New York, New York

A brief moment of space in Times Square.

Under the “thingie” in Penn Station I searched for a familiar face. Others did the same.  A boarding call cued people to stretch a line from one side of the terminal to the other. Others pushed around me. I heard my name. There she was. All the way from Germany. A Twitter and Facebook friend I had never met.

I had gone to New York to meet her, a writer, an author with an amazing story. But talent needs no story. Talent gets discovered sooner or later. I reflected on the fact.  I was in a yellow cab headed for lunch with a woman who had three published books. Her break came when a publisher read her manuscript’s page 99. that had been posted on a website.  That was it. Page 99.

She asked why I wasn’t writing? Did I have writer’s block?  No ideas? Why had I stopped?  There were more excuses than Obama had for the economy. Work, running around the countryside, painting and going back and forth between Hawaii and New York.  Time consuming excuses. All true. The rationalization easy. But every one was weak. If I wanted to write – that is, really write – all I had to do was do it.  I’d find a quiet place, a sacred time and hold up for three months to take a huge chunk of ideas out of my brain.  Not even fear could hold me back.  For crying out loud, I already wrote and self-published a book. It couldn’t get any more difficult or humiliating than that.

Oh, the humanity!

By 3 pm, we were toast. The city had sweltered to an almost unbearable oven. It was hard to touch the city. Beneath us subways pushed heat and fumes through the street grates where people stood like hotdogs on a grill. No Marilyn Monroe poses here. Odors from unpleasant origins hovered and caused unsuspecting heads to turn in self-defense.  And motion... The motion jabbed from every direction. Traffic down the street, up the street. People crossed right, left, came head on and dodge around you from behind. A million souls among the steel, concrete and the plasma screens all screaming for someone’s attention. The din etched in my ears, numbing them to nothing but the harshest of auditory chaos. A horn. A hawker selling bus tours.  I began to float, weaving between the others aware of almost nothing in the middle of everything.

I stood outside Madison Square Garden behind the thick metal cylinders that protect the entrance from a truck filled with explosives being rammed down the throat of  Penn Station.  The traffic light changed and a hurried crush of people come toward me from across the street.  Like a wave on a beach, they washed around me and dispersed along the sidewalk and down the stairs. I was inside my own head and yet for personal safety I dared not completely let go from my surroundings. I had lost five dollars in the Subway when I was in eighth grade. My art class came to see the museums.  I wasn’t going to let that happen again.

Inevitably, in this ocean of humanity were encounters – the taxi drivers who navigated the streets while we chatted in the back seat, the wait staff at Serendipity, cashiers at a café, a restaurant owner, the person sitting at the next table who consumed a BLT smoothed in a heap of bacon, a shop sales clerk who tried to sell her a $400 green handbag, the attendant at Penn Station who let us sit in the waiting area even though she wasn’t a ticketed passenger, and the postal clerk who volunteered to let me into a closed museum - all friendly, all helpful and all hospitable.  

The train whistle cried out with more frequency. Albany approached. It had been a long day. Even as the sun dropped behind the purple silhouettes of the Catskills, the air hung heavy over the Hudson River. It was the kind of thick air you gulped instead of breathed. You’d swear that you would drown. I stepped onto the platform and into the glass enclosed escalators, a thermal trap. It felt like an oven set to warm a loaf of bread. I ignored the last bit of crowd, those who swept from the train to make their way home or to some hotel to cue up for the next day’s business deal, legislative conference or important presentation. A bubble created by my own thoughts about the day shielded me from the last slight bump, or polite but rote “excuse me” from those who pushed past.

On the drive to Saratoga lightening flickered in the gathering thunderheads.  Muffled rolls of thunder greeted me as I pulled into the driveway. The hum of crickets and katydids filled the dark woods. This was a silence I could handle. The sky broke and the rains came in a heavy downpour.

Auf Wiedersehen, mein Freund

One day I’m going to either tell the story of the day I met the famous author Mariam Korbas in New York City for lunch at Serendipity, or I’ll tell my own story of how I became a famous author.  I haven’t decided which yet.

Mount Washington

First, a little background to understand how this whole expedition got started.

1. My sister, Robin, is younger, faster, and far more athletic than me. She could sit on her butt for months (which she would never do) and I could run, swim and hike every day of the week and I would still have a tough time keeping up. She was the Lance Armstrong before there was Lance Armstrong. She has an engine that won’t quit. Therefore, I don’t compete with my sister;  I participate with her.
2. Mount Washington is in her backyard. It’s the highest peak in the Northeastern United States at 6,288 ft and is famous for dangerously erratic weather. For 76 years, until 1996, a weather observatory on the summit held the record for the highest wind gust directly measured at the Earth's surface, 231 mph on April 12, 1934. Weather is what makes this mountain so very dangerous to climb. Its last life taken was in January 2012 when a young man from Massachusetts fell descending Tuckerman Ravine.
3. My first trip up this mountain was last September. Robin, Dad and I drove up the eight mile road to the summit and were treated to blue skies and 70 mile visibility. Very unusual for a place where building are chained to the ground.
4. I love rocks. I love mountains with rocks. They call Mount Washington the rock pile.
5. I am known to say stupid things like, “It would be neat to hike to the summit of Mount Washington.” Robin jumped all over that.

So in January, taking advantage of Hawaii I started to train for our climb. Running and swimming, to keep up with Robin, like this would ever happen. Once I returned to New York , I started climbing a few mountains in the Adirondacks, namely Prospect and Buck. I carried weight and went on longer trails than the trail we would take up the mountain.  I wanted to go in June, but Robin warned that there could still be snow. God, Almighty.  So we settled for the week of July 4^th.  allowing the entire week to get the right weather window to make our ascent.  Tuesday looked the best, but logistically we weren’t ready. Wednesday promised clear skies, but deteriorated as a weak front descended from the north.  Once that pushed through Thursday became the day.  Meanwhile, we did two short hikes to “blow the stink off us” as Grandpa House would say.

We headed out for Pinkham Notch Lodge where the trailhead for Tuckerman Ravine was located.  The early morning air held a crisp feel of fall - still three months away. A dampness settled into the valley leftover from the heavy thunderstorms that rolled through the previous day. The 5 am Mount Washington Observatory Morning Weather Report promised 45-60 mile per hour winds on the summit, but some clearing later in the day.  Oh, boy. 

At 8 am we checked in with the ranger at the information desk.  “Sounds like a great idea,” she chirped when we told her of our plans.  She ran down a short must-have gear list....fleece, rain jacket, a light source, food and water. The bulletin board posted a more thorough a list of items. These were the things needed should shit happen. And on this mountain it happens.  The only thing we didn’t have was a ground pad. But if I had to huddle the night on a cliff, I would sit on my pack instead of the cold ground.  We were far more prepared than most. And we agreed it was all about the journey not the summit. If we had to come down because either one of us couldn’t make it physically or mentally, we would come down.  And certainly if the weather pounded the summit with fire and brimstone we would retraced our footsteps down the mountain, something I dreaded because of my knees and something I dreaded even more as I picked my way up the rocks on the steep headwall of Tuckerman Ravine.

Mentally, I wasn’t as psyched as Robin. Sure I wanted to go, but I had crashed and burned four days earlier on Buck Mountain, planting my face into the ground and injuring my pec muscle. It still hurt to take a deep breath. And deep breaths go hand and hand with climbing mountains.  But I wasn’t ever going to be more ready.  

The trail begins going up and it never stops going up. The first two miles was a wide jeep trail. Robin and I walked side by side, picking our own ways over the rocky trail.  I learned long ago when climbing mountains don’t look up.  I’ve climbed to 19378 feet in South America, and I’ve been to Everest Base Camp so I knew what up was all about. To pass the time, we sang "Somewhere Over the Rainbow".

The oaks and maples soon gave way to birches, hemlocks and pines. Moss grew thick on the rocks along the river bed where rushing water muffled the sharp chirps of the birds hidden in the underbrush. The path narrowed, but kept a sidewalk width all the way to Hermit Lake.  Our steady pace knocked off the first mile in 45 minutes.  Good. We will need that when we hit the headwall.  But we reminded ourselves not to overlook the overlooks. I was also lugging a camera. Use it, damn it.

The Hermit Lake Shelters looked like they should have been occupied by elves that lived in among the Indian Paint Brushes and other bright late summer flowers. The lodge offered the last bit of civilization - a toilet and a water pump. It is also the point where the summit hikers and the day strollers part. If a reminder was needed that the trail ahead was a serious climb a huge first aid rescue station was staged at the lodge.  It wouldn’t be the last one we would see.

Sweat ran down my face as I took step after step on the boulder strewn trail that ran parallel to the first water fall. Clouds moved in covering us with a dew. One moment the clouds shrouded the wilderness in a gray blanket. The next moment the sun competed for the earth.  Here contour lines sat on contour lines.  From where we came disappeared and our destination laid somewhere over our heads. The wind circled in the ravine and pushed at our backs making the climb over wet rocks a bit easier. This was not hiking, it was climbing. Near the top of the headwall, three hours since we left the trailhead the winds shifted and blue sky sat behind the high ridge line in the direction of the summit.  A strong wind carried white wisps quickly overhead.  Exposed to the strong wind above the tree line we put on our jackets. At the junction of Alpine Gardens Trail the ravine below cleared.  For the next hour as we hiked the Alpine Gardens Trail we were treated to blue skies and panoramic vistas.  We stopped over and over again to enjoy how lucky we were to have the break in the weather.

Here we met a man who had come up Huntington Ravine. He said he hiked a lot but that had been the toughest hike he had ever done. He was amazed it was open to the public. We had been advised to stay off it. The trail is so steep with some footholds too far from the next. Short legs and arms might not be able to get a good purchase. 

I noticed the cairns were 20 to 40 paces apart. These rock structures, about three feet tall, marked the trail across the landscape of short shrubs, flowers, lichen and granite rocks glittering with mica. Near the intersection for Huntington a thick blanket of clouds once again rolled in. Locating the next cairn became crucial. We picked our way over the rock debris fields on last .3 miles of the Huntington Ravine Trail above the head wall. Rocks of every size and shape spilled in  jumbled direction. Careful observation and feel for each rock was required. It was no place to fall. Clouds blew steady from the right depositing moisture on our glasses. It was impossible to keep them clear. So much moisture collected on the lenses that it ran off on my cheek as if I had been crying. I was thankful that as we neared 6000 feet the wind was not biting and we were not being pelted by sleet.

I became disoriented. Not lost. But I could not have pointed in the direction of the summit. We hiked blindly from cairn to cairn trusting that each marker would lead to the next and that somewhere out in the fog was the observation station. We crossed the road leading to the summit just as a group of motorcycles roared up out of the fog. We crossed the cog rail shortly after the train began its descent to the base on the west side of the mountain.  Still no summit. Then I heard voices. Suddenly materializing out of thin air, a huge concrete and stone building appeared.  It was less than 60 feet away.  Finally, the summit.

We had done it. Five and a half miles in five and a half hours. My thighs were getting tired but I didn’t feel exhausted. Still there was no way I was hiking down. We had strategically located two cars so we could either take the cog or the shuttle off the mountain. If I had to I would wave twenties in the parking lot. Except all I had was one dollar. I couldn’t even buy my sister a Maxwell cup of coffee at the summit. CASH ONLY.

After facts:

1. Robin let me lead the entire way.
2. I never put on my new rain pants.
3. I highly recommend Sole, moldable custom footbeds. My feet never felt better after a hike. $40.00
4. I cussed only once. When I knew the summit was close, but  I couldn’t see it.
5. We met a ton of great people on the trail.
6. Neither one of us know the lyrics to "Somewhere Over The Rainbow."

Some great photos are on my facebook page.