Dan and Hannah Say Good-bye to Big Steve

Hannah and I lost a dear friend just before Christmas.  Big Steve passed on and left a hole in the hearts of all who knew him.  (I like the verb phrase “passed on” rather than “died.”  Died seems so final when in fact the departed live on in our hearts and our actions once they have passed on.)

Driving 10 ½ hours from our home in York, Maine to Virginia, Hannah and I arrived at 11P the night before Big Steve’s service.  Seeing his wife Amelia and two sons, Brandon and Justin, we hugged and then hugged some more.  Taking us to a friend’s house where we would spend the night, Amelia asked me to give one of the eulogies.  Whoa.  I was pleased but wondered if I could do it.  I didn’t say no , but I didn’t say yes either.  I nodded in that non-committal way of the overwhelmed.

I awoke in the middle of the night thinking of what to say.  I knew I had to write it down since I am just not one who “wings it” well.  Before dawn I awoke again, went to the kitchen and wrote a first draft; a second draft immediately followed.  I then texted Amelia that I’d be honored to give a eulogy.  Here’s what I said

Good morning.  My name is Dan Rothermel.  Steve, Rich Meyer who is here today, and I were classmates and brothers at Arizona State University.  We had come to the Wild West and banded together as friends; a friendship that grew for more than 40 years.

Steve inspired me in three ways.

First, he inspired me as my friend.  There was no one who squeezed more out of life than Steve.  He was generous and loyal.  When many of us in Arizona had no car, he would loan us his if we needed it.  Even though he barely knew us, he trusted us; he had faith in us.  

I learned about friendship from Steve Kyker.

Second, he inspired me as a father.  Steve lives on in all who met him but especially in his fabulous sons, Brandon and Justin.  Those of you who know them know them as engaging, articulate, open to adventure, and family oriented young men with a great sense of humor.  It’s safe to say that they learned from a master.  Every summer Steve and Amelia hauled their trailer to our house in Maine.  They loved Acadia National Park and Bar Harbor on the Maine coast.  Thinking of their boys, they always had Brandon and Justin bring friends.  Their vacations were family celebrations.

Steve, Amelia, Brandon, Justin

Finally, he inspired me as a husband.  With his Amelia, he was thoughtful, kind, caring, loving, and playful.  I remember when Steve planned a 50^th birthday party for Amelia.  Unbeknownst to her, Steve brought my wife Hannah and me and a few other distant friends to surprise her.  As Amelia interacted with her family and local friends, we hid in a small room.  On Steve’s cue, we jumped out and yelled “Surprise!”  Amelia, being Amelia, shrieked with joy and embraced us.  She was so happy.  And yet, her happiness only equaled Steve’s joy in making Amelia, the woman of his dreams, feel so happy and so loved.

Steve inspires me to be bolder, more adventurous, more trusting, and just more playful.  The world is a better place and I am a better person for having known Steve Kyker.

Big Steve

The family was grateful and I was blessed for having the opportunity to say a few words.

A few of observations

1. I like how the Catholics said good-bye at this funeral mass.  At this church, there’s joyous music, a homily revealing the loving, good-hearted and humorous side of Big Steve; we had sufficient time to reflect and give thanks for his life.
2. I was honored to be selected as a pallbearer.
3. The graveside service was touching and a meaningful good-bye.
4. Church ladies are the best.  The home-style luncheon afterward brought us together as an extended family.  At their best, churches are the modern day villages that comfort us as a community when we experience a loss

May you rest in peace, Big Steve.

Big  and Amelia watching Brandon and Justin in kayaks

Dan and Hannah get Caught Up in the Buzz of the Marine Corps Marathon

Do you know how long it takes for toenails to grow back?  Read on oh faithful reader.

Taking the hotel shuttle to the Metro in late October, Hannah and I are ready to immerse ourselves in the buzz that is Washington, DC.  A swiped credit card gets us anywhere in the city in minutes on a clean and punctual subway.  Guided by our daughter Molly, who has lived in the area for five years, we love the idea of us, the country mice, coming to the big city.  As I sit on the Metro, I scan the walls and learn the rules for riding the subway.  Did you know that on the Metro it is unlawful to smoke, eat, drink, spit, litter or carry a radio that can be heard by others or carry any animals?  Ever obedient, I abide by their rules.

Stepping out of the Metro near the National Mall (the wide lawn that stretches from the US Capitol to the Washington Monument and then on by the Reflecting Pool to the Lincoln Memorial), we immediately face a mass of marathon runners.  

Still in good spirits two hours after their near freezing 8A start, they beam as if they are a part of twenty-six point two mile block party.  If you are not a runner, let me tell you there’s nothing like the energy of running with others.  Hannah and I ran our first 10K in Phoenix, AZ with 4000 others.  From our position back in the pack, we watched the bobbing heads of the runners ahead of us as if we were all moving on swells in the middle of the ocean.

What’s not to love about the Marine Corps Marathon!   You don’t need a qualifying time to enter as you do for the Boston Marathon.   The 35,000 places in the race are filled within an hour of the opening of registration.  There are no prizes for winners; it’s all about the finishing.  As much as running 26.2 miles can be a celebration, this marathon brings out the joy in the participants.

Ever notice that marathoning is a white person’s sport, except for the elite Kenyans and Ethiopians?  The few American-Africans and few American-Orientals in the race stand out.  (Thank you Denny McLoughlin for influencing my thinking on that designation.  Citizens of this country are Americans first.  Using “American” first focuses on our commonality.) Of course, as one time American-European marathon runners, our daughter Molly and I, fit the dominant demographic.

In 2007, our daughter Molly (in purple) ran in the premier marathon in this country, the Boston Marathon.  On a cold nasty day, she ran into a steady 15 mph headwind for four hours!  A cool thing she did was have her name on the front of her shirt so people could call out “Molly” to encourage her along the way.  After the race she had two black toenails - one on each foot - second toe in from the big toe - to this day, the toenail is not the same.  Below her brother Will carries Molly up the stairs after her four hours of non-stop running.

Why did she run 26.2 miles?  To raise $6K for Leukemia and Lymphoma Society and to accomplish this challenge.  She certainly has something commendable to add to her resume: Boston Marathon finisher.

In December of 1981, I ran my one and only marathon, the Fiesta Bowl Marathon in Arizona.  Why?  Not as laudable as Molly; I just thought it would be cool to say I did it.  It’s like that it’s cool that I can say I juggle.   Going from Paradise Valley to Scottsdale, I was ever so slightly running downhill, which caused my toes to be pushed into the front of my running shoes, which was the reason I lost the two toenails.  The answer to my lead question: It took nine months for them to grow back.   Cruising through the first 17 miles, I struggled for the final nine point two.  Surviving the run is the most accurate word to describe my efforts.  My legs hurt so bad that a mere sheet on top of them in bed was painful for days.  Walking downstairs was a halting, hobbling, and grimacing affair for a week.  Even so, I now am a full-fledged member of the I’ve-run-a-marathon club; how cool is that!

After 30 years of running, five years ago Hannah and I found our knees were creaking each morning as we got out of bed.   We gave up running that day for hiking, biking, and walking.  But the running bug bit us after seeing The Tillman Story  about Army Ranger and fellow Arizona State (the Harvard of the West) grad Pat Tillman who gave up a $3 million contract with the professional football Arizona Cardinals to join the Army.  He was killed by friendly fire and the details were covered up by the Bush Administration.   His mother Mary Tillman fought for years to get the truth out.  The Pat Tillman Foundation organizes a race called Pat’s Run to raise money to invest in military veterans and their spouses through educational scholarships; building a diverse community of leaders committed to service to others.  Hannah and I will be rocking in Pat's run this April in Tempe, Arizona, where we lived for ten years.  

It’s just 4.2 miles but it’s our 2012 marathon.

Dan and Hannah visit an American Hero in Washington, DC

Emerging from the Metro (Washington’s subway) on to the National Mall, Hannah and I join the crowd watching some of the 30,000 marathoners who are running the Marine Corps Marathon on this chilly-for-late-October Sunday morning.  Impressed with their efforts and just the mass of good vibe humanity, we soak in the atmosphere and pick our way through the crowd down the National Mall toward the Martin Luther King, Junior Memorial. 

Heroes and celebrities.  People can confuse the two.  When I taught writing, one of the choices my students had to write about was hometown heroes.  Moms, Dads, siblings, custodians, lunch ladies, etc.  Celebrities entertain.  Heroes inspire.  Celebrities entertain.  Heroes change their world for the better, maybe one small step at a time.  Celebrities entertain.  Heroes stand for justice and face day-to-day challenges courageously.   Our beloved Tom Brady of the New England Patriots is a celebrity.  He’s not my hero.  My heroes include my wife Hannah who makes each day at the nursing home come alive for each resident who she cares for in her hairdressing ministry; my Mom who is a positive life force and makes anyone she comes in contact with just feel better about life.   Martin Luther King, Jr. is another kind of hero of mine; a global, make-the-world-a-better-place, encourage-me-to-do-better kind.

Passing the Washington Monument on our right with the Lincoln Memorial further down, 

we cross the Kutz Bridge on the edge of the Tidal Basin of cherry blossom fame. 

Bearing right prior to the Franklin Delano Roosevelt Memorial, we breeze into the Martin Luther King, Jr. Memorial.  On this sunny morning many are milling around and taking pictures of themselves with the backdrop of the monument.   Quotes of King’s are etched into the marble wall.  They speak for themselves as they emphasize the four primary messages of Dr. King: justice, democracy, hope, and love. 

I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word in reality. This is why right, temporarily defeated, is stronger than evil triumphant.

If we are to have peace on earth, our loyalties must become ecumenical rather than sectional. Our loyalties must transcend our race, our tribe, our class, and our nation; and this means we must develop a world perspective.

Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly.

It is not enough to say "We must not wage war." It is necessary to love peace and sacrifice for it. We must concentrate not merely on the negative expulsion of war, but on the positive affirmation of peace.

The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy.

True peace is not merely the absence of tension: it is the presence of justice.

I am stunned by the inspired design of the MLK, Jr. Monument.  It’s no less than artistic genius.  In the background of the plaza is a massive granite Mountain of Despair.  

Sculpted out of the Mountain of Despair is Martin Luther King, front and center as the Stone of Hope. 

It’s a fitting tribute to one of America’s heroes.  

 

PS  Ever really figure out what are your top ten favorite songs of all time? (Read on because this does connect to this blog.)

 

Of course, MacArthur Park sung by Richard Harris, American Pie by Don McLean,

and Two Out of Three Ain’t Bad  by Meatloaf are, I’m guessing, on most lists, if not all.  

 

The singer Dion sings another one of my other top ten songs, a classic, Abraham, Martin and John (1968), to pay homage to three American heroes.   

 

Sit back and be transported.

Dan and Hannah Immerse Themselves in the Buzz in Washington DC

Coming from the land of country mice in York, Maine, we find the buzz of Washington, DC intoxicating.   And the Metro here ties it all together.   This ultra-clean subway whisks us wherever we want to go.  Even on a rainy Saturday at 830A as we wait in the line to get into the US Capitol, people are talking and energized.  On a normal weekend morning in York, I get the Boston Globe at an empty Mr. Mike’s Convenience Story on Route One and bs with the clerk for my morning jollies.  Here in DC, it’s young and old out and about.  Families, too.  All the ethnics you could ever want.  Hannah and I are jazzed to be revitalized by our immersion in city life.

Welcome to Washington, DC.   It’s home to Barack and Michelle Obama, 100 disagreeing and often disagreeable Senators, and 435 contentious and often narrow minded House members who can represent their own interests (getting reelected) more than the American people.  Do I hear an Amen?  As a kid at Thomas Jefferson Junior High in Fair Lawn, NJ, our 8^th grade teachers brought us 250 miles south to our nation’s capital.  Bless their hearts!  Can you imagine taking 13 and 14 year olds anywhere?  What were our teachers thinking?  Hoping for?  Historical perspective?  Maybe an understanding of how our government works?   Show us that learning can take place out of the classroom?  Truly, bless them.  If those were their goals, they were totally wasted on me.   I don’t know what the 8^th grade girls were thinking about, but for guys like me, eighth grade was all about girls.   Yet, I digress.

This day Hannah and I find ourselves in Washington, DC with our daughter Molly looking to be a part of the Washington vibe.  Turned-down to visit the Obama White House, we looked for plan B.  (To even be considered for to be a part of the free White House tour, we had to submit our birthdates, birthplaces, and Social Security numbers.  We applied for tickets through our Maine Congresswoman Chellie Pingree six weeks in advance and two weeks before we were told No dice.  No explanation, no reason was given why we were turned down – Dan’s little weekend stint in the Nashville, TN city jail for hitchhiking on the Interstate back in the 1970s couldn’t be the reason, could it?).   Our consolation prize was that we were given tickets to the free tour of the US Capitol.    You might be thinking, Big Whup!   Dan and Hannah do not look gift horses in the mouth.  We thought, what the hey.

Our tickets for the 930A US Capitol tour tell us to arrive 45 minutes early to check in.  That’s totally unnecessary on this Saturday morning.  Arriving with our reservation for tickets, within minutes we are given a spot in the 9A tour where our guide passes out headphones so we can hear him since ten other tours are going on at the same time.  The headphones make all the difference in the world.  Whisked into a large auditorium, we view the film E Pluribus Unum, Out of Many, One.  The film narrator talks of the search for common ground that goes on in Congress.  That’s no joke.  He really said that.  In this day and age, that seems so ludicrous.  Maybe today’s Congress needs a history lesson?

The tour is an engaging enough fifty minute history lesson of the past two hundred years of the United States through the eyes of the American Congress.  

We walk by offices as well as the Rotunda where presidents lie in state when they die.   

The tour was fine.  Would eighth graders like it?  Not in this life time.

On this rainy day, we end up at a Cosi Restaurant in downtown Washington in the early afternoon.  http://www.getcosi.com/ .  Cosi’s are everywhere in the DC area; it’s got a Starbucks vibe since you can sit and hang out; use your computer without being hassled; or just to come in from the cold.  It’s not expensive, sandwiches $6 -8.  And get this, one of the choices for a side to my sandwich was baby carrots.  How cool is that?    Life should be delicious is their slogan.  Life is delicious.  Taste the world of Washington, DC the next chance you get.

Dan and Hannah hike the Appalachian Trail to the Ed Garvey Shelter in Maryland

From our Comfort Inn in Frederick, MD, we drive West on Route 340 to exit 17 following signs to Gathland State Park.  It’s no more than 14 miles and a piece o’ cake in a rental car.  Driving the winding country roads of the Maryland countryside the first week of November, we know that there aren’t more beautiful bucolic settings in all the United States.  Together Hannah and I have warm mid60s weather, no deadlines, and an adventure that we know not what we’ll find.  Freedom of the open road is a cliché, but it’s what I was hoping to purchase when I retired.  I get that and more today. 

Today we’ll hike south toward Weverton Cliffs (April 10, 2011 blog covered hiking north to Weverton Cliffs in MD) where we hiked just a year ago.  Driving up the Gapland Road from Burkittsville, we come upon a 40 foot stone arch dedicated to the war correspondents of the Civil War in truly the middle of nowhere.  And Nowhere, Maryland is just where we want to be today.  No traffic and no list of things we have to do.     

With no one in sight, we cross the road and find a welcome passage to the AT.  

Today we are in for unexpected treat - ridge hiking.  We’ll have a mostly level terrain across the mountain top, where the trail is wide enough for Hannah and me to maintain a steady pace as we walk side by side.  Today I introduce pledging for the coming year at First Parish Church in York for the first topic of the day.  First the big questions.  What is truly being generous?   Giving what you have?  Tithing?  Giving til it hurts?   What do we really need?  How careful to do we have to be with our money since we may live into our nineties?  No two ways about it, the bottom line is I’ve been blessed.  Hannah being a lottery pick set everything in motion for much of my success. (If you feel this way about your partner/spouse/steady, go to http://www.artistdirect.com/video/it-s-your-song/47671 for Garth Brooks singing It’s Your Song.)  Choose the right spouse and good things follow.  But I digress as I am want to do.  Let’s talk about generosity and giving when we next meet. 

Side by side on dried brown leaves we have hit pay dirt on this sun-dappled day.  From time to time branches with green leaves up and down block our path, but it’s easy to walk around them to get to the very obviously marked trail.  

We hear geese squawking south and feel few rocks beneath our feet hidden by the dried leaves.  In seventy minutes we arrive at the turn to the Ed Garvey Shelter after 3.7 miles of ridge line hiking.   

The shelter is a two story building of wooden floors with a loft above that is reached by a back exit.  Climbing the stairs to the loft we find a pristine room; the broom hints at why.  

Lunching at the picnic table on our obsequious Subway subs, we scan the valley below through a thicket of saplings.  

The raised privy lies to our south while benches on three sides face the campfire.  

Each shelter has a log for hikers to record their impressions of the trail. 

The latest entry is October 29^th from a couple hiking during the snowstorm just a few days ago.

The firewood we collected was damp (even with flammable toothpaste) however we discovered skin-on-skin is a wonderful way to stay warm. 

-      LaChelle and Tim

From October 4^th 

I was here 4 months ago.  It was naked hiking day (editor’s note - June 21^st) and hot.  How I miss the trail. 

-      Yinz

Hannah adds to the log.

  Dan and Hannah from York, ME – ½ day hike to and from Gathland State Park.  What a beauty-full spot and shelter.  Thank you Potomac Appalachian Trail Club.  And here’s to Ed. Garvey.   2-Ply (Hannah)* and Flag** (Dan)   [These are current trail names.  Mine is a work-in-progress.]

Today the hike is the best.  Good company, warm temperatures, a trail wide enough to walk and talk side by side with occasional rise and falls of elevation.  Much of my glow is about the freedom it represents.  Tomorrow we head for home.  We are blessed with this hiking escape.  As always when hiking, know thyself, thy limits, and the conditions.  Be prepared.

*This is between you and Hannah.  hannahrothermel@gmail.com

**Flag is short for Flagstaff.  Flagstaff, Arizona is often the jumping off point for our western hikes.  After living in Arizona for ten years, Hannah and I try to get a “fix” of the West each year.  A friend suggests "Traveling Man."   I'll wear that one for awhile and see how it fits.

Dan and Hannah hike the Appalachian Trail to Loudoun Heights near Harpers Ferry, WV

After a freak October snowstorm in the Northeast, comforting temperatures in the 60s return this day to the tri-state area (VA, WV, & MD) for your favorite hikers from Maine, or so we’d like to think.  Driving to the headquarters of the Appalachian Trail Conference in Harper’s Ferry, WV, we chit chat with Claire who welcomes us and describes the trail, then we descend through Storer College towards the mighty Shenandoah River to begin our hike along the West Virginia/Virginia border. 

Within ten minutes as we cross the Shenandoah River on the Route 340 Bridge, we are rudely met by the unsettling and squealing sounds of cars and trucks roaring by at 60+ miles per hour.  Protected by a concrete barrier, we safely navigate across, slip under the bridge, and head into the sweet relief of the autumnal forest.  

Dressed in shorts and long sleeve tee shirts on this first day of November, we trod alone on fallen leaves which cover the trail.  That’s the good news.  The bad news is that since the trail is covered with leaves, we are hyper-vigilant in watching for the white blazes of the Appalachian Trail so we do not get lost.  This adds uncertainty and a mild dose of apprehension to our hike.   That’s not a good thing.

As we climb to Loudon Heights above the Shenandoah River, fallen branches, fully leafed, and trunks of 6-8 inches in diameter obstruct our path.   Though we are not exactly bushwhacking, our pace is slow as we step over, around, and under branches that are covering our trail.   The terrain is rocky and displeasing to our feet.  That’s two strikes (the previously mentioned uncertainty and rocky terrain) against this becoming the coveted Dan and Hannah’s Trail-of-the-Month.     

Spotting App Man (trail name) with full pack and trekking sticks, we learn he’s a section hiker who has been out on the trail for a month.  (A section hiker tackles the AT in sections often taking one to six weeks at a time to eventually complete the AT over a number of years.)  Finishing up today at Harper’s Ferry, he has that gleam in his eye that suggests that he smells the barn (He has no idea what that expression means when we use it.  For those who don’t live in the Northeast it means “sensing one is almost home.”)   I ask him, Why do you do it?   He loves the outdoors, it helps him get his priorities straight, and allows him to detach from the world for a while.      

Why would I do such a hike?  Outdoors?  Sure, but there’s more to it.  Get my priorities straight?  I pretty much know mine; I just need to follow through on them.  So Danny Boy, what is it?   It’s what it’s always been – the social, the connection, being with others, learning their stories and sharing mine.   I’d rather a busy trail than one of solitude.  

For the first two miles of the hike we have been climbing, the next mile and half takes us along the ridge line.  It’s close to three strikes and you are out for this trail as Hannah and I hike on through forests without definition or panoramic views.  We are usually not such whiners.  We about face at an hour and thirty minutes and head back to the trailhead. 

On our descent we spot a scruffy hiker, hidden behind a tree and smoking.  We don’t stop and interact at all.  I’m not proud of this, but I ignore him other than a brief “Hi,” when usually I’m Mr. Congeniality.  Perhaps I am most comfortable with middle class hikers like myself?  Today I’m leery, cautious, and hesitant.  At this point, there’s no courage within; being in unfamiliar territory in the South and having seen the disturbing movie Deliverance in my youth, I keep on trucking.

With the hike nearly in the books, we cross back over the Shenandoah River bridge with its disconcerting traffic, chalking this hike up to one more notch on our hiking-the-AT-belt and three hours of good exercise together.  App Man arrives at the ATC headquarters after us; they take his picture out front and provide him with apple champagne in a goblet for hiking half the AT.  We toast his accomplishment, thinking we’re glad it’s him and not us.

No need to run to hike this trail, but as always when hiking; know thyself, thy limits, and the conditions.  Be prepared.

Dan and Hannah Deal with Unusual October Snow in Shenandoah National Park in Virginia

Escaping Washington (I know that sounds like a harsh gerund. [I wish that sounded less pretentious!]) via Route 66 West to hike the Appalachian Trail in the Shenandoahs, Hannah and I see 16 miles of stop-and-go traffic heading to Washington going in the other direction.  Not once do we see an accident or any construction.  Later we learn that’s what passes for normal during the morning commute.  Country mice beware.

As a one-time true believer in GPSs, I now realize their limitations and the need to have a Rand McNally atlas close at hand when driving in unfamiliar territory.  In tandem, these two take us out Route 211 through Warrenton to Sperryville, a rural community at the base of the Shenandoah Mountains where there are just traces of snow.  Blissfully, we take hairpin turns, climbing to the park entrance at Thornton Gap; as we drive up the mountain, it becomes quite obvious that more snow has fallen here than at lower elevations.  Arriving at the park entrance, we see the sad face of the ranger, which tells it all.  The park is closed; Skyline Drive is closed.  Saying we have come all the way from Maine to hike won’t cut any mustard today.  She tells us that ten inches of heavy wet snow has caused trees and limbs to fall on the roads; in addition none of the buildings has power.

Bummed, we head over the mountain west to Luray, a rural town, known for its nearby caverns (http://luraycaverns.com/).   There, walking into town, I ask an elderly woman how much snow fell.  That she tells me four inches is not nearly as interesting as my wondering about myself and my unconscious stereotyping of her.  I’m thinking “Fox Republican” because of her strong southern accent and that she lives in Virginia.  I catch myself almost immediately, as traveling across the country gives me time to reflect more and likely to judge less.  As Malcolm Forbes says, Education’s purpose is to replace an empty mind with an open one.   My education on the road helps open mine, I like to think.

Resigned to an afternoon hanging out in Winchester, VA (a city rated top ten for retirement living by AARP and captured and recaptured 72 times during the Civil War [Thank you, Ken Burns]), I remember from last year’s trip to the Shenandoahs that at the north entrance to the national park we can park before the entrance gate and hike the Dickey Ridge trail.  Used by the locals from Front Royal, VA for hiking when wanting to get away for an hour or two, it is in good shape, I learn from a man I approach.  He is most proud of losing 130 pounds since March, regularly hiking this trail.

In 46 degrees we hit the leafy trail with an inch of snow or so to our right and left.  Crews with axes and chainsaws are already out removing the trunks of small trees from the trail and cutting up leafy limbs to clear a path for us hikers.   Wet with fallen leaves and a trickling brook to our left, the trail is not muddy and is easy on the feet.  Dickey Ridge is a steady climb, but gentle and satisfying.   

An hour into our hike, we wipe the snow off a fallen log and have our go-to lunch on the trail, Subway subs.  Refueled, we have only one bottle of water between us since we thought we would have been able to get water at the ranger station prior to our hike at Thornton Gap.  Alas, on this cool, partly cloudy day, fresh fallen snow is our reserve water supply.

The trail parallels the road to the top of Dickey Ridge.  We love this trail.  Why?   1. It’s easy to follow and clearly marked.  2.  It’s a workout but not insanely steep or precipitous.  3. There are no rocks to climb over.  4.  The trail is mostly dirt and easy on the feet, unlike the AT in much of New England.

After four miles of hiking the trail is covered with 3-4 inches of snow now; slogging through it is like hiking in sand.  We about face and sail down the mountain knowing how fortunate we are to have hiked at all, so soon after the weekend snow storm.  Today, we luck out and make something out of nothing.  As always when hiking, know thyself, thy limits, and the conditions.  Be prepared.

PS.  Ever think you have what it takes to be a leader, whether in your job, career, and life?  We learned the following from a mayor from the heartland (Nebraska!) that we met in Virginia with our friends Steve and Amelia.   The mayor rightfully believes her time is valuable and wants to really serve her constituents.  Ergo, she has her administrative assistant tell citizens when they call with a complaint or a problem that the mayor has 15 minutes for them.  She wants the citizen to be prepared with three things for their meeting:   1. The complaint or problem.  2. A possible solution.  (And this is the gem)  3. How that person is going to be a part of the solution!  Many people say they will call back later and never do.

Pretty cool, huh?  

Dan and Hannah Travel South to Virginia to Hike and Explore

This week’s blog is brief since Hannah and I just returned Thursday from a week south of the Mason-Dixon Line (http://geography.about.com/od/politialgeography/a/masondixon.htm)                 visiting our daughter Molly and her husband-of-four-months Tip.   Alas, we were not idle and come back with tales of our travels. 

One was inspired by a true American hero of ours;

A second began when we were turned away at the entrance of Shenandoah National Park because ten inches of fallen snow, trees and limbs across the roads, and buildings without power due to last weekend’s surprise October storm in the Northeast;

And a third has become our favorite hiking section of the Appalachian Trail. 

Those stories will follow in the weeks ahead, but I offer you pictures from my phone/camera to tease you.

Dan and Hannah bike North Haven Island on the Coast of Maine

After the summer tourist season, Hannah and I take to the open road (You might think we have a Harley?  We don’t.  We have very sensible, fuel efficient Hyundai Elantra.).   On a Friday in early September Hannah and I drive north on the Maine Turnpike, then Route One to make the 930A ferry at Rockland, some two and a quarter hours from home.  Passing through the coastal towns of Bath, Woolwich, and Wiscasset, we see pottery stores, antiques shops, small farms, marshland, u-store it garages, forests, and roadside stands such as Beth’s Berries and Sweet Corn.  The most annoying are the Mainely signs – Mainely Sewing, Mainely Poultry.  There is no romance in biking this coastal highway for the shoulder is the white line on the side of the road.

Pulling into the parking lot at the Maine State Ferry Service terminal in Rockland, we pay $10 to park, which turns out is a mistake since free parking on the side streets of Rockland during the day is easy and close by.  At the ticket counter we learn that for a 1h 15m ferry ride to North Haven we are charged $17.50 for each round trip.   Fair enough.  Then we are told our bikes are $16.50 each round trip!  What part of a green initiative do they not understand!  The bill is $68.  To take a car with a driver and a passenger is only $67!  Alas, without a reservation for a car, there would be no room on the ferry today.  The North Haven ferry just has places for 17 cars and today a semi-tractor trailer taking food to the island grocery store takes up five of those spots.

Out on the open waters we are enveloped by fog that just as quickly dissipates.  The North Haven ferry has stiff plastic commercial benches inside on the first floor and white painted metal benches up top in the open air.  We opt for the latter and are pleasantly “trapped” for an hour with time to read and write without distraction.  As we enter the North Haven harbor we pass by lobster buoys, lobster boats, and pleasure boats anchored in front of houses with wide lawns to the shore.

North Haven, twelve miles long and three miles wide, is an island of a manageable size with gently rolling hills that you can almost totally explore in a day of biking.  Rather than the steep up and downs found near Boothbay Harbor or on Islesboro, a coastal island twenty miles north of North Haven, the roads make for easy conversation.  We head inland on Main Street past modest houses, many of which have Direct TV dishes.  What does one do here in the winter?  immediately comes to my mind.  On paved roads, we find little traffic on this September Friday so we can ride side by side.  We are told 3000 people live here in the summer while there are 370 fulltime residents, who do have their own school (North Haven Community School – http://www.northhavencommunityschool.org).  We have been transported into 1950s Maine and couldn’t be happier.  The school closes at noon Fridays to give anyone the chance to get the last ferry (345P) to the mainland.

Off Shore Road, Mullins Head, the town park, is one mile away on a dirt road to a clearing among farms with two beaten and weathered picnic tables.  It looks as if no one has been here in a month.  It’s ideal.  We feel like teenagers and have the place to ourselves.  Back on the circumnavigating road we head north to North Shore Road with its view of channel islands.  Rarely do we see a car; in fact it’s mostly islanders in trucks who give us a wide berth as they pass. 

We learn of Ames Knob, a 152 foot peak on the island.  Nearly back to the dock in town, we turn onto Ames Point Road, take a weathered grassy trail through the field on the right, tromp through some thickets, then along a brief rocky trail to a stony summit.  It’s a 360 degree view and we easily spot the controversial wind turbines just across the bay on Vinalhaven Island, maybe two or three miles away.  Two of the three monstrous turbines (263 feet in height) spin regularly and provide all the electrical power for North Haven and the larger Vinalhaven.  What I see as unsightly, Hannah sees as appealing.   We are told by summer residents that it’s the whirring sound within a mile of the turbines that’s the major complaint. (http://www.nrcm.org/Vinalhaven_wind.asp).  We will certainly explore Vinalhaven next year to see for ourselves.

As we wait to board the ferry after 30 miles of leisurely biking, we talk with a spunky woman in her 70s who was actually born on North Haven.  I ask her what does one do in the winter.  She says, Nothing.  I go to the mainland from October to April.  We leave a delightful island on a human scale. 

Hannah and I settle upstairs on the North Haven ferry and know how lucky we are.   Life is good.