Hannah and Dan Discover Upper Goose Pond near Lee, MA (near the Mass. Turnpike)

Taking a break midway in our drive from our home in York, Maine to my brother’s place in New York, we set out to hike the Appalachian Trail near Upper Goose Pond off the Mass Pike, not far from Tanglewood, the summer home of the Boston Symphony Orchestra.  A mere 4 miles from the Mass Pike the parking area off Route 20 has ample parking for day hikers.  Previously we hiked north from this point to Becket Mountain (see over60hiking blog for Thursday, March 10, 2011), but today we head south to Upper Goose Pond.

Puncheons (wooden planks through boggy and soggy stretches of the trail) greet us on this waterlogged early spring day.  Dressed in a long sleeve tee shirt, a heavy "Maine" sweatshirt (I’m always looking for words on my shirts to spark a conversation with fellow hikers), pants, and hiking boots, I follow Hannah as we cross the hikers bridge over the Mass Pike.  Once across we climb steadily as bright white blazes guide us through a forest of deciduous trees still bare from winter’s grip.

Soon we descend to Upper Goose Pond on a meandering trail that is level and conducive to talking.  Mucky by the pond, the muddy path is well marked and not taxing.   We roll and stroll through woods knowing that three hours is a good length of time for hiking; over 60, we hate the feeling of going too far and too long and struggling with each step back to the car.  Today, we are indeed disciplined and turn around at the 90-minute mark with 3.2 miles back to Route 20. 

On the way back we take a blue blaze side trail for five tenths of a mile to the Upper Goose Pond cabin where a previous thru-hiker, Patch, (March 10, 2011 blog) told us that there, thru-hikers are served free pancakes.  Our guidebook mentions that the cabin with bunks for thirty hikers is open from mid-June to mid-September and some weekends before and after.   Lunching on our Subway chicken salad subs, we quickly chill down on this forty-degree spring day sitting at the cabin picnic table.  Leaving the campsite, we run into our first hiker who, coincidentally, has spent nights in this very cabin.  Asking him how he sleeps with 30 others, he says, one be exhausted from your hike and two, have earplugs.  As for me, I think I’ll pass.  (Now let’s just take a little side trip of the mind with Dan for a moment.  Sleeping with others in a shelter ranks right up there with sleeping overnight on hard ground as reasons one and two why you won’t catch me doing any hiking that requires me to spend a night in the woods.)

We dally as we listen to him as he tells his story.  Unfortunately, we never find an entry point to the conversation, either by will or by invitation.   After listening for too long, I am reminded how everyone has a story to tell.  He certainly does.  As my friend Vin says, everyone is an embryonic storyteller.   Sometimes telling our stories gets in the way of others sharing theirs.  Without true dialogue, there is no connection or synergy or future, and damn little of anything really.  It’s just a one-sided carnival sideshow.  We leave him relieved and unsatisfied.  We escape back over the mountain, lesser for the experience. 

Upper Goose Pond Hike – Enjoyable with moderate terrain elevation.   As always when hiking, know thyself, thy limits, and the conditions.  Be prepared.

Dan and Hannah Explore the Redwoods in Muir Woods, just north of San Francisco, CA

          Your favorite country mice, Dan and Hannah, head north through San Francisco’s Chinatown on a typically temperate 60-degree morning in March.  Just twenty minutes north, the Muir Woods National Monument awaits.  Escaping the city by way of the Golden Gate Bridge, we take to the four lane California 101, then exit onto the winding two lane California 1 with its tight hairpin turns and no shoulders.  Though the website (http://www.nps.gov/muwo) says parking is limited, we easily find a spot at Muir Woods, less than two miles from the Pacific Ocean.

          After just a few hundred steps to the Visitor Center, we take the ranger-recommended hike up Redwood Creek along the Bootjack Trail.  Immediately, we are in the midst of the tallest living things on the face of the earth, 250-foot plus redwood trees.  Redwoods!  Oh, they are majestic, certainly magnificent, indeed breathtaking, regal is no overstatement.  You might be thinking, enough already with the inflated adjectives.  Well, my impatient readers, please think again.  As my college roommate Big Steve would say, these trees are stunning.  Feeling like Jack looking for the top of the Beanstalk, we crane our necks skyward unable to see the tops of the redwood canopy.

          Through this forest of clustered redwood families is a blacktop or a wooden boardwalk trail, maybe 12-15 feet wide.  Among tourists in sandals and street shoes, we warm up for our hike in this lush rainforest where thick, hairy moss hangs from every branch.  Ferns abound on either side of the boardwalk with the snow fed rushing waters of the Redwood Creek, just an arm’s length away.  With the wet winters and fog off the ocean throughout the rest of the year, this climate is perfect for redwoods.

          After a mile of humanity, we step straight ahead on the aforementioned Bootjack Trail, which is muddy and sloppy from last night’s drenching rain.  Hiking boots are a must with the trail rocky and crossed by roots as it ascends into the Pacific coastal mountains.  The roaring creek makes it difficult to talk; for the next hour we see no one on the trail to break up the hike or possibly make a brief connection with a kindred spirit.  As an aside, my life is one part seeking of kindred spirits.  Perspiring, I soon remove my sweatshirt; my pant legs are mud-spattered from the trail.  Arriving an hour or so later at the Van Wyck Meadow, we lunch while sitting on a rock in the sunshine.  Shoes and socks off, we celebrate with homemade peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, apples, and the satisfaction of a day well spent.  You got to be thinking, these kids do it right!

          Turning left we hit the TCC (Tamalpais Conservation Club) trail for the home stretch which, rather than climbing the canyon wall, cuts into the canyon hundreds of feet above the thundering creek with little elevation change.  We soon catch a hiking rhythm just below the ridgeline and the conversation flows.  Using hands and feet, we do grope through a 12-foot section of the trail washed out by last night’s downpour.   

Though the park information lists this loop hike as plus or minus four hours, we do it under three hours with 15 minutes for lunch.  Fact is, we primarily hike for exercise.  For Hannah and Dan, a good time on vacation is having our legs motoring and our hearts pumping.   Did you know Hannah’s undergraduate degree from the College of Wooster in Ohio was in physical education?  Dan, himself, has a Masters in physical education from the Harvard of the West, Arizona State University.  (Stand tall, fellow Sun Devils!)  We cruise pretty well and smell fewer roses.  It’s just in our DNA, but it’s one heckuva good workout. 

Find a place for Muir Woods on your to-do list and you’ll not be sorry.  All of this is but 30 minutes away from the third worst traffic jams in America (Los Angeles, you are #1 while Honolulu is #2)

(http://www.thedailybeast.com/blogs-and-stories/2011-03-08/50-worst-commutes-americas-highways-to-hell/2/).  Sorry Washington, DC.  You are only #4, but I’m pulling for you next year.

As always when hiking, know thyself, thy limits, and the conditions.  Be prepared.

Bootjack Trail loop rating – So very California cool.

Oh, there’s one final joy – cell phones don’t work in Muir Woods.  We tried.

Dan and Hannah Take to the San Francisco Waterfront

If you know anything about Dan and Hannah, you know they avoid cities.  Living in York, Maine, 65 miles north of Boston, they never go to those cobbled streets.   Like never!   I’m not bragging; it’s just a fact.  Given a chance to spend a vacation anywhere, they choose the Mountain West, with a soft spot for Bozeman, MT and Flagstaff, AZ.  Twenty-nine years ago, they moved from the Valley of the Sun in Arizona with its three million residents to small potatoes seacoast New England.  People end up where they are supposed to; at least that’s what I’m selling today.  These two scream “country mice” when you look at them.  So a trip to the big city of San Francisco takes them far from their little hole in the wall. 

          Chauffeured and sheltered by good friend Chris, we head to the Farmer’s Market at the Ferry Building (http://www.ferrybuildingmarketplace.com/), just down from Giants Stadium along the waterfront on El Embarcadero.  Within the Ferry Building the most surprising shop is advertising Tasty Salty Pig Parts.  Toto, we are not in Maine anymore.   Expecting to see California stereotypes (i.e., beautiful, tan, edgy), we see joggers, sweethearts walking hand in hand, and families with energetic kids out for a Saturday morning.   Beautiful they are and not all that different from Mainers.

          On the sidewalk a saxophone player collects tips.  Not to disappoint those who jump to stereotypes, there is the smell of marijuana in the air. We are given a slice of blood red orange without asking.  An accordion player hopes we are generous with our spare change.  The energy from the street on this March morning makes me smile.   The sunny, 60 degrees temperate climate that attracted hippies in the Sixties explains why so many Americans are Californians.

          Though I am not a city guy, the warm temps, good friend, and Hannah melt my resistance to the big bad metropolis.  Then, a tad overweight man comes bicycling by in just a jockstrap loudly proclaiming his participation in the World Naked Bike Race.  As far as I can see, he is the only entrant.  Ah, San Francisco stereotypes come to the rescue.    Later, we see a homeless man with a sign, Why lie?  I need a beer.  Please help.”

          Taking the Blue & Gold Ferry Bay Monarch (http://www.blueandgoldfleet.com/) with three decks, two with open-air benches, we pay $20 each for a round trip to Sausalito.  Bundled up with three layers of clothing to ward off the bay breeze off the 50-degree water, we pass Alcatraz (http://www.alcatraztickets.com/) and the Golden Gate Bridge on this 30-minute trip.  Sitting in the sun, I feel a freedom that comes from being loved and on vacation.   As we deferry, we look for a restaurant for a 2P lunch.  We hit the jackpot at the Winships in Sausalito (http://www.winships.com/).   With a pub atmosphere, it serves us delectable minestrone soup with baskets of sliced sourdough bread. 

          On the return trip we wait for what seems like 80 rented bikes to board the ferry.  They weren’t there when we came.  What gives?    Talking to my seatmate on the flight home later, I learned that many rent bikes (e.g., Blazing Saddles – http://www.blazingsaddles.com/) in San Francisco, ride over the Golden Gate Bridge and then coast down the steep hills to the Sausalito waterfront.  Many then take the ferry back rather than pedal, push, and cajole their bikes up the steep hill. 

Pleased, sated, and thankful, Mickey and Minnie will one day return to San Francisco to bike over the Golden Gate Bridge. 

         And back.  

Dan Retires, Hannah Wonders

After some forty years as a teacher in Arizona, California, New Hampshire, Maine, and Connecticut, I retired Friday.  For me, teaching was always about the relationships. With students.  With colleagues.  Engaged students got the best out of me.  They fed me, whether it was teaching sixth grade at Nevitt Elementary School in Phoenix, AZ or the preservice teachers at the University of New England in Biddeford, ME.  At its best, my career was about working with good folks with whom I connected; those kindred spirits, fellow professionals who liked talking shop.  An example.  Once a week for sixteen years, I had breakfast before school to talk about all things education with my teaching buddy Steve. 

I was never one who wanted to work forever, find the perfect job and stay til I die.  I am not sure I ever had the commitment or the energy.  It wasn’t until I read The Big Leap by Gay Hendricks (http://www.hendricks.com/gay-hendricks) that someone articulated why I knew it was time to leave the teaching profession.  He identifies Zones that we inhabit as we work.

Zone of Incompetence.  That may sound mocking and inflammatory, but please read on.  This Zone is where you are doing things that you are not good at or don’t like to do.  For example, I hate to paint - our house or any room within, you name it.  At my best, I might be adequate.  If I were to paint your house or mine, I’d be working in my Zone of Incompetence.  Note bene, don’t let me near your house with a paintbrush.

Zone of Competence.   These are the kind of jobs where you do them well, but someone else could just as easily be doing them.  You are just putting in your time and doing the job.  You’re fine at it, but it lights no fire, though it may pay the bills.  As a university prof, if I spent time copying handouts on the copier, I would be working at my Zone of Competence. Someone else could be doing it while I could be doing what they were actually paying me to do, such as planning and teaching classes, advising students, and responding to student writing.    

Zone of Excellence.  That is where few can do what you do well.  You’re good at what you do.  My positive course evaluations suggest I was in this Zone during my teaching career.  Perhaps, that sounds self-serving, but I don’t know how else to say it.  As one colleague generously stated when commenting on my teaching, you bat clean up for us.   I was often in the Zone; I’d like to think.

Zone of Genius or what I would call the Zone of Passion.  These are the jobs where you wake up in the morning and can’t wait to get started.  This is what I seek.  Drafting and publishing these posts for my over60hiker blog takes me to this Zone.  When my students were fully engaged, I would tell Hannah over wine after class that I couldn’t believe I’m being paid to do this job.  I was in the Zone.   

After forty years, I wasn’t in the Zone of Passion as much as I’d have liked when I was teaching.   I believe my students were getting my A game, but as Gay Hendricks says, I was feeding them, but I wasn’t feeding myself. 

It’s now time to start feeding myself in retirement.  Writing these one pagers for my blog is a start.  I love tinkering with my writing to get it right.  Perhaps, the retired men’s group that works on Tuesday for Habitat for Humanity is a possibility.   Maybe it will be volunteering with the Maine Children’s Cancer Program, an organization that successfully treated our daughter Robyn 25 years ago.   The Telling Room in Portland where mentor/writers help student writers working on their craft is a possibility.   I’m looking to work with good folks as a team.

Now, this is where you come in.  Given what you have just read, what suggestions do you have for me as I pursue my Zone of Passion as a volunteer?  Please include yours in the comments section below or email them to me.

Wish me luck.  I mean, literally wish me luck.  In the comment section below.

Dan and Hannah Greet the Soldiers at Christmas who are off to Afghanistan

          I am not a great sleeper.  Rarely do I make it through the night without waking once and reading.  Tonight my body just knows that this will not be a Hall of Fame sleeping night.  Our alarm is set for 3 AM so we can go to Pease Airport in Portsmouth, NH to be Pease Greeters (http://www.peasegreeters.org/) and welcome soldiers stopping off for one hour as their plane refuels on their way to Afghanistan.  In anticipation of this early morning, Hannah and I go to bed at 8 PM.  Not wanting to miss the alarm, I awake three times, the last time being at 217A and stay awake until my runner’s watch alarm beeps us into action.

          Soon taking Hannah’s Honda Civic, we drive south on I-95 for the fifteen-minute ride to Pease.  In the dark of subfreezing December I wonder if this is all worth it, having had such a lousy sleep.  Many of these flights come in during the day.  Well, boo hoo.  Danny isn’t getting his sleep.  Too bad.  He does have all day to nap if he wants.  What’s his problem? any reasonable person might wonder.  Pulling into the parking lot, we see easily forty cars.  These Pease Greeters are troopers.  Bustling into the terminal, we see bright lights and not a person we know.   Danny’s pity parade continues.  With 60-70 people milling around, mostly veterans, I feel alone as probably the only one who fought serving in Viet Nam during my college days.  Interesting word choice – fought serving. 

First a cup of coffee and then we line up on the Heroes Walk hallway, awaiting the soldiers.  As a couple who hangs a United Nations flag in our driveway when it seems every other house in the neighborhood has an American flag, we stand quietly waiting.  And then we see Ralph standing alone.  We don’t know his name of course at this point, but we learn that he’s retired military.  Introducing ourselves, we see him immediately smile and now know that there are two less lonely people in the world.  Don’t you love it when an Air Supply song captures the moment!  From nearby Rochester, NH, he is veteran of WW II and spent time in the Pacific.  Quick to tell us how it’s been hard since his second wife died, he reminds me of the good marriage I have.  Hell, great marriage.  Doing the math, we know he’s at least 84 year old and he proudly tells us about his delightful family and then even listens, really listens about ours.  Without being aware of it, I feel at home and am glad I made the effort this early morning.

          All of a sudden the soldiers from a Colorado base walk single file down the hallway past our position as we clap and clap some more.  Three forty AM.  They must be wondering what we are doing here in the middle of the night.  Well, we are witnesses.  I don’t get many chances to thank the people who make sacrifices for my family, my country, and me.  We can live insulated, often carefree lives if we have jobs, like Hannah and I do.  In going about the daily routines of my life, I can forget how good I have it.  These soldiers are going in harm’s way when they really might wish they were doing something else.  Perhaps, reading the Sunday paper home in Mississippi? 

In fact, the first young soldier we approach in the reception area is from Mississippi.  If you decide to come to Pease and don’t know what to say, ask where they are from.  We learn of his interest in going to college.  I think of Hattiesburg, MS where Bret Favre went to college and sports carries our conversation.  When asked, the next soldier with a tan bar on her shirt pocket tells us that she’s a lieutenant, which I know means she went to college.  Louisville University it turns out.  She’s married to an enlisted man and has an eight year old, who rolls with Mom being deployed for the coming year.  While there are no tears or doubt in Mom’s eyes, I know I’d crumble if it were I.  Heading to the ceremony, we engage with one final soldier holding a green plastic football given to him by the Pease Greeters.  A fan? I ask.  Patriots he says.  You from around here?  Texas.  You are from Texas and love the Patriots?  Tom Brady is the best.  Life is good. We meet a Patriot fan at 4 AM. 

          After the group picture, prayer, and free phone cards for all the troops, Hannah and I head for home in the still early morning dark.  I’ll head back to our warm king-size bed, later have coffee with homemade bread while reading the Sunday Boston Globe sports section, and then catch Sports Center.  I bet they’d trade their Sunday for mine.

          People overstate the value of what Hannah and I do by going to Pease, even at three in the morning.  What an honorable thing to do!  we hear.  We’re fine, but we’re no heroes.  We know how lucky we are this December day to honor these heroes, no matter the time of day.

Dan and Hannah become Pease Greeters – Flight #403

Moved by a stirring and heart tugging Veteran’s Day tribute to soldiers of the past by the students at Marshwood Middle School in Maine (http://www.seacoastonline.com/articles/20101106-NEWS-11060319), I finally am motivated to see what being a Pease Greeter entails (http://peasegreeters.org/).  With good friends Ronnie and Dennis we drive ten miles south from our home in York, ME to the Pease Airport in Portsmouth, NH, where we will soon be a part of 200+ people greeting a plane of servicewomen and men, briefly stopping for maybe an hour at Pease, so their plane can refuel. 

At Pease, our tour guide takes us down the Heroes Walk hallway, which is lined with group shots of troops from the previous 400+ flights that came through.  Since Pease is not a commercial airport, access to the terminal is wide open and friendly.  Passing tables with word search and crossword puzzle books, a soccer ball, dice, a yoyo, playing cards, and water bottles, I see the gifts the troops are given to take overseas or to use as presents for loved ones as they head for home.  Learning that today there is a charter flight of medics coming from Fort Lewis in Washington State to Kuwait, we will soon welcome the 403^rd flight.  In the reception area with donated Dunkin Donuts, Green Mountain Coffee, Cokes, and Girl Scout cookies for the incoming troops, we expectantly wait.  There is a bank of fifteen phones ready for the troops to use. 

          Waiting, it’s not hard for me to make the leap that our daughter Robyn was on such a flight when she was headed to Afghanistan back in 2006.  I know so little of her experience.  Perhaps, she and I wanted it that way.  No longer regular Army, Robyn is now in the National Guard.   She is now preparing for 2012 deployment back to Afghanistan.  Hannah and I will be in her corner.

I look up above the greeters lining the wall to avoid eye contact as I mist up and am sobered by what these soldiers are sacrificing.  Time with their families.  Time just hanging out without the fear of enemy attack.   My sacrifice these days?   Well, this afternoon I am missing Tom Brady v. Cleveland Browns.  

As the medics come through the door, applause builds.  These 50 medics, one quarter of which are women, give low fives to the school age girls next to us, while other soldiers look straight ahead.  Later we learn that they have been up for 30 hours with a flight to Iceland coming in the next hour. 

          In the reception area, I learn from a Seelinger that these are all reserves from the Erie, PA area.  Versed in CLS (Combat Life Saving) skills, they sip coffee and munch on doughnuts as they agreeably answer our questions.  I detect no fear or trepidation of what lies ahead on their faces.  I learn this is their second tour - a 400-day tour - that they hope will be just nine months.  When I ask where they go from Iceland, they smile and hedge.  Loose lips sink ships still holds.  Like hiking, the best part of the day is talking to the medics and I am energized being in their presence.   These are American heroes.

          At the send off ceremony, the group picture is taken under the “Welcome to New Hampshire – US Customs and Border Protection” lettering.  The Star Spangled Banner is sung and seamlessly we all join in.  For a moment, I am a part of something bigger than my own little, insular life.  Today we are one, not pro- or anti-war, Democratic or Republican.  As a one-time conscientious objector, I stand with veterans to thank these soldiers for their service.  “We the old warriors salute the young warriors.”  Soon they will reboard their charter flight on a Boeing 737-800, and my life will continue on.  I’ll catch the end of the Patriot game, but I have been changed, if every so slightly.  I have a new commitment, a new mission, another way to make a difference.  We’ll see what sacrifice I will make. 

          If you would like to join me as a Pease Greeter, email me.  You’ll be floored.  I’d love to share the experience with you.

Dan and Hannah Hike the Appalachian Trail (AT) to Cranberry Pond near Stratton, Maine

          Serendipity?  Kismet?  (What a pretentious word!) Blind luck?  Destiny?  Karma?  Dumb luck?  Let’s go with dumb luck.  Hannah and I stumble on another section of the AT just four miles from the Sugarloaf Ski Resort, where we are staying for a middle school conference in late October with snow flurries are in the air.  During the conference we did find a cross-country ski trail near the Sugarloaf Inn, with gentle inclines as one would expect for a Nordic trail. 

On the way to the trailhead just out of the Carrabassett Valley town line, we pass a sign “Free Beer.”  Then in small print it says tomorrow.  John Laidlaw, my principal at Nevitt Elementary School in Phoenix, AZ told me, Tomorrow never comes.  Political signs abound all pushing Republicans (e.g., LePage for governor) or Yes on #1, which is for a casino in Oxford County.  Up in the mountains near Sugarloaf Mountain, the rural/coastal divisions of the state are quite apparent.  The trailhead has parking on the left and the trail to Cranberry Pond on the right.  Wearing long sleeve tee shirts, sweatshirts, jackets with double mittens and ski caps, we are ready for a day that will be no higher than 40 degrees.  Immediately a forest of new growth, head high Christmas tree pines among the towering poplars and firs brackets the trail, which is easy on the feet as it is dirt with exposed tree roots smothered with fallen leaves.  This is Hannah’s 6^th AT state (NC, VA, WV, MD, and NY) while I have but five (no NC).  Ah, the perfect excuse for a trip to the Great Smokies National Park.

          Soon we step from rock to rock to ford a small stream.  Puncheons (planks in the forest) help us traverse the boggy areas as Lincoln Log looking steps enable us to scale the steeper climbs.  In other places on the trail, the Maine Appalachian Trail Club (http://www.matc.org/) has set rocks in the mountainside for an easier ascent.  The MATC clears the trail and sets white blazes often and at junctures so staying on the trail is simple enough.  A poster warns us, “Bear Notice – There’s been a report of a black bear visiting the Cranberry Stream Campsite,” which is exactly the path we are taking.  Normally I am a big baby when it comes to animals that maul and devour, but lately my reading of AT guides has put me at ease since thru-hikers rarely see black bears and when they do, are rarely threatened by them.  I also naively figure that this notice must be days old and we’re safe.  Once a fool, always…

          After crossing the Dick Brown plank bridge over the Carrabassett River, we meet two women who spent the night on Bigelow Mountain.  They tell us of 60 mph winds and wind chills in the teens.  Bless their hearts, but that’s not my idea of a good time.  Hannah wonders what our trail names would be.  Commonly AT thru hikers have names like Patch, Tetherball, or Moose.  I suggest “Dutch Babe” for Hannah, noting her father’s heritage.  She suggests ATM squared for me.  It’s a no brainer.  Comment on this blog with what you think it is.  The first correct answer wins a prize.

          Among the trees, we never have a view of the valley on this hike, but that also means we only occasionally feel the strong winds.  There are lots of blow downs (fallen trees), but the MATC has cleared every trail we hike today.  After two miles give or take, the rolling nature of the terrain changes to a steep, rocky ascent to Cranberry Pond.  It’s heart pumping, lung sucking all the way. At the Bigelow Mountain Junction we take the rocky and boulder-filled blue blaze (the AT is marked with white blazes, side trails have blue blazes) trail to Cranberry Pond.  All of a sudden ten healthy males and one beautiful female run by us.  Running!  They tell us that they are part of the Base Nordic Ski Team.  We are impressed and stunned and humbled.  The return trip is quick, but tricky as the descents are freshly leaf covered and slippery. 

As always when hiking, know thyself, thy limits, and the conditions.  Be prepared.

Cranberry Pond hike rating - Excellent.