further the road was open to bikes each week. They said we would be able to make it almost to the top, about sixteen miles up, which corroborated the bike boys’ opinions. Encouraged, we turned the corner and saw how much further we had to ride.
I almost choked at what lay ahead, but we kept going.
The difficult part of the ride turned out to be not the incline but the lack of any relief whatsoever. For sixteen miles we never even pedaled on flat land; the entire road unrelentingly continued to slope up and up. Occasionally we encountered steep sections after which we stopped to catch our breath, but most of the time we just slowly pushed ourselves up a peak in the Rockies.
When it seemed as if we’d gone at least halfway more we took a break to get our bearings and rest. We realized we hadn’t even reached a major landmark, the Weeping Wall, after which the peak languished three miles ahead; we figured due to construction we’d have about a mile after the Weeping Wall. That calculation turned out to be correct, but we still had no clue how far away from the Weeping Wall we rested. Figuring we had to be close, we got back on the bikes – my own backside was so sore that I had avoided sitting down on my bike so far because amazingly standing and pedaling hurt less than the relief of sitting – and kept going up.
Eventually the Judge just said, “Uncle.”
We pulled over to the side again and I took more pictures – I took so many pictures yesterday that my camera ran out of battery. We almost turned around, but SB was determined to get as far as we could, so we kept going again.
I don’t know how many more times after that we stopped and restarted, but I was almost convinced that we weren’t going to make it when we reached the Weeping Wall. I recently ran a half marathon and most days spend an hour biking in addition to my runs, but my legs felt like Jell-o. I thought we were done for.
Once we passed the Weeping Wall, where we unavoidably showered in glacial streams, the road turned rough and the railings disappeared. I refused to look over the side of the mountain for certainty of vertigo. A mile later we reached signs that announced further travel ensured persecution. I have never been happier for the threat of persecution.
We celebrated with cookies and more pictures and took our time back down the mountain, pausing for mountain goat sightings and a more cookie celebration. When we reached home we realized we’d been sunburned in strange cycling shorts patterns, but it was hard to care.
We barely made it to Pescado Blanco for a delicious Mexican supper and passed out upon returning home. Now we’re on our way out the door for horseback riding. I hope our rear ends survive.
“Where’s the worst uphill part?” my sister asked.
They laughed at us. Eventually one of them said, “Well, when you reach The Loop you’re halfway up the mountain, and then you can see how far you have left to go, and you think, ‘Oh, God, I’m never going to make it.’ That’s probably the worst part, but with sixteen miles of uphill it’s really hard to say.”
When SB and I were around nine and ten the Judge took us on a 14-mile ride up the Blue Ridge Parkway, so we rolled our eyes at the obviously inferior hardcore-ness of the bike guys and loaded our three bikes into the back of our rented Chevy Traverse. (Unfortunately the bike rack Montana R lent us – or any bike rack, according to the Glacier Cyclery crew – would not fit on the back of the Chevy and so our only transportation option was to remove the front wheels and jam the bikes in the SUV. It took some work and some lessons on how to remove a front wheel for SB but in the end it saved us from having to buy a bike lock.)
I guess we should have been more intimidated by the bike boys’ reactions, but all I can say is that if any of us had known what we were in for when we drove through the West entrance of Glacier National Park we would have turned the car around – or at least turned our bikes around at the halfway point. However, we were too stupid to pay attention and too naïve to know what we were in for, so we happily bounced through the park until we reached the gate that closed off Going to the Sun road to cars and then used SB’s new skills to reassemble the bikes. The car thermometer read about 43˚F at 9:30am. We kept on our sweatpants and hurried to attach our bag to SB’s bike, which had a small rack over the back wheel, with clumsy gloved hands, hoping we wouldn’t freeze at the top.
A note on the bag: after riding around on Saturday without a good way to carry extra sunscreen, snacks, keys, phones, layers, etc, we decided to find a nice lightweight backpack for the rest of our trip. We ended up at a store called “The Sportsman and Ski Haus”, which boasted numerous bags – but none felt quite light enough or rolled up small enough to fit into our bags for the plane ride home. The salesman helping us – a burly sportsman who probably spent his spare time hunting on skis – tentatively suggested we look at fanny packs. I laughed in his face.
We spent a bit of time speaking with the cycle guys at The Sportsman, too, and SB and the Judge kept returning to the fanny pack idea. To quell this notion, I announced that I refused to carry or be seen with a fanny pack unless it was a camouflage fanny pack.
Later SB asked me, “Did you say that because you saw a camo fanny pack?”
No. I thought of camo because to get from bags to cycles we’d passed through the hunting section, and I thought surely no one would manufacture a camo fanny pack.
SB and the Judge promptly found a camo fanny pack, and it turns out the thing had the added bonus of costing only $9.99. To my shock and dismay we purchased it and SB and the Judge chatted the entire ride home about how they could fill it up with little baggies of granola and bananas for our Going to the Sun road excursion. I’m glaring at the bag now as it sits across me on the table. Somehow it simultaneously screams masculinity and yet emasculates even such unisex objects as that table.
Anyway, we packed the camo back with granola baggies and Craisin packets and M&Ms and cookies (rewards for reaching the top) and shed our sweatpants, hoping we would warm up during the ride. If the Glacier Cyclery guys were reading this they would laugh out loud at that last sentiment.
We reached The Loop and took our first food break. The entire way up we’d been dazzled by the scenery and even came across a mule deer that calmly crossed the road in front of us. We were exhausted but pretty sure we could make it halfway more, and by The Loop we’d shed most of our outer layers. We chatted with some veterans who said they biked the road every weekend starting in April and liked to see how much further the road was open to bikes each week. They said we would be able to make it almost to the top, about sixteen miles up, which corroborated the bike boys’ opinions. Encouraged, we turned the corner and saw how much further we had to ride.
I almost choked at what lay ahead, but we kept going.
The difficult part of the ride turned out to be not the incline but the lack of any relief whatsoever. For sixteen miles we never even pedaled on flat land; the entire road unrelentingly continued to slope up and up. Occasionally we encountered steep sections after which we stopped to catch our breath, but most of the time we just slowly pushed ourselves up a peak in the Rockies.
When it seemed as if we’d gone at least halfway more we took a break to get our bearings and rest. We realized we hadn’t even reached a major landmark, the Weeping Wall, after which the peak languished three miles ahead; we figured due to construction we’d have about a mile after the Weeping Wall. That calculation turned out to be correct, but we still had no clue how far away from the Weeping Wall we rested. Figuring we had to be close, we got back on the bikes – my own backside was so sore that I had avoided sitting down on my bike so far because amazingly standing and pedaling hurt less than the relief of sitting – and kept going up.
Eventually the Judge just said, “Uncle.”
We pulled over to the side again and I took more pictures – I took so many pictures yesterday that my camera ran out of battery. We almost turned around, but SB was determined to get as far as we could, so we kept going again.
I don’t know how many more times after that we stopped and restarted, but I was almost convinced that we weren’t going to make it when we reached the Weeping Wall. I recently ran a half marathon and most days spend an hour biking in addition to my runs, but my legs felt like Jell-o. I thought we were done for.
Once we passed the Weeping Wall, where we unavoidably showered in glacial streams, the road turned rough and the railings disappeared. I refused to look over the side of the mountain for certainty of vertigo. A mile later we reached signs that announced further travel ensured persecution. I have never been happier for the threat of persecution.
We celebrated with cookies and more pictures and took our time back down the mountain, pausing for mountain goat sightings and a more cookie celebration. When we reached home we realized we’d been sunburned in strange cycling shorts patterns, but it was hard to care.
We barely made it to Pescado Blanco for a delicious Mexican supper and passed out upon returning home. Now we’re on our way out the door for horseback riding. I hope our rear ends survive.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Cycloops
Montana facilitates my pursuit of hardcore-ness. I just built a crazy huge fire on which I shall, immediately following this blog post, cook a steak until it turns dark purple and only moos a little. It helped my image that I did this while wearing hiking boots and long underwear (which was short-sleeved, so technically I have to wonder if it qualifies as short underwear).
Our journey began early yesterday morning – at 6am for me and 4am for the Judge and SB, who drove to Atlanta before our 8:30am flight. Yesterday morning was probably the first time I felt lucky in only needing to ride MARTA to reach the airport.
Two flights and another car ride later, through all of which SB slept, we arrived in a tiny section of Whitefish, Montana. A little background information on Whitefish: it lies an hour south of Canada and functions as a resort town in the winter and the month of July (their summer). When my sister told her high school roommate, who happens to hail from Montana herself, that we planned to vacation in Whitefish, she asked, “Why?”
Interestingly, most Whitefish residents also ask us “Why Whitefish?” in the first three sentences of any conversation. This includes, but is not limited to: bartenders, guys working at cycling stores, bakery owners, little girls walking through town with their father, the pharmacist at Walgreen’s where we stopped to pick up an emergency inhaler for SB, and random people who run after us when we exit one outdoor adventure store to convince us to visit theirs.
Montana R happened to run after us as we left a cycling-store-slash-coffee-shop. I stopped because a huge black dog bounded after him and I think if my personality had a sign it would read, “Will brake for dogs”. Montana R insisted we follow him into his fly-fishing store, and since the dog went I did too, and since I went the Judge and SB did three.
We don’t fly-fish, but the store was notably cool and Montana R proved full of helpful advice about local watering holes and bike routes. In what I’ve come to learn is true Montana kindness, upon learning that we might want to take our newly-rented bikes up to Glacier National Park tomorrow, Montana R immediately offered to loan us his bike rack.
Of course we refused, because in the East, even in the South, people don’t just do that. Montana R insisted, though, adding that he would meet us at The Great Northern Brewing Company in a few hours and buy us a beer.
We’d been in Whitefish for only two hours.
At around 7:30 we met Montana R at Great Northern and plopped down around a bar table with the loaned bike rack on the booth beside us. He and another friend pulled out maps and I jotted down notes on their suggestions for how and where to hike and bike Glacier. Eventually we stumbled on weary legs to a quick supper and drove back to our cabin in the woods in 20-hour-day-inflicted somnambulant silence. Montana R left a message concerning his disappointment that SB and I did not return to Great Northern for pool and more drinks.
Montana is like a mix between camp and the movie “A River Runs Through It”. This morning we climbed out of bed early and outfitted ourselves for a day of biking (the Judge refused to let me bring my long-time helmet because it happens to be duct-taped together, and SB decided to purchase a pair of biking shorts) before taking off on a 25-mile trail around Whitefish Lake. At home we usually ride bikes with big, cushiony seats, and all evening we’ve been taking care to sit down gently. Tomorrow we plan to ride 30 miles to one of the more famous peaks in Glacier. I foresee a necessity for serious use of the resort hot tub tomorrow evening – I’ll just stand in the middle of it.
Our journey began early yesterday morning – at 6am for me and 4am for the Judge and SB, who drove to Atlanta before our 8:30am flight. Yesterday morning was probably the first time I felt lucky in only needing to ride MARTA to reach the airport.
Two flights and another car ride later, through all of which SB slept, we arrived in a tiny section of Whitefish, Montana. A little background information on Whitefish: it lies an hour south of Canada and functions as a resort town in the winter and the month of July (their summer). When my sister told her high school roommate, who happens to hail from Montana herself, that we planned to vacation in Whitefish, she asked, “Why?”
Interestingly, most Whitefish residents also ask us “Why Whitefish?” in the first three sentences of any conversation. This includes, but is not limited to: bartenders, guys working at cycling stores, bakery owners, little girls walking through town with their father, the pharmacist at Walgreen’s where we stopped to pick up an emergency inhaler for SB, and random people who run after us when we exit one outdoor adventure store to convince us to visit theirs.
Montana R happened to run after us as we left a cycling-store-slash-coffee-shop. I stopped because a huge black dog bounded after him and I think if my personality had a sign it would read, “Will brake for dogs”. Montana R insisted we follow him into his fly-fishing store, and since the dog went I did too, and since I went the Judge and SB did three.
We don’t fly-fish, but the store was notably cool and Montana R proved full of helpful advice about local watering holes and bike routes. In what I’ve come to learn is true Montana kindness, upon learning that we might want to take our newly-rented bikes up to Glacier National Park tomorrow, Montana R immediately offered to loan us his bike rack.
Of course we refused, because in the East, even in the South, people don’t just do that. Montana R insisted, though, adding that he would meet us at The Great Northern Brewing Company in a few hours and buy us a beer.
We’d been in Whitefish for only two hours.
At around 7:30 we met Montana R at Great Northern and plopped down around a bar table with the loaned bike rack on the booth beside us. He and another friend pulled out maps and I jotted down notes on their suggestions for how and where to hike and bike Glacier. Eventually we stumbled on weary legs to a quick supper and drove back to our cabin in the woods in 20-hour-day-inflicted somnambulant silence. Montana R left a message concerning his disappointment that SB and I did not return to Great Northern for pool and more drinks.
Montana is like a mix between camp and the movie “A River Runs Through It”. This morning we climbed out of bed early and outfitted ourselves for a day of biking (the Judge refused to let me bring my long-time helmet because it happens to be duct-taped together, and SB decided to purchase a pair of biking shorts) before taking off on a 25-mile trail around Whitefish Lake. At home we usually ride bikes with big, cushiony seats, and all evening we’ve been taking care to sit down gently. Tomorrow we plan to ride 30 miles to one of the more famous peaks in Glacier. I foresee a necessity for serious use of the resort hot tub tomorrow evening – I’ll just stand in the middle of it.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Love Divine
I experienced Graduation and Anniversary Weekend at St. Paul’s School for the first time in the spring of 2002 as a third former (or, as the rest of the world calls it, a high-school freshman). Third formers at SPS work as waiters and busboys during Saturday’s picnic lunch and I remember watching while alumni streamed into the white tents set up on the chapel lawn, looking as happy as I’d ever seen a group of old men. I also remember not being particularly surprised, partially because I was young enough not to realize that returning to your high school for a reunion every year was not practiced widely but also because I had lived at St. Paul’s for nine months and already suspected I would want to come back as often as possible once I graduated.
Over the past five years I learned through other friends and pop culture movies that high school reunions usually take place in the form of a dance with a disco ball in high school gyms, and that the main purpose of said reunions is to prove to your old classmates that you have either become better than they ever were or that you are still as awesome as you were in high school. While I will admit that this past weekend I witnessed certain ex-hockey players clinging to their awesome factor from SPS days, for the most part I looked forward to seeing my high school classmates. We lived together for four years – each one of us always struggling at one thing or another, each of us helping others through their own particular difficulties. Hockey players and chess club champions crowded around the same couches in the library after practice at night to get help conjugating Spanish verbs from artists, and everyone knew that while they excelled in one arena (or even three or four) they still needed help to stay afloat in all the others. Cliques existed, of course, because in any larger group of people they will – wanting to surround oneself with like individuals is natural – but SPS cliques never seemed exclusive to me, simply formed loosely because musicians spent all their spare time in the music building and ultimate Frisbee players spent theirs on the lawn. In a weird reverse of the norm, we all made fun of the “dumb” kids – ones who, for example, entered high school without already knowing algebra. In retrospect this seems crueler than the usual school environment, of which we were all products, where the smart dorky kids get taunted. Five years later I’m realizing that it really isn’t fair for smart kids to gang up on dumb ones in high school, because on the whole the smart kids do end up getting the better end of the deal.
Anyway – I’ll get back to waxing interestingly. SPS Graduation/Anniversary Weekend consists of a whirlwind of activities planned for the alumni, beginning on Friday afternoon at around 1pm with registration and ending on Sunday afternoon with graduation. Like any elite prep school we have a Latin play, a 5K, a chapel service/alumni meeting, a parade, and a bevy of reunion meals. Saturday morning I arrived on campus early enough for the 10am chapel service but not quite early enough for the 8am run, which was due in part to the excitement of the night before, during which two members of my form managed to mar their records with arrests for drunk and disorderly. The alumni relations committee relegated us to the Red Roof Inn in Loudon, New Hampshire, twenty minutes away from SPS, because the form of 2004 caused such a ruckus last year that no one else wanted to take the 5th-year reuniters. We complained quite a bit on Friday evening, but by around 2am it became clear that the alumni relations committee had in fact made an excellent decision in our exile.
In chapel we sang the school hymns and recited the school prayer. When I attended St. Paul’s I hated the day of the year during which we sat in our hard wooden assigned pews and waited as the names of alumni who passed away during the wars were read out; during my first alumni chapel I learned that the names of all alumni who passed away during the previous year were read. I tried to settle in uncomfortably, preparing myself for a time of great boredom and wishing I were outside wandering our 2,000 acres the way I used to whenever I had a big project or paper due. When we were in deaths from the form of 1934 (they’re read chronologically by form), I began thinking about the tradition of reading the names of the dead. At SPS I’d always thought of them floating up into the rafters like ghost bats, unable to really let go of the world until their names echoed through the chapel. Sometimes after the memorial services I would have nightmares about dead alumni drifting around campus, and they always looked a little like the men I saw from the form of 1929 this past weekend, only a little more translucent. I got so spooked from my overactive imagination that I became convinced that I’d read these ideas in an Edgar Allen Poe story and spent my fifth-form winter re-reading all his works to find the image. After Saturday morning’s service I met BG out on the chapel terrace and we sat quietly on the wall looking over the pond. Eventually she said, “I know this is vaguely Mormon, but reading out the names of the dead – I know you think it’s creepy,” (BG was my roommate at SPS for three years and witnessed my nightmares and the Poe period), “but isn’t it a little reassuring to know that after you die someone will still be speaking your name in our chapel?”
And it is, in a strange way. I have spent much of my life feeling slightly out of place. At SPS I found myself surrounded by others like me because they were unlike most people, which may be a confusing distinction to anyone normal. We all grew up trying to figure out how many questions we should answer incorrectly to walk the line between pleasing our parents, who knew how smart we were, and not intimidating the other kids in the class, who would make fun of us if they knew how smart we were. We left home at fourteen and entered a world where the coolest of us knew every country in the world or had already finished calculus by sixteen, but more importantly, we entered a world where all of our possible friends had battled that precarious situation of being different and trying not to. St. Paul’s is a day’s journey from where I grew up, but in some ways it feels more like home than I imagine anywhere else ever could. It is a little Mormon, but I like the creepy idea that some extended family of outsider dorks will hear my name read out when I die.
After the chapel service we lined up to parade through campus with the form of 2010 at the very end, and when we reached the edge of campus we all lined the road and applauded as 2010ers walked through. I didn’t know anyone graduating but I remembered well how it felt to be a day away from graduating SPS and have all the alumni cheering you on, and I have to say it was pretty fun to see all those 18-year-olds grinning and feeling important.
BG and I made our way through lunch, photographs, crew races, and a lobster/steak dinner, trying to suppress being overwhelmed. We hung out with our good friend TL much of the day and at some point as he spoke with someone else I noticed that his maroon-colored collared shirt in fact displayed the Arby’s logo. When he sat back down we asked him about it, and he said, “I got tired of people asking me if I was employed, so this seemed like a good idea.”
That was two days ago and it’s still making me laugh a little.
Yesterday and today I’ve done the bus/plane/shuttle/metro/loose your luggage and argue with Delta about having it delivered before you leave Atlanta, then at 6:15 tell them to just keep it in the airport because you’re going to pick it up before you leave Atlanta, then reaching the airport and having it on the delivery van dance. All the way I’ve had our school hymn, “Love Divine”, stuck in my head. Two lines suggest that I “Suddenly return and never, Never more Thy temples leave”.
Though I yearn to follow those instructions, I fear I will only do so when it’s my name they’re reading in the chapel.
Over the past five years I learned through other friends and pop culture movies that high school reunions usually take place in the form of a dance with a disco ball in high school gyms, and that the main purpose of said reunions is to prove to your old classmates that you have either become better than they ever were or that you are still as awesome as you were in high school. While I will admit that this past weekend I witnessed certain ex-hockey players clinging to their awesome factor from SPS days, for the most part I looked forward to seeing my high school classmates. We lived together for four years – each one of us always struggling at one thing or another, each of us helping others through their own particular difficulties. Hockey players and chess club champions crowded around the same couches in the library after practice at night to get help conjugating Spanish verbs from artists, and everyone knew that while they excelled in one arena (or even three or four) they still needed help to stay afloat in all the others. Cliques existed, of course, because in any larger group of people they will – wanting to surround oneself with like individuals is natural – but SPS cliques never seemed exclusive to me, simply formed loosely because musicians spent all their spare time in the music building and ultimate Frisbee players spent theirs on the lawn. In a weird reverse of the norm, we all made fun of the “dumb” kids – ones who, for example, entered high school without already knowing algebra. In retrospect this seems crueler than the usual school environment, of which we were all products, where the smart dorky kids get taunted. Five years later I’m realizing that it really isn’t fair for smart kids to gang up on dumb ones in high school, because on the whole the smart kids do end up getting the better end of the deal.
Anyway – I’ll get back to waxing interestingly. SPS Graduation/Anniversary Weekend consists of a whirlwind of activities planned for the alumni, beginning on Friday afternoon at around 1pm with registration and ending on Sunday afternoon with graduation. Like any elite prep school we have a Latin play, a 5K, a chapel service/alumni meeting, a parade, and a bevy of reunion meals. Saturday morning I arrived on campus early enough for the 10am chapel service but not quite early enough for the 8am run, which was due in part to the excitement of the night before, during which two members of my form managed to mar their records with arrests for drunk and disorderly. The alumni relations committee relegated us to the Red Roof Inn in Loudon, New Hampshire, twenty minutes away from SPS, because the form of 2004 caused such a ruckus last year that no one else wanted to take the 5th-year reuniters. We complained quite a bit on Friday evening, but by around 2am it became clear that the alumni relations committee had in fact made an excellent decision in our exile.
In chapel we sang the school hymns and recited the school prayer. When I attended St. Paul’s I hated the day of the year during which we sat in our hard wooden assigned pews and waited as the names of alumni who passed away during the wars were read out; during my first alumni chapel I learned that the names of all alumni who passed away during the previous year were read. I tried to settle in uncomfortably, preparing myself for a time of great boredom and wishing I were outside wandering our 2,000 acres the way I used to whenever I had a big project or paper due. When we were in deaths from the form of 1934 (they’re read chronologically by form), I began thinking about the tradition of reading the names of the dead. At SPS I’d always thought of them floating up into the rafters like ghost bats, unable to really let go of the world until their names echoed through the chapel. Sometimes after the memorial services I would have nightmares about dead alumni drifting around campus, and they always looked a little like the men I saw from the form of 1929 this past weekend, only a little more translucent. I got so spooked from my overactive imagination that I became convinced that I’d read these ideas in an Edgar Allen Poe story and spent my fifth-form winter re-reading all his works to find the image. After Saturday morning’s service I met BG out on the chapel terrace and we sat quietly on the wall looking over the pond. Eventually she said, “I know this is vaguely Mormon, but reading out the names of the dead – I know you think it’s creepy,” (BG was my roommate at SPS for three years and witnessed my nightmares and the Poe period), “but isn’t it a little reassuring to know that after you die someone will still be speaking your name in our chapel?”
And it is, in a strange way. I have spent much of my life feeling slightly out of place. At SPS I found myself surrounded by others like me because they were unlike most people, which may be a confusing distinction to anyone normal. We all grew up trying to figure out how many questions we should answer incorrectly to walk the line between pleasing our parents, who knew how smart we were, and not intimidating the other kids in the class, who would make fun of us if they knew how smart we were. We left home at fourteen and entered a world where the coolest of us knew every country in the world or had already finished calculus by sixteen, but more importantly, we entered a world where all of our possible friends had battled that precarious situation of being different and trying not to. St. Paul’s is a day’s journey from where I grew up, but in some ways it feels more like home than I imagine anywhere else ever could. It is a little Mormon, but I like the creepy idea that some extended family of outsider dorks will hear my name read out when I die.
After the chapel service we lined up to parade through campus with the form of 2010 at the very end, and when we reached the edge of campus we all lined the road and applauded as 2010ers walked through. I didn’t know anyone graduating but I remembered well how it felt to be a day away from graduating SPS and have all the alumni cheering you on, and I have to say it was pretty fun to see all those 18-year-olds grinning and feeling important.
BG and I made our way through lunch, photographs, crew races, and a lobster/steak dinner, trying to suppress being overwhelmed. We hung out with our good friend TL much of the day and at some point as he spoke with someone else I noticed that his maroon-colored collared shirt in fact displayed the Arby’s logo. When he sat back down we asked him about it, and he said, “I got tired of people asking me if I was employed, so this seemed like a good idea.”
That was two days ago and it’s still making me laugh a little.
Yesterday and today I’ve done the bus/plane/shuttle/metro/loose your luggage and argue with Delta about having it delivered before you leave Atlanta, then at 6:15 tell them to just keep it in the airport because you’re going to pick it up before you leave Atlanta, then reaching the airport and having it on the delivery van dance. All the way I’ve had our school hymn, “Love Divine”, stuck in my head. Two lines suggest that I “Suddenly return and never, Never more Thy temples leave”.
Though I yearn to follow those instructions, I fear I will only do so when it’s my name they’re reading in the chapel.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
I'd Like to Check You for Ticks
On the first morning of my first camping trip I found a tick latched to the center of my throat.
We'd already had an eventful morning. In the early hours, when the rain began, we awoke briefly to wish we'd had the foresight to place a tarp over the cooler-and-portable-stovetop-on-picnic-table that AW called "the kitchen". Then, at around 6am, AW began screaming, "What the hell are you doing in here? How'd you get in here?" (imagine variations and much more colorful cuss words).
BG and I squinted at each other and unzipped one of our tent window flaps to see AW's tart shaking. We guessed he was throwing things at the tent door. "Get out of here!" he kept shrieking.
It turns out a squirrel broke through his tent barriers and thought it might be fun to hang out. BG and I made a few puns at AW's expense, dubbed the squirrel "Genghis" because it went through his wall to terrorize him, and rolled over to go back to sleep.
I discovered the tick (as of yet unnamed) after I put my contacts in a few hours later. It glared back at me from its station on the middle of my throat and dug in a bit deeper as I watched it. I was alone, so I can't confirm whether I lost consciousness from pure horror, but eventually I found BG and through a series of gestures and moans intimated the issue at hand (or neck). Concerned, she led (carried?) me back to camp, where we found AW cooking bacon and pancakes in the rain. I maintained a vague hunger despite the sick feeling brought on by any thought of the tick I hosted and when I smelled the frying pork I momentarily envied my guest for the ability to continuously feast. He cackled at me and sucked more of my blood, relishing my suffering.
I clawed open my jacket and choked out, "There's a tick on my neck, get it off!"
AW tried to hold me down for tick removal as I thrashed and screamed. At one point he asked BG to take over cooking. I strayed in and out of conscious thought for those few seconds, mostly imagining the gush of blood that would surely pour forth from my giant throat wound once the tick was gone.
After AW removed the tick and crushed it with his nails I grabbed at my neck to staunch the bleeding. Once I realized there was no blood (probably because the tick already sucked it all out of me), I zipped my jacket snugly back up and snatched some bacon, commenting, "I think I handled that pretty well."
"You were calmer than I'd have expected," BG agreed.
With the exception of certainly contracting Lyme disease I fared well on my first camping trip. This is due almost entirely to AW's superb planning skills and camping equipment. BG and I met on the bus from Boston to Concord, NH on Tuesday evening, where AW picked us up from the bus station. The three of us enjoyed a quiet evening at The Common Man, where I ate one of four lobsters in an eight-day period, and spent the night with AW's parents so we could load up and move out early Wednesday.
At home I drive a dark green Toyota Forerunner whom I affectionately named "Bruce" after Bruce Banner - the Hulk's human personality. AW's family, on the other hand, owns The Hulk. He is a dark green F-250 Super Duty Pickup and easily held all our supplies and food. I hopped in the back seat of the cab on Wednesday morning and settled in for our drive, hoping Bruce would not be jealous. He hasn't spoken to me since.
On Wednesday afternoon we reached our island in Maine and I learned how to set up camp. Luckily my brilliant sister advised me to pack a hat and gloves, which I happily donned as AW built a campfire. We hiked along the edge of the ocean and marveled at the sky, filled with ash from the forest fires in Canada. When it rained AW taught us Gripe Rummy, and my skill level has developed to a point at which I wonder that I shouldn't turn pro. Due to a lack of cell phone or internet reception, though, I cannot adequately research the presence or lack thereof of Gripe Rummy in the professional cards arena.
Thursday night we decided to boil lobsters (#3 of the 4 per 8 days). Unfortunately, we dawdled longer than expected at our Fort Popham outing, where we spent the early afternoon climbing through ruins and watching herons and Main fishermen, and we arrived at the little lobster shed too late. We scrambled wildly to another store and reached it in time to find the owner throwing sticks into the ocean for his Golden Retriever off the lobster dock. AW explained our situation while I took over the Golden's entertainment and the old man unlocked his doors so we could choose our lobsters. Later by the campfire I talked about wanting a dog until AW and BG got fed up and let me play with the lobsters until the water boiled. I tried to make them fight over a carrot, but they just glared at me and crawled on top of each other.
I complained that the lobsters weren't as fun as dogs and BG remarked, "Better than a neck tick, though."
I imagine I'll camp again.
We'd already had an eventful morning. In the early hours, when the rain began, we awoke briefly to wish we'd had the foresight to place a tarp over the cooler-and-portable-stovetop-on-picnic-table that AW called "the kitchen". Then, at around 6am, AW began screaming, "What the hell are you doing in here? How'd you get in here?" (imagine variations and much more colorful cuss words).
BG and I squinted at each other and unzipped one of our tent window flaps to see AW's tart shaking. We guessed he was throwing things at the tent door. "Get out of here!" he kept shrieking.
It turns out a squirrel broke through his tent barriers and thought it might be fun to hang out. BG and I made a few puns at AW's expense, dubbed the squirrel "Genghis" because it went through his wall to terrorize him, and rolled over to go back to sleep.
I discovered the tick (as of yet unnamed) after I put my contacts in a few hours later. It glared back at me from its station on the middle of my throat and dug in a bit deeper as I watched it. I was alone, so I can't confirm whether I lost consciousness from pure horror, but eventually I found BG and through a series of gestures and moans intimated the issue at hand (or neck). Concerned, she led (carried?) me back to camp, where we found AW cooking bacon and pancakes in the rain. I maintained a vague hunger despite the sick feeling brought on by any thought of the tick I hosted and when I smelled the frying pork I momentarily envied my guest for the ability to continuously feast. He cackled at me and sucked more of my blood, relishing my suffering.
I clawed open my jacket and choked out, "There's a tick on my neck, get it off!"
AW tried to hold me down for tick removal as I thrashed and screamed. At one point he asked BG to take over cooking. I strayed in and out of conscious thought for those few seconds, mostly imagining the gush of blood that would surely pour forth from my giant throat wound once the tick was gone.
After AW removed the tick and crushed it with his nails I grabbed at my neck to staunch the bleeding. Once I realized there was no blood (probably because the tick already sucked it all out of me), I zipped my jacket snugly back up and snatched some bacon, commenting, "I think I handled that pretty well."
"You were calmer than I'd have expected," BG agreed.
With the exception of certainly contracting Lyme disease I fared well on my first camping trip. This is due almost entirely to AW's superb planning skills and camping equipment. BG and I met on the bus from Boston to Concord, NH on Tuesday evening, where AW picked us up from the bus station. The three of us enjoyed a quiet evening at The Common Man, where I ate one of four lobsters in an eight-day period, and spent the night with AW's parents so we could load up and move out early Wednesday.
At home I drive a dark green Toyota Forerunner whom I affectionately named "Bruce" after Bruce Banner - the Hulk's human personality. AW's family, on the other hand, owns The Hulk. He is a dark green F-250 Super Duty Pickup and easily held all our supplies and food. I hopped in the back seat of the cab on Wednesday morning and settled in for our drive, hoping Bruce would not be jealous. He hasn't spoken to me since.
On Wednesday afternoon we reached our island in Maine and I learned how to set up camp. Luckily my brilliant sister advised me to pack a hat and gloves, which I happily donned as AW built a campfire. We hiked along the edge of the ocean and marveled at the sky, filled with ash from the forest fires in Canada. When it rained AW taught us Gripe Rummy, and my skill level has developed to a point at which I wonder that I shouldn't turn pro. Due to a lack of cell phone or internet reception, though, I cannot adequately research the presence or lack thereof of Gripe Rummy in the professional cards arena.
Thursday night we decided to boil lobsters (#3 of the 4 per 8 days). Unfortunately, we dawdled longer than expected at our Fort Popham outing, where we spent the early afternoon climbing through ruins and watching herons and Main fishermen, and we arrived at the little lobster shed too late. We scrambled wildly to another store and reached it in time to find the owner throwing sticks into the ocean for his Golden Retriever off the lobster dock. AW explained our situation while I took over the Golden's entertainment and the old man unlocked his doors so we could choose our lobsters. Later by the campfire I talked about wanting a dog until AW and BG got fed up and let me play with the lobsters until the water boiled. I tried to make them fight over a carrot, but they just glared at me and crawled on top of each other.
I complained that the lobsters weren't as fun as dogs and BG remarked, "Better than a neck tick, though."
I imagine I'll camp again.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Between Weekends in New England
After narrowly avoiding travel disasters my family split up back at Hartsfield in Atlanta for a few hours, resolving to meet again at the farm. Incredibly this plan resulted in all of us meeting again at the farm.
I spent most of the formative time of my youth at “the farm” – fields of Christmas trees (also known secularly as “Frazer Firs”) perched precariously on the sides of a mountain in North Carolina. Over the past fifteen years my family has slowly acquired most of the top of the mountain and transformed the farm into something like a country fortress, penetrated only by our meth-making neighbors. They occasionally drop by to steal a laptop or sometimes to overfish the pond. Recently they’ve been a bit more distant, which is probably because Daddy bought some guns and taught us how to cock a shotgun to scare off hillbillies.
Scattered torrential downpours marked the weekend, so I settled in to catch up on my emails, reading, studying, and blogging. Somehow I managed to neglect these duties and instead spent most of Sunday, after realizing our Blu-Ray player had the capability to connect to a Wi-Fi network, setting up the Blu-Ray to our Wi-Fi and trying to enable Netflix, YouTube, and Pandora. Note my use of the phrase “most of Sunday” – our internet at the farm is tenuous at best and I do not have a reputation for dabbling in electronics. However, I did eventually set up these services and ended the day feeling more or less fulfilled.
On the topic of Wi-Fi: I’m actually writing this on a plane. …A plane with Wi-Fi. It’s called “GoGo” and its motto is, “The sky is no longer the limit”. I think that’s pretty clever, and I typically disdain mottos.
Memorial Day (that was yesterday, for those of you who don’t keep track) dawned slightly less rainy and we all hurried to don our exercise clothes and work in a quick run. SB and I tackled about three miles on the same route and returned to the house to find Daddy on his way out.
I should note that my father does not hurry as effectively as we do.
A bit later, after SB showered and I read a few books and wrote a dissertation, Daddy made it out the door. By this time the clouds looked somewhat ominous again and we encouraged him to exercise care while exercising. We thought this was wildly funny and witty.
The Judge returned a few minutes before the rain begin. It drizzled a while, then turned torrential again, and we sat on the front porch swing with the dog and watched the driveway for Daddy to reappear.
It was an hour or so before we began to worry. This may seem like a delayed reaction, but as I noted earlier, Daddy moves slowly. SB also posited the opinion that he could have elected to walk back up to the house to avoid getting the inside of his car wet. Daddy’s car is named “Fluffy” and he likes it to stay very clean. None of us found SB’s suggestion unreasonable.
Eventually the Judge and SB elected me to drive down to the pond and see if Daddy needed some help. By this point Mom had reached a level of concern and worry that turned annoying to those around her (“He really should have been back by now. I hope he didn’t fall. He should have at least called. Do you think he had his phone with him? I’m worried.” Duh.); I took my escape for what it was and headed down to check on Daddy.
Two minutes down the driveway (oh yeah, it’s a long driveway) SB called to let me know that Daddy had checked in (guess he had his phone) and had driven into town to get gas once it started to rain. He saw this as a perfectly normal course of action and did not understand why Mom had seen fit to alert the media of his apparent disappearance.
I asked SB if that meant I had to come back, and she snarled, “Don’t even think about leaving me alone with them.”
To their credit: my parents are awesome. They’re probably the coolest parents that exist and they actually hold their own as real people, too. Daddy cooks delicious apple pie and pancakes and buys Blu-Ray players; Mom teaches us the names of every plant on the farm and buys tractors. I imagine they maintain some level of coolness in the workplace as well, since they have lots of parties. However, they are also part of my family, and as I have established, members of my family make each other into lunatics.
Interestingly, my sister seems less affected by this, which leads credence to my childhood attempts to convince her that she was adopted.
Currently my airplane (on which I confirmed my seat three times after Friday’s fiasco) rockets over some part of the East Coast, carrying me to New Hampshire for a week of camping in Maine and SPS Anniversary Weekend. It’s so nice to be in a position where I miss my family again.
I spent most of the formative time of my youth at “the farm” – fields of Christmas trees (also known secularly as “Frazer Firs”) perched precariously on the sides of a mountain in North Carolina. Over the past fifteen years my family has slowly acquired most of the top of the mountain and transformed the farm into something like a country fortress, penetrated only by our meth-making neighbors. They occasionally drop by to steal a laptop or sometimes to overfish the pond. Recently they’ve been a bit more distant, which is probably because Daddy bought some guns and taught us how to cock a shotgun to scare off hillbillies.
Scattered torrential downpours marked the weekend, so I settled in to catch up on my emails, reading, studying, and blogging. Somehow I managed to neglect these duties and instead spent most of Sunday, after realizing our Blu-Ray player had the capability to connect to a Wi-Fi network, setting up the Blu-Ray to our Wi-Fi and trying to enable Netflix, YouTube, and Pandora. Note my use of the phrase “most of Sunday” – our internet at the farm is tenuous at best and I do not have a reputation for dabbling in electronics. However, I did eventually set up these services and ended the day feeling more or less fulfilled.
On the topic of Wi-Fi: I’m actually writing this on a plane. …A plane with Wi-Fi. It’s called “GoGo” and its motto is, “The sky is no longer the limit”. I think that’s pretty clever, and I typically disdain mottos.
Memorial Day (that was yesterday, for those of you who don’t keep track) dawned slightly less rainy and we all hurried to don our exercise clothes and work in a quick run. SB and I tackled about three miles on the same route and returned to the house to find Daddy on his way out.
I should note that my father does not hurry as effectively as we do.
A bit later, after SB showered and I read a few books and wrote a dissertation, Daddy made it out the door. By this time the clouds looked somewhat ominous again and we encouraged him to exercise care while exercising. We thought this was wildly funny and witty.
The Judge returned a few minutes before the rain begin. It drizzled a while, then turned torrential again, and we sat on the front porch swing with the dog and watched the driveway for Daddy to reappear.
It was an hour or so before we began to worry. This may seem like a delayed reaction, but as I noted earlier, Daddy moves slowly. SB also posited the opinion that he could have elected to walk back up to the house to avoid getting the inside of his car wet. Daddy’s car is named “Fluffy” and he likes it to stay very clean. None of us found SB’s suggestion unreasonable.
Eventually the Judge and SB elected me to drive down to the pond and see if Daddy needed some help. By this point Mom had reached a level of concern and worry that turned annoying to those around her (“He really should have been back by now. I hope he didn’t fall. He should have at least called. Do you think he had his phone with him? I’m worried.” Duh.); I took my escape for what it was and headed down to check on Daddy.
Two minutes down the driveway (oh yeah, it’s a long driveway) SB called to let me know that Daddy had checked in (guess he had his phone) and had driven into town to get gas once it started to rain. He saw this as a perfectly normal course of action and did not understand why Mom had seen fit to alert the media of his apparent disappearance.
I asked SB if that meant I had to come back, and she snarled, “Don’t even think about leaving me alone with them.”
To their credit: my parents are awesome. They’re probably the coolest parents that exist and they actually hold their own as real people, too. Daddy cooks delicious apple pie and pancakes and buys Blu-Ray players; Mom teaches us the names of every plant on the farm and buys tractors. I imagine they maintain some level of coolness in the workplace as well, since they have lots of parties. However, they are also part of my family, and as I have established, members of my family make each other into lunatics.
Interestingly, my sister seems less affected by this, which leads credence to my childhood attempts to convince her that she was adopted.
Currently my airplane (on which I confirmed my seat three times after Friday’s fiasco) rockets over some part of the East Coast, carrying me to New Hampshire for a week of camping in Maine and SPS Anniversary Weekend. It’s so nice to be in a position where I miss my family again.
Ticket to Ride?
My sister the Harvard graduate cannot speak English. This confirms my suspicions that American schools have no respect for the sanctity or preservation of our native language. At the risk of sounding like I live or belong in Arizona, though, I suppose I shall desist from any suggestion of a law requiring correct English grammar upon high school graduation.
I digress.
My sister the Harvard graduate has many amazing qualities. However, she possesses neither a grasp of English grammar (this includes simple verb conjugations; she composes sentences like, “I drunk that beer”) nor the wherewithal to juggle travel plans. Usually this is not an issue since someone in my family takes care of it for her.
Usually that person is me.
Due to my travel-happy summer plans, I booked my tickets for Harvard graduation separately from the rest of my family and left them to their own devices. I thought it might be a good exercise in reality for them.
Unfortunately I was wrong. On Friday at 11pm, after a long day of moving SB out of her dorm, my father went to print our boarding passes in the hotel’s business center and discovered that no one ever booked a flight for my sister.
At first I assumed Delta had made some mistake. “Just pull up the confirmation Daddy emailed you after he booked it,” I said. When Daddy interjected that his business manager booked the tickets, I revised my statement only slightly.
“What confirmation?” SB asked.
“Surely you asked for someone to email you your flight information,” I answered, suddenly unsure.
Perhaps by now you have guessed that the oversight was not, in fact, Delta’s. The next morning all four of us schlepped to the airport at 6am – several hours before our scheduled flight – where we met the Annie Sullivan of Logan Airport and managed to all hop on the 7am. Three of us even flew first class. SB developed a nasty cold from two weeks of pre-graduation partying and stirring up massive dust bunnies while packing, so we relegated her to coach.
Of the experience the Judge said, “Well, at least from now on you’ll always check to make sure you have a ticket!”
Sorry, Mom, but I respectfully disagree. Last Tuesday, before the arrival of our parents, SB and I walked fifteen minutes across the Charles river to attend a class picnic. When we reached the entrance she remembered that she left our pre-purchased $20/plate tickets in her room and we had to wait for another friend to bring them before eating. SB made a comment similar to the Judge’s after that evening. The next day when we met our parents outside of the Harvard Yard picnic* (the one with the lunchboxes) I asked my sister if she had remembered our tickets for that meal. She turned very still and a little pale before slowly shaking her head and trotting back to her room to fetch them.
Let me be clear: I do not claim the title of smartest cookie for myself. Once last year SB returned from the lab she worked in with nasty horizontal cuts on her finger. When I asked her what happened she told me one of the lab’s zebra fish bit her. Horrified, I suggested she get real medical attention rather than just covering the wound with a Band-Aid, the way she was doing. She shrugged, unconcerned. Two days later she told me that zebra fish – at least the ones at her lab – are itsy microscopic things and that she’d cut her finger on a tape dispenser. She thought it was really funny.
Of course, even this cookie has never failed to confirm the existence of her plane tickets.
*Harvard is big on picnics.
I digress.
My sister the Harvard graduate has many amazing qualities. However, she possesses neither a grasp of English grammar (this includes simple verb conjugations; she composes sentences like, “I drunk that beer”) nor the wherewithal to juggle travel plans. Usually this is not an issue since someone in my family takes care of it for her.
Usually that person is me.
Due to my travel-happy summer plans, I booked my tickets for Harvard graduation separately from the rest of my family and left them to their own devices. I thought it might be a good exercise in reality for them.
Unfortunately I was wrong. On Friday at 11pm, after a long day of moving SB out of her dorm, my father went to print our boarding passes in the hotel’s business center and discovered that no one ever booked a flight for my sister.
At first I assumed Delta had made some mistake. “Just pull up the confirmation Daddy emailed you after he booked it,” I said. When Daddy interjected that his business manager booked the tickets, I revised my statement only slightly.
“What confirmation?” SB asked.
“Surely you asked for someone to email you your flight information,” I answered, suddenly unsure.
Perhaps by now you have guessed that the oversight was not, in fact, Delta’s. The next morning all four of us schlepped to the airport at 6am – several hours before our scheduled flight – where we met the Annie Sullivan of Logan Airport and managed to all hop on the 7am. Three of us even flew first class. SB developed a nasty cold from two weeks of pre-graduation partying and stirring up massive dust bunnies while packing, so we relegated her to coach.
Of the experience the Judge said, “Well, at least from now on you’ll always check to make sure you have a ticket!”
Sorry, Mom, but I respectfully disagree. Last Tuesday, before the arrival of our parents, SB and I walked fifteen minutes across the Charles river to attend a class picnic. When we reached the entrance she remembered that she left our pre-purchased $20/plate tickets in her room and we had to wait for another friend to bring them before eating. SB made a comment similar to the Judge’s after that evening. The next day when we met our parents outside of the Harvard Yard picnic* (the one with the lunchboxes) I asked my sister if she had remembered our tickets for that meal. She turned very still and a little pale before slowly shaking her head and trotting back to her room to fetch them.
Let me be clear: I do not claim the title of smartest cookie for myself. Once last year SB returned from the lab she worked in with nasty horizontal cuts on her finger. When I asked her what happened she told me one of the lab’s zebra fish bit her. Horrified, I suggested she get real medical attention rather than just covering the wound with a Band-Aid, the way she was doing. She shrugged, unconcerned. Two days later she told me that zebra fish – at least the ones at her lab – are itsy microscopic things and that she’d cut her finger on a tape dispenser. She thought it was really funny.
Of course, even this cookie has never failed to confirm the existence of her plane tickets.
*Harvard is big on picnics.
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