Bald Mountain and Artist's Bluff: getting me some "up". (pt two)

The scenic drive up was breath taking. Having received no instruction as to where to park, I did so in the most appropriate appearing spot: the Mirror Lake parking lot. This is a key point and the reason that it all "went wrong". Don't park there. The CORRECT parking area is further up the road on the right hand side (the same side as the trails). If you park in the right place you go up the right trail to Artist's Bluff and it would have, indeed, been an easy hike up and back with a great view at the end of it. 

Instead, I used the map that I had to locate the trail that looked like it arose right across the street from the parking lot. It was easy enough to find and follow due to the large red blazes on the trees.  The first little bit was a nice walk but I was soon confronted with a sign that indicated that the trail that I was on was a "loop" trail and that I could go left or right. Randomly I picked left. That was my second big mistake. 

The "loop" part of the trail is rough cut, rocky, rooty and eroded. Its' kind of slippery and dangerous and it's sole purpose seams to be to funnel hikers "in the know" away from the right hand trail and back onto the ACTUAL, easier trail that leads out from the ACTUAL parking lot. Of course, and hiker savvy enough to know tis probably also knows that they are in the wrong starting point to begin with. Ultimately, this trail is kind of useless. 

I followed it any way and was, indeed, brought to a nice wide relatively obstical-free path that led steadily up the saddle between the mountain  and the Bluff. At the top of this short climb there was a sign that indicated the location of the two features leading to the respective trails. As this was all going much smoother than I had expected, I picked the left (again!) trail and went up Bald Mt. 

This was more interesting to be sure and NOT part of the recommended hike. That was highlighted on my map by the Rangers and did not include this section. There was a significant amount of actual climbing involved in this part of the hike but it was easily conquered and I was rewarded at the top by great views of Canon Mountain and the surrounding peaks. When it was time to come down I searched for another trail off of the top and, finding none, went back down the way that I came up. It was harder going down than up.

BAck on the right trail I had a nice hike over the ridge and started down the other side. There the rock-scrambling began again but after a few feet there was a sign "bluff" painted in red on the rock. A sort hike down a side trail shoed me spectacular views of Lafayette, Cannon and south back down the notch. It was better than the summit of Bald Mt. 

Still convinced of this "loop" thing I continued down the rock scrambles instead of just walking back down the trail. It was difficult. It would have been difficult to come UP that way. The trail soon passed the "loop trail" sign and emptied back out onto the road. 

It was a great little hike that would have been more fun if I had done it the "right way".

Bald Mountain and Artist's Bluff: getting me some "up". (pt one)

The world was aligned with my karma last week. I got a good night's sleep and even got up and out a little early. I was bound and determined that I was going to get up into the WHite Mountains and hike for the day. What I had in mind, more because it was close than for any other reason, was the Welch-Dickie loop. This was pretty much universally described as an "intermediate" trail. In the White Mountains. The tallest thing that I can remember climbing, from scratch, was about 900 feet, down in Pawtuckaway. I was second-guessing this whole thing. I wanted a win, not another attempt. I looked on-line and was able to find, one time in a row, an interactive Googlemap that had little icons at every trail head and pick-nic spot. There were HUNDREDS of them. I couldn't even begin to guess which ones were "good". I stopped at the Park HQ, right off Rt.93 at exit 27.

Inside I was met by three friendly rangers. The older of the three had apparently drawn the "ups" on me and we struck up a pleasant conversation in which I coughed up a storm and revealed that I could not come up with the word "Pawtuckaway" under the slightest bit of pressure from The Man. This particular Ranger, it turns out, was a recent transplant from Florida. The highest point in the sate, or some I am led to believe, is the top of a building, not an actual geological feature. I thought that, with that in mind, we would ahve a special kind of understanding when I told him that I wanted "Something relatively easy today". "Couch, hack". "I have just the thing for you!" He told me and, in consultation with Evil Mastermind and Knowledgeable Ranger Chris, came up with about a dozen likely prospects. The one that he was most keen on was clear on the other side of the park. So I left the Ranger Station with renewed and fierce determination to drive one exit up and get off the highway in the Mad River Valley and conquer that Welsh-Dickie thing at all costs. Until I saw the sign for the exit and chickened right the fuck out.

Driving. I hate it. I do it an hour on the way to work and an hour on the way back. I do it most of the time that I am at work and I did it for two and a half hours before I set off from the Ranger Station to Franconia, which lay at the northern end of the Notch of the same name. I honestly don't remember how long it took. It could have been half an hour or an hour and a half. My mind was numb to the miles and time and my eyes and soul were distracted by the beauty and grandeur of the Notch. I thought to myself that if I didn't set boot to trail just driving through the Notch and sucking in the view would make the whole trip worth while. It was a t that point that I realized that my blood sugar was low.

I was in luck. At the same exit that I wanted for the trailhead there was a blue sign with a picture and an arrow on it indicating that if I followed the road in the direction that I wanted to go, I would come across "food". I cold work with that. Eventually I got to the village of Franconia. After all the build up of the State Park and grandiose Notch, the village was quite a let down. I had a dickens of a time finding a place to eat. There wasn't a Mac Wedoking any where in sight. What there was, nestled between a bike shop and a "country store" was a coffee-shop looking place called MoJos

It was a little place with a porch or walkway our front, like in the old cowboy movies, but painted bright yellow. There were two tables out front, one on each side of the door and a bunch of Hippie-theamed Shenanigans crap hanging from the facade and in the windows. It looked like exactly the kind of place that I always have liked, but never feel cool enough to go into. The pickings were slim though so I spooled up my courage, slid on my best Jerry Garcia vibe and slid on in. Inside there were two people. A tinny little hippie girl who was too cute to hail from a town like this and a giant, crew-cut wearing New Hampsire Stat Trooper, resplendent in his big hat, brown pants and neon green coat. The two of them were doing their best to bridge the cultural gap and try to figure out a way to explain to their respective circles of friends why they were looking at each other "like that". Clearly I eaves dropped and realized that not only do Troopers come from all around to eat here (always a good sign of good food) but that the fastest way back to the seacoast was down highway 101. It was also clear that these two were just too star-crossed to stand a chance and shortly after I placed my oder, the both left and I was alone to suck in the hippie-dippy ambiance. I liked it. I liked the food too. It's worth the trip back and if I had nothing to do all day but tool around in a brown muscle car on the trail of Moose Rustlers, I'd find a reason to stop in here for a bite too. I fueled up and headed out too. 

I need more altitude

I can't remember exactly when it was that I started plotting my great escape. No, not from a Nazi Prison camp, but from Civilization. Initially, I just went out and bought the stuff that I would need to survive a couple of days in the woods. I had carried my "House" before, of course. In the military I had a bunch of crappy, heavy gear that was one-size-fits-all and, did I mention, heavy as hell. Throw in a few cans of chili and a couple hundred rounds of ammo and, um, yea. Now I had light, good fitting gear. I was twenty year older and forty pounds heavier but we were talking about walking, after all. How hard could  it be?

I had day-hiked fairly often. There was one local "mountain" in particular that we had been up and down several times. So, I ahd a Hiker Friend of mine select an "easy" route to a shelter just a few miles into the White Mountain National Forest. It might as well ahve been on Mars. I made it about half way up the first peak. That was all. Oh sure, there were all kinds of extenuating circumstances, like the couple of feet of snow still on the ground. Or the fact that I hadn't slept in, like, three days. Whatever. In the end we came down and rooted out a camp site for the night. My traveling companion wanted to shelter at teh Mount Washington Hotel. I think he missed the point a little. Yes we went back up the hill the next day and got that "win" but it was not a summit. we did not camp in the wilderness.

In the couple of years since I hiked. Almost all of it was lowlands and park trails. We made it to the top of a few mountains that you could drive mostly to the top of before you found the trail head. Then we tried Pleasant Mountain in Bridgeton. We didn't make it to the top. Of course, I was probably having at least part of a heart attack at the time (I had a full-blown one a couple of months later). Excuses, they say, are like smelly anatomy parts: every one has some. And that was that.

I still long for and ceaselessly plan my escape, my challenge, my Summit! Someday. Someday soon I hope!

Did the two-nine thing.

Not for very long. I have long been curious as to what all the 29er fuss was all about and I finally went out and touched one in the flesh. What did I think? Meh. It was a Gary Fisher.... no. Wait. It was a "Trek"  Mamba The Gary Fisher brand has been reduced to a stencil of his initials some where on the frame. It's a sad day. I didn't like the blue and white color. The kid said that they had black. OK. I thought that the price marked on the bike was fair. I took it out for a spin. The first thing that I noticed was that it was BIG! Compared to the 26 inch MTBs that I have ridden over the last twenty years (poorly and infrequently: i still consider myself firmly a beginner) I though the the bike was too tall, the wheels took up to much space and that the bars were too wide. It handled slow. Even with the much-vaulted G2 Geometry it was a slow steering kind of thing. Maybe, for a 29er it was a scalple bit compared to a G2 26er... not so much. It was just plain slow. Push the pedals and... nothing. Now, I am certainly no racer but even to me it was plain that the 29er would take more to get going and stopping than a 26er. In fact, stopping kinda sucked. It sucked SO much that I asked the sales kid if the breaks were set up to be delivered or if they needed final adjustments. He assured me that they were ready to go. And they might have been, but they weren't ready to STOP! They were mechanical disks though, maybe that is a reason that they sucked more than rim breaks? It's funny though, because that was the one part of the experience that I had a pre-conception of superiority about. There definitely, definitely definitely DID find superior about the big-wheel. It went over obsticals that would have stopped the 26er dead in it's tracks, or at the very least required the use of "skill" to surmount. It was OK. I'm not sure that I would buy one over a 26er though. Bike for bike that cost more, weigh more and are less fun to ride. They do scale yellow curb stones better though!

Old Crow Medicine men. They COULD be The Wizard

Recently I have fallen in and out of love with a band. The Old Crow Medicine Show popped up on m radar just last week. The song Wagon Wheel is what actually did it. As I learned more about OCMS I wasn't surprised that I liked the song, only that it had  taken me so long to discover it and the band. I listened to a lot of OCMS on youtube and even learned how to play Wagon Wheel. I still like the song but the band...that's another story.

The premise of the band is that they are and "Old Tyme String Band". They leave you with the impression that they are a bunch of young musicians getting back to the folksy roots of the local music of where they are from. The image is that they struggled. They were, and are buskers. They "hoboed" around living on their ability to play music and surviving on their whits and having great adventures. Well, it seems that it's a thin shadow of truth built over a bull-work of lies.

You see, while some of the guys in the band DO have southern roots, they all started playing their "old time" instruments as a gag while they were attending their North Eastern Prep Schools. The band's front-man went to arguably the most prestegious prep school in the country. 

You can trust me, wink-wink, nudge-nudge...

Dude. Quite frankly I am growing tired of your accusations and implications. Please, let us be clear on one point. I did not sleep with your wife. In fact, I firmly believe that NO ONE has sleep with her including, sadly, you.

Don't get me wrong. I like your wife. I think that she is intelligent, funny and quite good looking. There are millions of other people in the world that I feel the same way about. Like this girl:

And this bloke:

I have not, to the best of my knowledge, slept with then either. Although I might. Heck, truth be told, I might sleep with your wife too. If she weren't your wife. Conveniently, you are taking care of that for me. Thank you. Of course, there is the fact that I too have a wife. 

So mine would also have to go before I could consider sleeping with yours. Of course, your wife might not want to sleep with me, as unlikely as that seems. 

Why? Well, it's not because I like you. I don't. You are not good looking or funny. In fact, at your best I find you quite dull and sort of odd to look at. You are not particularly bright and we have very little in common, other than thinking you wife is fetching. 

Still, you are my friend and, to be quite frank, it is in good part because you are dull and dim that I wouldn't take advantage of those traits in you by bedding Jessica. There are those who might argue that you deserve it. Most everyone that she has ever met would be on that list, excluding of course your certain circle of friends, of which I am one by the way. We, or more precisely in this instance, I, forgive you your short comings. We love you (I still don't like you: you have to work that dichotomy out for your self) and want you to be happy. Not "Hey! this is cool" kind of happy but "Hey my whole life is cool" kind of happy. Quite frankly, you are fucking that up to a fair-the-well. Pity that. 

The sad thing is that, in the end, it won't be me that is sleeping with the woman who used to be your wife, but it will be some one. And he will hate you. And you will hate him. And it all could have been avoided if you worried less about who's dick is near your girl and more about you being a dick TO your girl. 

Sorry Charlie, it wasn't to me, but you lost none the less. 

Small Sleeping bag, big guy, just fine

I am what they call a "hot" sleeper. This summer, when my wife and I were amassing camping gear, I tried out many sleeping bags. Right away I determined that I could not, would not ever be comfortable in a standard mummy-style sleeping bag. I'm just too chunky. We bought a couple of 20º "three season" sleeping bags (I actually wound up with a small collection) and took them camping.

The first lesson that I learned was that a bag rate to 20º is a pretty warm thing! I'm not sure what the third season was supposed to be, but summer was not one of them! I could sleep inside none of the bags that I had collected: they were simply much too warm! Of course the nights were too cold to sleep un-covered though. Luckily, one of my bags was a square one that you could un-zip and use as a quilt. Un-luckily, it was down and the feathers got scrunched and soaked from my perspiration and condensation inside the tent.

Lesson two: when one needs a sleeping bag (you know, when it's actually cold out side), the last thing one worries oneself with is how snug the bag fits them! The only thing the matters is how warm the thing is. Suddenly I was confronted with a collection of sleeping bags that, during the summer, I had become sure would perform to their rated temps and more. In the winter... not so much. I zipped, wrapped and wriggled into all of them in an effort to find the best one. None of them. Each had a "flaw". I settled on my GI surplus bivy-bag set up with a cheep fleece liner. I only had the patrol bag, not the intermittent cold bag. On a side note: the flap of the bivy that bothered me so much during summer testing was 100% un-noticable in December.

I had a great weekend and slept warm and comfortable but I learned my lesson about "sizing" sleeping bags: tight is right!