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Round up: Five great family hikes in Maine

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The temperature has risen to a magical 60 degrees, the daffodils are blooming, and the forsythia are primed for an explosion of yellow.  The tulips won’t be far behind, and I’m ready to think about hiking adventures to come this spring, summer, and fall.

Hence, this round-up post on five of my favorite family hikes in Maine.  (I’ll do a separate one on New Hampshire, since there are so many great hikes to cover in both states).

We’ve been hiking as a family since my son was born, with him propelling himself on his own legs from about age three onward.  Unless you have a kid who is obsessed with hiking (not mine), I find it best to limit family hikes to five miles or less.  I also look for hikes with a good hook — boulders to conquer, fire towers to ascend, mysterious caves, and, of course, great views.

Please note that I call these “five of my favorite hikes”, and not “my five favorite hikes.”  This small distinction in syntax is necessary because there are countless wonderful hikes out there, and I can’t possibly narrow it down to just five “favorites.” You can access links to directions (and sometimes maps) by clicking the title of the hike.

1. Tumbledown Mountain in Weld, Maine

A view of Tumbledown Pond, and the mountain's summit, from the Parker Ridge Trail.

A view of Tumbledown Pond, and the mountain’s summit, from the Parker Ridge Trail, which departs from the Brook Trail not far from the road, and offers a slightly longer route to the pond, including some great rock scrambles.  Parker Ridge gets fewer hikers than other trails, but in the summer, expect lots of company at the pond, no matter what day of the week.

I’ve been hiking Tumbledown Mountain since my college days. I love this mountain and the beautiful pond nestled below the summit cone. Bring your bathing suit, or not, but this IS New England, so everyone else will be wearing suits.

The 1.9-mile Brook Trail (and 1,600 feet of elevation gain) is the most direct to the pond, from which hikers can scramble over granite and boulders on a well-marked route to the 3,090-foot summit.  The Brook Trail follows an old logging road along a brook before evolving into a fairly steep climb over rocks and roots.  We followed this trail as an out-and-back hike with a group of seven-year-olds a few years ago.

A couple of years later, we returned with a large pack of kids for the more challenging Loop Trail.  At the trailhead, someone had posted a tiny scrap of paper with a penciled note reading, “This trail is not for children.”  The note was about two square inches big, torn from a notebook, and not an official warning. I decided that the note must be aimed at parents of very young children.  Our group of 10 or so started climbing up a typical New England trail of roots and rocks, but nothing too hard.

Then, about one mile in, we arrived at The Mountain:  a nearly vertical climb up a  rocky mountain face.  (The climb wasn’t technical, just very very steep and rocky).  At one point, we lost the trail (which is easy to do) and ended up climbing around some rocks hanging over a steep slope. For this reason, the hike is recalled as  “The Death Hike.”

After finding the main trail again, we had to squeeze through a cave-like rock formation known as “Fat Man’s Misery,” a feat that involved shoving day packs through a hole and then squeezing through the narrow opening.  Then more steep climbing.  I could feel steam rising from the adults and floating towards me.

We eventually emerged onto a plateau, where an official warning sign greeted us with a warning about the Loop Trail for anyone considering hiking down.  The kids exulted in their achievement. The clouds of steam dissipated. We finished with a scamper up to the summit, a swim in the pond, and a much easier hike down the Brook Trail to the cars.

Every kid needs a legendary death-defying hike in their repertoire. They still talk about it.

2. Mount Agamenticus in York, Maine

View of the cliffs and pine trees that greets hikers as they emerge from the Witch Hazel Trail onto the summit of Mount A.

View of the cliff and pine trees that greets hikers as they emerge from the Witch Hazel Trail onto the summit of Mount A.

With its 692-feet of altitude, Mount Agamenticus is a little mountain with a big personality, with trails and slopes that sprawl out across thousands of acres of conserved forest.

During World War II, a radar tower–the first of its kind in the United States–was installed on the summit. The forest was cut to make room for barracks to house 25 soldiers of the 551st Signal Battalion. For ten years in the 1960s and 1970s, a ski area drew locals to the mountain each winter.

Today, the former ski slopes shrink a bit more each season as trees and brush take over. On weekends, hikers and casual visitors wander the summit’s open meadow, bikers careen down the rocky trails, and the mountain can feel like a busy place. But even with the people there, the blue ocean shimmers to the east. To the west, the spine of Mount Washington rises above the Ossipee Hills, a spectacular sight any day but especially on a clear spring afternoon, when the sloping ridge of Washington remains covered in snow.

A variety of trails (as well as a road) lead to the summit, and more trails lace the conservation land surrounding the mountain.  Mount A is ideal for younger children (but fun for hikers of all ages), because parents can tailor the length of a hike to the interest and abilities of their kids.

From the parking area at the base of the mountain, hikers can begin on the Ring Trail, and then hike in a loop up one of four side trails to the top, and down another to the bottom.  I like to climb up the rock slabs of the Sweet Fern Trail, where the old ski lift rusts in the woods, and then hike down the Blueberry Ridge Trail to the Ring Trail.

Variations include the Sea-to-Summit hike that I’ve written about before, and hikes out to Second Hill or Third Hill.  If attempting Third Hill with kids, I recommend driving to summit and starting there, as the hike could become a long slog through the woods.  Hikers need a map to get to Third Hill (see link above), as the route is convoluted. It is easy to get lost if not familiar with the area.

3. Dorr Mountain, via the Homans Path, in Acadia National Park

The Homans Path (about a third of a mile) offers granite steps, passages between giant boulders and other interesting features. Hikers wishing to continue up to Dorr Mountain can pick up the Schiff Trail, featuring ladeders that climb a cliff. Many choices for longer and shorter loop hikes in this area.

The Homans Path (about three-quarters of a mile) offers granite steps, passages between giant boulders and other interesting features. Hikers wishing to continue up to 1,270-foot Dorr Mountain can pick up the Schiff Path, which features ladders climb up a short cliff.  Estimated RT on our hike: about 4 miles.  However, hikes can choose from many longer and shorter loop hikes in this area. Be sure to hike with a map, as there are multiple trails and trail junctions.

Okay, so selecting one family hike at Acadia National Park is just about impossible. Acadia is packed with countless great hikes ranging from under a mile to four-to-six miles loops (and longer, of course, but probably too long for most kids).  Boulders, ladders, caves, and views abound.  I’ve hiked all over this park, my favorite in the National Park System because of its combination of wildness, human history, and long-standing traditions such as popovers at Jordan Pond House.

Here I’ll focus on the Homans Path route towards quiet Dorr Mountain, the second highest peak in the park (People climb Cadillac, the highest peak, while Dorr is happily neglected).

The stone steps of the Homans Path were meticulously crafted around 1916, but the trail stopped appearing on maps in the 1940s. Its granite steps disappeared beneath thick layers of moss beds.  Local trail enthusiasts rediscovered the trail in the 1990s, and the Park Service began restoring the path, which officially opened again in 2003.

The Homans Path can be picked up near the Wild Gardens of Acadia, at the Sieur de Monts parking area. (I couldn’t find a good link to an online map).

It’s hard to get truly lost in Acadia, but you can certainly end up a very long distance from your car, a situation that is not fun when hiking with kids.  I recommend obtaining a recent edition of  Tom St. Germain’s Acadia trail guide, A Walk in the Park, which will lead you to many other fabulous family hikes. Gorham Mountain, The Beehive, and Beech Mountain with its fire tower also are among my favorite Acadia hikes.

4. Mount Aziscohos, Lincoln Plantation, Maine

The view from Mount Azisochos.

The view from  3,192-foot Mount Azisc0hos.

Mount Aziscohos, which I’ve mentioned in a post about summer days in Rangeley, is an undiscovered gem.  A 1.75-mile hike brings hikers to an open granite summit with views of more than 25 lakes and countless mountains.  I first took my son here when he was about six and have returned several times.  I’ve never encountered another hiker on the summit with its 360-degree views.

In August, expect a feast of blueberries.  Many years ago, a large forest fire burned on the mountaintop, creating ideal conditions for the berries to flourish.

Down the road in Oquossoc, crowds flock up the muddy trail to Bald Mountain, but few venture north on Route 16 to discover Aziscohos.  I probably shouldn’t even be writing about the mountain, but I guess the 17.7 mile drive from Oquossoc Village discourages the hordes from finding it.

Aziscohos once was a popular hike for 19th and early 20th century summer visitors staying at the Aziscoos House in Wilson Mills, although “popular” is a relative term.  An information sign near at the summit tells hikers that in one summer, a total of 116 hikers signed the log book.  (The Azicoos House ceased operation many years ago, but I believe that the 1830 inn-like structure still stands, as a private residence, in the Magolloway River Valley).

A fire tower on the summit was manned until the late 1960s.  Eventually it toppled over in a hurricane and was removed from the mountain via helicopter by the Maine Forest Service in 2004.

5.  Blueberry Mountain via Stone House Trail, Evans Notch, Maine

I can't find my Blueberry Mountain photos, so I'll end with a photo of a happy hiker pasted on a rock on Mount Aziscohos.

I can’t find my Blueberry Mountain photos, so I’ll end with a photo of a happy hiker vertically pasted on the granite of Mount Aziscohos.

As with Acadia, Evans Notch, which straddles the border of Maine and New Hampshire, is packed with terrific family hikes as well as the  “challenge” hike of the Baldface Circle Trail. Here, I’ll focus on 1,781-foot Blueberry Mountain, as it offers great views, good ridge hiking over barren rocks, the possibility of a dip in Rattlesnake Pool, and an exciting descent down (or climb up) ledges (caution needed).  The hike is about 4.5 miles long.

After parking at Fire Road 16, we took the Stone House Trail to the summit and followed the Blueberry Ridge Trail to the Overlook Loop, and then followed the White Cairn Trail down steep ledges and back to FR 16.

We hiked on a cool fall day, so we didn’t stop at Rattlesnake Pool, but when I do this hike again, I plan to hike up the White Cairn Trail and finish up at the pool for a cooling dip.

The Stone House (a private residence) sits up against the mountain just past the trailhead. It’s an interesting structure, more than 200 years old, and looks out over a flat grassy meadow that once was farmed, but more recently was used as a landing area for small planes, during World War II.

The house (privately owned) dates to the first half of the 19th century, when Abel Andrews built it for his bride, Lucinda Brickett, the daughter of John Brickett, who was one of the earliest permanent settlers in the area. Around 1812, John built the brick farmhouse known as the  “Brickett House,” located a couple of miles up Route 113.

I’ve also written about the nearby Basin Trail, which is undiscovered and beautiful, like Evans Notch in general.

Happy hiking!

Additional resources:

Nature Hikes in the White Mountains, by Robert N. Buchsbaum, is an excellent guide to family hikes throughout the White Mountains of Maine and New Hampshire.

Hikes in and around Maine’s Lake Region, by Marita Wiser, is good resource for hikes in southwestern Maine (Bridgton/Fryeburg/Lovell area).

As mentioned above, Tom St. Germain’s Acadia trail guide, A Walk in the Park, is a great resource for all kinds of hikes in the park.

Lost in Lost (and a little bit late to the party)

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In Season 4, Claire followed the ghost (?) of her father Christian Shephard into the jungle and left her infant son Aaron behind. What's become of her??

In Season 4, Claire Littleton followed the ghost (?) of her father Christian Shephard into the jungle and left her infant son Aaron behind. What’s become of her??

Sometimes I wake up at 3 a.m. and  I can’t stop thinking about them.

Is Claire dead?  Who will take care of her baby?

And what about Jack?  I am sick at the thought that he has become an alcoholic and prescription drug addict.

My heart breaks for Sawyer. On the inside, he is a little boy desperate for his dead mother’s love.  On the island, he finally found a family of sorts.  And now he believes they have all perished.

I am lost in Lost.

Thanks to Netflix, I no longer watch television; I binge.  Binge watching, I’ve learned, can take over my life in the same way that a really good book can. We could eat dinner at the table and talk to each other, but doesn’t it sound like more fun to set out the picnic blanket in the family room and watch Lost?

I know that Lost is yesterday’s news.  The hit sci-fi-ish drama set on a South Pacific island debuted in 2004 and concluded with its grand finale in 2010.  (I don’t know the ending, so please don’t tell me).  I know that Lost gets increasingly convoluted and far-fetched with each season.  I know that the story line includes all kinds of loose strands that dangle and go nowhere.  Like the numbers on Hurley’s winning lottery ticket.  Those numbers keep popping up in random places and for no reason.  They may never be explained.  I know all of this, and I’m still lost in Lost.

There's definitely a connection between Sawyer and Kate, but they both seem too emotionally crippled to work as a couple.

There’s definitely a connection between Sawyer and Kate, but they both seem too emotionally crippled to work as a couple.

As with any story, the characters are to blame.  I’ve become attached to them.  Sometimes I dream about these people.  I know them well, but they remain mysterious.

Kate is strong and independent, but emotionally crippled.  Will she ever be able to sustain a relationship?  And with whom will she end up, Dr. Jack Shephard (who has his own issues), or former con artist James “Sawyer” Freeman? I can see why she has a powerful attraction to Sawyer, but I don’t see them lasting.  I hope she’ll give Jack another chance, if he conquers his demons.

Even before I knew he was the leader of the "Others," Ben made me cringe, but he's kind of grown on me; he's always got a plan and it's interesting to see what he will come up with.

Even before I knew he was the leader of the “Others,” Ben made me cringe, but he’s kind of grown on me; he’s always got a plan and it’s interesting to see what he will come up with.

Even weak-chinned Ben Linus has grown on me.  Yes, he is evil and manipulative, but he is always interesting, especially when he breaks out of his sociopath mode.

John Locke is a pendulum, unsure if he is born leader destined to for greatness, or a small-minded pathetic middle-aged man with no life.  Which way will he ultimately swing?

And how in the world did Sayyid Jarrah end up becoming Ben’s on-call assassin?

But it’s not just the people. I’m also compelled to the couch by the ready availability of the next episode.  We can stay in this world for as long as we want to.  A summer of re-runs won’t break the fictional spell.  If I had watched Lost as a “weekly” event, I would have quit watching after season 4, when only 14 episodes were made.  I know that if I had to wait weeks and months for the next episode, I would lose interest, find other things to do.  In general, I don’t watch a lot of TV, so after a while I would forget to turn the set on.

Television bingeing, I’ve realized, provides good fodder for family conversations. Sure, we could talk about politics or the Russian invasion of Crimea, but those conversations wouldn’t be as rich, or last as long. With Lost, we have this entire world to gossip about, without hurting anyone’s feelings.

We have endless conversations about the most “killable” characters, those who might die in the next season.  Sawyer, we’ve decided is killable, since he has no family and little to go back to. But I hope he survives, although I don’t know what will become of him if he leaves the island.  He’s grown so much during these months on the island.  I doubt that he wants to return to his con-man lifestyle after all he’s been through, but he only has an 8th grade education and no professional skills.  What will be he do back home?

Now, as spring calls us out of hibernation (although it did snow on April 16), we are immersed in season five.  The Oceanic Six are home.  Ben says they have to return to the island to save the others.  The plot has become more and more far-fetched.  It feels a bit like nobody expected the show to last this long and the writers were just trying to keep it going for the ratings, but I don’t care.

I think Jack Shephard will pull it together and do whatever it is the writers want him to accomplish in Season 6.

I think Jack Shephard will pull it together and do whatever it is the writers want him to accomplish in Season 6.

I want Sawyer to know that Kate is alive and well, that his large friend Hurley may live in an alternate reality but is still the same sweet Hurley.  I want somebody to find Claire and reunite her with her baby Aaron, even if doing so breaks Kate’s heart. I want Charlie to come back from the dead.

But bingeing is full of sweet sorrow.  I know it won’t last.  The series will end. Now that we are in season five, every episode feels like a small death.

From this point forward, we’re going to stretch out our viewing.  If we get a rainy Saturday, we are NOT going to watch three episodes.  Maybe just two.  After season five, The Seal (my son) wants to take a two-week break before season starting season six, so that the end doesn’t come too soon.

When we’ve finished the final episode, we’ll emerge from the family room and blink in the bright sun of May.  I’ll feel a bit wrung out, but the intensity of my relationship with these people will fade over time.  It will be a while – probably next fall – before I start something new, as I’ve learned that in bingeing, I have to let the intensity diminish before watching another series.

Next up  in our lineup is The Seal’s choice, The Walking Dead, a zombie apocalypse series now wrapping up its fourth season (about 64 episodes, with another 16 to come next year). I could be wrong, but I don’t see myself falling hard for zombies.

That’s okay, I’ll be on the rebound.  I’m looking forward to starting something serious, maybe next winter, with the 62 episodes of Breaking Bad.  I could use a fling in between.

Tiny travel, big world at the Peabody Essex Museum

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I call this blog The Maniacal Traveler because I have a mania for travel in all its forms.  Visiting museums, wherever they are, is a sort of super-condensed travel, or tiny travel. The Peabody Essex Museum – established by the sea captains of Salem, Massachusetts in 1799, before the notion of a museum even existed — is a tiny travel dream because of its rich history, its amazing collection, and its innovative and quirky special exhibits.

Case in point: Recently, I pulled The Seal out of school to travel to a world of guitar-playing zebra finches in the special exhibit, from here to ear, by French artist Céleste Boursier-Mougenot.

In the exhibit, 70 or so zebra finches fly and flit around a large space and land on various Gibson Les Paul and Thunderbird bass guitars set on posts about three and a half feet off the ground.  When the finches perch and peck on the guitar strings, they make music, of a sort, in a fascinating display of human-animal collaboration.

When we visited, the birds were landing on guitars in singles and the occasional pair, and not in a flock as pictured here. A museum staffer told us they are unpredictable in their behavior, but tend to be the most active when just a few people are in the room (photo from PEM website).

This museum photo shows the birds gathering on the guitar. When we visited, the finches landed in ones or twos on the various guitars, producing some interesting twangs. At one point, a bird pecked at a string, producing something akin to a song. A museum staff member explained that sometimes the birds are more interested in perching and pecking than other times, but what they choose to do is very random (photo from PEM website).

This exhibit, a perfect hook for getting a teenager into the PEM, was pure delight.  After a 30-minute wait, we were led into the aviary-like space where the zebra finches flit about, hang out in their small basket condos, or hop around on the floor.  At times I had to be careful not to step on a bird, although I’m guessing that the finches are adept at avoiding feet.

Finches flew so close to my head that I could feel the wind generated by their flight on my cheek.  At one point, a female pecked at my leather shoes and, finding them hospitable, hopped onto the top of my foot, and began to groom herself.  She hung out there for about five minutes, while a group of males clustered below and chirped for her attention.

No filming or photos of the exhibit are permitted, but this clip from a similar exhibit that Boursier-Mougenot mounted at the Barbican Centre in London shows the birds in their most active mode:

I’m sorry to say that this special exhibit ends on April 13 (and the free-but-timed tickets have been sold out on weekends for a long time), but I will look for Celeste Boursier-Mougenot  and birds in the future, wherever they may land.

I especially liked how the exhibit challenges our ideas about “art.” We often say that we want “out-of-the-box thinking” to build things and solve problems, but when we encounter  such thinking in the world of art, we often dismiss it as gimmick or nonsense. Kudos to Boursier-Mougenot  and his birds for their playful work in breaking the boundaries of artistic boxes.

A related exhibit, “Beyond Human: Artist-Animal Collaborations,” remains open through September. This exhibit features the work of photographer William Wegman, well-known for his whimsical photos of his Weimaraner dogs with costumes and props, as well as that of more obscure artists who do things like work with hissing cockroaches that “paint pictures” or play a Japanese flute in harmony with howling wolfs.  (The artists adhere to specific ethical guidelines in working with their animal collaborators).

William Wegman's "Platform Shoes", 2008, (PEM website).

William Wegman’s “Platform Shoes”, 2008 (PEM website).

My favorite here was German artist Corinna Schnitt’s short video of a floor-level view of animals mingling in the her living room: cows, goats, a donkey, ducks, a parakeet, a cockatoo, a rabbit, and the family cat.  In the background, a llama seemed to be raiding the kitchen.  The exhibition note explained the video might stimulate us to think about our own interactions in similar spaces.

I’m not sure if the film made me think more deeply about mingling at a cocktail party, but it sure was fun.  The ducks seemed like little busybodies, butting into the business of the goats and disturbing the zen of the rabbit.  The cow, frankly, seemed out of her element, especially when she tried to horn in on a conversation between two goats.  The cat calmly sat on a chair, perhaps observing the behavior of her fellow creatures, or perhaps wishing they would all go home.  Now that I think about it, I have been to a few parties like that.

The collections at the PEM originally were generated by the 18th and 19th century world travels of Salem’s sea captains, and include art and artifacts the Far East, the South Pacific, and the Alaskan coast that were preserved and cataloged long before any other Western institution recognized these items as art.

Sir William Pepperrell, painted by John Smibert (sometimes Smybert) in 1746.

Sir William Pepperrell, painted by John Smibert (sometimes Smybert) in 1746.

For me, there’s something amazing and wonderful about looking at art or objects that connect me to the distant past. (I wish I could touch them, but understand why I can’t). In the first floor American Art gallery, the massive 1746 John Smibert portrait of Sir William Pepperrell, the hero of 1745 siege of Louisbourg and  a one-time “king of Kittery,” took my breath away, even if the gallery security guards drew a blank when I asked where his portrait was located. William who?

William had stood for this portrait, had looked at it, had touched it.  At one point, the portrait had hung (I think) in his home–just down the road from my house! And now I was meeting it, in the flesh (in a manner of speaking).

The Yin Yu Tang Chinese house at the PEM deserves its own post, but I will mention it here.  Almost by happenstance, in the late 1990s, when the Museum had an unusual  opportunity to purchase, transport, and rebuild a 200-year-old traditional village merchant’s house, they grabbed it, as part of an ongoing effort to facilitate cultural understanding of China.

In the late 18th century, the house had been carefully assembled in a very complex Lego-like fashion, with each piece carefully labelled.  In 1997-98, museum staffers and their Chinese collaborators carefully disassembled the house down to the last timber, tile, and brick, then transported it in 19 containers to Japan, then to New York, and then by truck to Salem, where it was rebuilt (over several years time) on the Museum grounds. It opened to the public in 2003.

Yin Yu Tang reflects 200 turbulent years of Chinese history, right down to a circa 1960s small speaker that was installed by the government in one of the main rooms to broadcast news and propaganda to the occupants several times a day.

Two lion carvings on the front of the house, intended to ward off evil spirits, were deliberately defaced by the owners during the Cultural Revolution of the late 1960s so as not to attract the attention of authorities who had outlawed such carvings as superstitious.

A wealthy and unloved relative who had taken over certain rooms as payment for a debt was relegated to the second floor after the Communists gave his rooms to two peasant families.  This man, disliked by his relatives for his mean-spirited personality and castigated as an evil “landlord” by the Communists, died of hunger in the house during the famine of 1960.

The website devoted to Yin Yu Tang offers a great preview as well as detailed information about the house, its inhabitants, and the disassembly/reconstruction process.

Thus, in one day, I traveled to a world of esoteric music and animal art, to colonial Kittery, and to China, and even made a quick stop in California circa 1920-1965, to an exhibit on the art and influence of California design.  I spent two hours (roundtrip) in my car, and, thanks to my library pass, $10 on admission fees (kids under 16 are free).  A big world for tiny travel and a good day’s of journey for a maniacal traveler.

Jill Kinmont, my forgotten hero

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I remember the swishing sound of skis as she pulled up in front of the camera. Blond hair,  blue eye, a big smile.

“My name is Jill Kinmont, and I ski!” she announced, providing both an introduction and an implicit invitation to a 13-year-old girl:  “How about if you join me?”

It was 1975, and I had just met skier Jill Kinmont, as played by the actress Marilyn Hassett in the television movie, The Other Side of the Mountain.

Jill Kinmont on the January 31, 1955 cover of SI.

Jill Kinmont on the January 31, 1955 cover of SI.

In 1955, Jill Kinmont was the premier woman skier in the U.S. and almost a sure bet for the Olympics.  With her ever-present smile, good looks, and sunny personality, Jill was the darling of the ski world.  On January 31, 1955, Sports Illustrated featured her on its cover, which in itself is pretty amazing.  (Aside from its bathing suit issue, how often does SI feature a woman athlete on its cover today?)

But three days before the magazine hit newsstands, Jill’s Olympic dreams died at Alta, Utah, when she crashed into a tree during a race and broke her neck. Jill was paralyzed from the shoulders down, and would remain in a wheelchair for the rest of her life.

In the mountains this spring, I’ve been thinking about Jill, almost 40 years after I “met” her through the television movie and an “as-told-to” book originally titled A Long Way Up: The Jill Kinmont Story (but later retitled The Other Side of the Mountain).

The Other side of the MountainI didn’t grow up in a skiing family. Even if we’d had the money for skiing, my parents weren’t skiers.  But after seeing and reading The Other Side of the Mountain, I knew I HAD to start skiing.

Even though Jill’s ski career ended with a terrible fall, she made skiing seem like something thrilling and liberating.  Her passion for the sport was infectious. Like her, I wanted to fly down those slopes and feel the wind rushing through my hair.  I didn’t want to lean in and become a corporate executive or president.  I wanted to lean into the snow and become Jill Kinmont.

That winter, when our church began offering ski trips to Vermont, I was the first to sign up.  Two or three times each season, forty teenagers and Father Brown packed into a rented school bus and pulled out of the parking lot at 6 a.m. for the three-hour trip to Mount Hogback, Vermont (now one of the many “Lost Ski Areas of New England”).

Very few of us knew how to ski. None had ever taken lessons. But, wearing our jeans and winter coats, we would snap into our rented skis and plummet down the trails at Hogback.

At least one kid came home from each trip wearing a cast or splint on an arm or leg.  I think Father Brown must have spent most of his ski day at the first aid station or the emergency room in Brattleboro.

At our junior high, Mr. Hannigan and Mr. LeVangie organized a ski club that provided another opportunity for sailing down mountains, at places like the now-defunct Tenney Mountain.  By high school, we were ready for the big leagues: overnight ventures to Mount Orford in Quebec and to Sugarloaf, Maine.  By then, we had learned to ski (although usually not well), so the teachers could ski rather than take kids to the emergency room.

Skiing had an almost sacred appeal to many teenagers in our mostly blue-collar section of town.  Families were large and houses small.  Skiing was freedom, wild and uncluttered.   We loved it, even when we broke our arms and legs.  A cast was a badge of honor.

Lacking the required athletic ability as well as ready access to skiing, I never did become an Olympic skier. But today, forty years after my encounter with Jill, I still can’t wait to snap into my skis.

Still, every time I go to a ski area, I continue to be amazed that this industry exists: that thousands of people are willing to spend money to go to very cold places to sail down steep mountain slopes, with no seat belt.  If skiing wasn’t already established, and you tried to sell the idea on Shark Tank, the sharks would laugh you out of the studio.

Some criticize skiing as elitist, expensive, and environmentally unfriendly. There is some truth to all of that, but anyone who skis on a regular basis knows that skiers come from all income brackets (although, admittedly, the crowds aren’t very racially or ethnically diverse). Skiers become minimum-wage ski bums to pursue their passion, or they sleuth out deals and brown-bag it.  Like travelers, skiers will spend their last dime on a lift ticket and not regret it.

Today, when I read about Jill Kinomnt’s life, I am struck by how young she was — just 17 — when she was injured.  Although she vowed to walk and ski again, it didn’t happen.  I wonder what moments of sadness The Other Side of the Mountain overlooked, and how Jill mourned the loss of that freedom.

Jill Kinmont Boothe died at age 75 in February 2012, in Carson City, Nevada.   Although she endured many losses in her life, she lived a rich full life.  She became a reading teacher and an artist.  She attended ski events at her “home” mountain, Mammoth, in southern California, and at other places. She continued to smile.

Some might view Jill’s accident as a cautionary tale of what happens to a girl when she pushes too close to the edge.  I never did.  Instead, Jill’s story was an invitation to pursue passions. Take risks.  Dare to to do things.

She is my forgotten hero.

Thinking about Jill on a recent afternoon at Bethel's Sunday River, which will probably be open with good conditions until early May. Note lack of gloves!

Thinking about Jill on a recent afternoon at Bethel’s Sunday River, which will probably be open with good conditions until early May. Note lack of gloves!

Additional information:

Read more about Jill in her 2012 obituary in the Los Angeles Times.  Also, her one-time coach, and the founder/developer of Mammoth Mountain, Dave McCoy, has a wonderful collection of photos at his website, Dave McCoy Photography.

 

March Madness: Torture by Thin Mint

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It's March and that means it is Thin Mint season.

It’s March and that means Thin Mint season.

Girl Scouts are scarce back here in the woods, but last week I scored a case of Thin Mints after following a trail of crumbs on social media.  I met up with Heather in a parking lot behind the local school (not a mint-free zone), forked over the cash, and brought my stash home.

Now those Thin Mints are torturing me.  Their chocolate sugary goodness are the perfect complement to morning coffee.  The refreshing mint cleanses the palate after lunch or supper.  These small treats fit the bill for a late night dessert if I am craving something sweet.

But I will not eat them.

I have already fallen off the bandwagon on caffeine, gluten, dairy and alcohol.  I will not give in to sugar, even in Thin Mints.

I bought my Thin Mints for tradition. It’s March.  For almost fifty years, I have eaten Thin Mints in March, the peak of the Girl Scout cookie-sales season.   For most of his entire life, my son has eaten Thin Mints in March.  We have our traditions and must maintain them  –even if doing so means several weeks of torture by Thin Mint as the supply steadily diminishes.

I have sworn off Thin Mints as follow-up to a “whole foods cleanse” I recently completed.   I wanted to shake things up with my eating habits.  Maybe lose a few of the pounds that stealthily creep on year after year.  Learn some new tricks that might help me to sleep better and feel more energetic.  In doing so, I might eliminate all the fun in life, but maybe I could take up gambling.  Somebody’s got to support all those new casinos opening in New England this year.

Although my husband says the color is unappetizing, this chocolate-y protein-packed smoothie filled me up during my week long cleanse. No sugar, dairy, or other evils. And it is delicious! For the recipe, see the bottom of the post.

Although my husband says the color is unappetizing, this chocolate-y protein-packed almond-milk smoothie filled me up during my week long cleanse. No sugar, dairy, or other evils. And it is delicious!

Except for the caffeine piece, the whole foods cleanse seemed reasonable:  Follow a whole-foods diet for a week, with a focus on eating more fruits and veggies. No gluten, dairy, alcohol, sugar or caffeine.  No processed foods.  After a week, I could start adding foods back in.

The idea behind the cleanse isn’t to transform everyone into gluten-free teetotalers, but to eliminate toxins from the body and nudge participants into making small changes in diet over time.  Not necessarily to become gluten-free, but to eat less bread and pasta, and more veggies.   Not to permanently swear off Greek yogurt, but to move away from dairy as the only way to dress up coffee or cereal.

Completing the week-long cleanse was easier than I thought.  The biggest challenge was giving up coffee.  I slowly had been moving towards eating less bread and pasta anyway, and had replaced milk, for the most part, with almond milk.   And although I love a daily glass of red wine, I’d been having trouble sleeping for a long time, and my doctor suggested trying to skip the evening wine.  Instead, I’d switched to a nightly wine glass filled with tart cherry juice, which my doc said might help me sleep better.

During the week, I felt tired in the morning from lack of coffee. By evening, however, I usually felt more energetic than usual.

Although I am inclined to be a skeptic about the health claims of various programs and diets, I think I benefited from the completing the cleanse.  I am not waking up at 3 a.m. and tossing and turning until 6.  And although I’m again drinking my morning coffee, I’m now only dabbling in gluten, dairy, and alcohol (which is kind of the point).

However, after finishing the cleanse, I decided to more or less permanently give up sweets and sugar, except as a very rare treat.  No more afternoon cookies or the occasional doughnut. The Hershey Kisses in the closet would go in the trash.  The cleanse taught me that I don’t really crave sugar. I don’t need it, the way I need my coffee.

But Thin Mints–they are small.  They are a treat.  They call to me.

Each day, I pack two or three into my son’s lunch box.  If you know that middle-age means a barren existence of no Thin Mints, it’s best to make sure your child gets to eat them now.

Glaciers will melt and sea levels will rise. Wars may be fought for oil.  China may call in its loans to the U.S. government and the economy may collapse.  But at least my child will have memories of Thin Mints.

Perhaps it would be better to have no memory of Thin Mints at all, than to be tortured by the memory of their minty sweetness.

Perhaps eating Thin Mints would make a better memory than one of being tortured by the memory of eating Thin Mints.

Do I want to live in a world where my relationship with Thin Mints ends with the memory of torture by Thin Mint?

It’s the end of March.  A nor’easter is on a path to hit the coast with several inches of snow.

I’m going to make a caffeine-gluten-sugar-dairy-alcohol-free smoothie and consider my options.

Another benefit of ordering a case of Thin Mints is that your cat gets a new box to add some excitement to his dull house-bound life.

Another benefit of ordering a case of Thin Mints is that your cat gets a new box to add some excitement to his dull house-bound life.

P.S.

I completed my whole foods cleanse with the guidance of health coach Kate Kennington at GLOW Body Work.

This recipe for a Raw Banana Cacao Breakfast shake is sweet, filling, and full of protein.  The key ingredient is the cacao.  Bananas can be fresh or frozen, and you omit or add the dates as you wish.  You can also add protein powder for more protein.

Chia seeds, which apparently are full of omega 3s and other good stuff, swell up and create a sort of pudding when they are soaked, so I think including them in the smoothie contributes to a feeling of fullness.

 

 

When the cold fails, try the warmth

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Five things to do instead of skiing during New Mexico’s worst drought ever

I am probably the only person in the United States who was disappointed by snowfall totals this winter.  Specifically in New Mexico, where we made plans for a sunny ski trip in February (see here for more) .  When we arrived, the snowfall total from January to mid-February at Taos Ski Valley was a skimpy (by mountain standards) 39 inches. By contrast, average annual snowfall at TSV is 305 inches.  So we did a quick turnaround in our minds, from ski trip to road trip.  Here’s a sampler of the fun.

1. Visit Taos Pueblo

Although in a constant state of rebuilding, the pueblo at Taos Pueblo has been inhabited for more than 1000 years. Now that's history!

Although in a constant state of rebuilding, the mud brick pueblo at Taos Pueblo has been inhabited for more than 1000 years.  The Pueblo is considered the oldest continuously inhabited community in the U.S. Now that’s history!

Taos Pueblo, home of the Taos Pueblo people,  is one of the few UNESCO World Heritage historic/cultural sites that is also a living, breathing community, although the winter population drops in the Pueblo drops to about 100 people.  (Many more dwell in modern homes on the surrounding tribal land).

Although residents no longer enter and exit their homes through holes in the roofs (doors have been added), the Pueblo has neither electricity or running water. Water is hauled from the stream that runs through the Pueblo.

Residents no longer enter and exit their homes through holes in the roofs (doors have been added), but the Pueblo lacks both electricity or running water. Water is hauled from the stream that runs through the Pueblo. Living here is not for the faint of heart.

 

The church in the Pueblo was built in xxx, after the Spanish-built church was destroyed in XX.

The San Geronimo Church in the Pueblo was built in 1850, after U.S. Army destroyed the Spanish church that dated to 1706.  The Spanish built the first San Geronimo in 1619, but this original church was destroyed during the Pueblo Revolt of 1680.

Although the Pueblo welcomes visitors and everyone we met was friendly and hospitable, the Pueblo people guard their heritage. Visitors are welcome at rituals and ceremonies, but absolutely no photos are allowed during these events.  Brochures and other materials remind visitors not to interrupt ceremonies with questions or comments.

Today the Pueblo is striving for a balance between cultural tourism and community preservation, but for most of their history, what the Pueblo people most wanted was to be left alone. Although not warriors by tradition, they were definitely willing to fight for the right to self-government.

The Pueblo people were conquered by the Spanish around 1615, but revolted twice, in 1640, and then again during the 1680 Pueblo Revolt that spread through all of New Mexico’s pueblo communities. They held off the Spanish for 16 years before being defeated in 1696.  Later, in the 1770s, repeated attacks on the pueblo by the Comanche led the Pueblo people to seek Spanish protection.  The Comanches also scared the hell out of the Spanish and prevented expansion of their empire, but Spanish soldiers were able to protect Taos, a small island of Spain in a vast land ruled by the Comanche.  Lots of history happening out here in the West while the American Revolution was heating up in Boston.

The site of the 1706 San Geronimo Church. The church was destroyed during xxx by the U.S. Army during the second Pueblo revolt.

The site of the 1706 San Geronimo Church. In 1847, the U.S. Army destroyed the church, where women, children and elderly had taken shelter, in retaliation for the murder of New Mexico territorial Governor Charles Bent. Bent was killed by a group of townspeople and Native Americans during an attempted revolt against the U.S. government, which had just taken control of New Mexico during the Mexican-American War.

2. Check out the Rio Grande Gorge Bridge formerly known as New Mexico’s Bridge-to-Nowhere

View of the Gorge from the bridge.

View of the Rio Grande Gorge from the bridge, 650 feet above the river.

Just a few miles outside of Taos, the Rio Grande Gorge Bridge spans a narrow canyon carved by the river.  When the three-span steel continuous-deck-truss structure was completed in 1965, the feds ran out of funds to build a road, so until the 1970s, when U.S. Route 64 was rerouted through Taos, the bridge was called the Bridge to Nowhere.

The bridge definitely goes somewhere today–Route 64 ends at the Four Corners of New Mexico, Colorado, Arizona and Utah–but we didn’t follow that road.  We did take in the amazing views and hiked for a mile or so on the West Rim Trail that hugs the gorge for nine miles (18 miles RT).  It was great to be out hiking in the scrubland in mild temperatures.

After our visit to the Gorge Bridge, we traveled by car and foot to the bottom of the Gorge.

After our visit to the bridge, we traveled by car and foot to the bottom of the Gorge in search of hot springs.

3. Soak in natural hot springs

Not sure if I really want this photo of me in my bathing suit on the Internet, but the hot springs sure were nice. The springs are clothing-optional and most opt out, but teenagers and nude parents do not make a good match.

I’m not sure if I really want this photo of me in my bathing suit on the Internet, but Black Rock Hot Springs sure were nice. The springs are clothing-optional and most opt out, but teenagers and nude parents do not make a good match.

After our hike along the Gorge, we used a combination of local directions and iPhone GPS (never to be completely trusted in rural areas) to navigate our way on a rough dirt road to the John Dunn Bridge and the Black Rock Hot Springs.

Although not that far from the homes of Arroyo Hondo, the bottom of the Gorge felt very isolated and a little bit spooky.  I reminded myself that these hot springs are well-known to locals and likely to be populated by mellow bathers rather than Deliverance-style killers.

We did run into a few naked people, but they weren’t carrying spears, and were quite friendly and polite.  After they finished their soak (the pool was pretty full of people), we took our turn and enjoyed sitting in the 97 degree water while the Rio Grande flowed past us on its way to the Mexican-American border.  Eventually, a local mom and her four-year-old daughter joined us, thus quelling any lingering notions that a drug-addled maniac was about to burst forth from behind a rock.

Memories of Charles Manson mingled with those from the movie Easy Rider to fuel my paranoia.  The scene in which Dennis Hopper and Peter Hopper go skinny dipping with two girls from a hippie commune was filmed at nearby Stagecoach Springs Hot Springs (also called Manby Hot Springs).  Although nothing chilling occurs in that particular scene, the audience senses impending danger as the two men continue on their journey.  Fortunately, from our hot spring pool, we had a clear view of the trail to the parking spot and would at least spot the killers before they sprang upon us.

The commercial hot springs at Ojo Caliente also looked tempting and everyone recommended them, but we decided against more driving on a hot springs quest and opted for soaking in the hot tub at our rental.  Something to leave for the next visit.

4. Hike Devisadero Peak in the “off-season”

On the Deviserado Loop Trail (about five miles and fairly easy), we had great views of Wheeler Peak, New Mexico's highest at 13,159 feet. If we had been better prepared for hiking, we probably could have completed the trek up to Wheeler. Typically the mountain would be drenched in snow at this time of year.

On the Deviserado Loop Trail (about five miles and fairly easy), we had great views of Wheeler Peak, New Mexico’s highest at 13,159 feet. If we had been better prepared for hiking, we probably could have completed the trek up to Wheeler. Typically the mountain would be drenched in snow at this time of year.

Relaxing at the summit in a grove of pinon and juniper trees. Someone built these Adirondack chairs from rocks. The chairs were a bit chilly, but we didn't mind.

Relaxing at the summit in a grove of pinon and juniper trees. Someone built these Adirondack chairs from rocks. The chairs were a bit chilly, but we didn’t mind. Back in Maine, we call these temps “spring.”

“Devisadero” means “lookout point” or place. The Pueblo Indians once used the great views from the peak to stand guard against Apache raiders.

During the spring, summer, and fall, hikers and mountain bikers pack the trail, but only a few hardy hikers, bundled up in jackets, hats, and mittens, were out on the 40 degree-ish morning that we climbed the mountain. We had the 8,304-foot summit to ourselves.  It wasn’t really warm enough for shorts, but my son dons them whenever the temps top 40, hence his nickname, “The Seal.”

5. Find your way to Tent Rocks National Monument.

Some of the so-called "tent rocks." Millions of years ago, volcanic eruptions left a 1000-foot thick layer of pumice, ash and tuff deposits, which have gradually eroded to form these conical hoodoos and other formations.

Some of the so-called “tent rocks.” Millions of years ago, volcanic eruptions left a 1000-foot thick layer of pumice, ash and tuff deposits, which have gradually eroded to form these conical hoodoos and other intriguing formations.

On our last weekend in New Mexico, a late-arriving email tip sent me to the map to look for Tent Rocks National Monument.  I am soooo glad we found this surreal place, which had me looking for Hobbits and wondering if a dragon might slither around a corner.

Playing in the slot canyons of Tent Rocks. During a heavy rain, these canyons become raging streams.

Playing in the slot canyons of Tent Rocks. During a heavy rain, these canyons can become raging streams.

At Tent Rocks, we hiked along a sandy trail that led past hoodoos with rocks balanced on their points; slot canyons with walls that rose hundreds of feet; and an ancient cave where someone camped out hundreds of years ago.  Eventually we climbed to a high plateau for great views.

Tent Rocks is another “middle-of-nowhere” place, but only about 40 miles from Albuquerque, so it was quite busy with hikers of all stripes and ages when we visited.  Be sure to bring water on your trip (or fill up at the gas station/sub shop/store in the tiny town of Cochiti Lake), as no water is available at Tent Rocks.

 

Okay, my subtitle reads “five things to do,” but I need to highlight one more item for the list:  Relax.

Lounge around at the rental.  Watch sunsets.  Read books.  Surf on the internet and read more about the Southwest in Travels with The Blond Coyote, by New Mexico-based Mary Caperton Morton,who travels all over the United States living in a tiny TearDrop trailer.

Plan your next trip.  Forget the skis, remember the sunscreen.  Rinse, and repeat.

Pueblo cat, outside one of the small gift shops. Internet cats get lots of love, I've learned!

Pueblo cat, outside one of the small gift shops. Internet cats get lots of love, I’ve learned!

Sources and resources

Directions to natural hot springs in the Taos vicinity.

Trail maps for Deviserado Peak

More info on Kasha-Katuwe Tent Rocks National Monument (Take note: no dogs allowed).

The boys howl, and I crack the whip

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This teddy bear was innocent until the boys transformed him into something evil.

This teddy bear was innocent until the boys transformed him into something evil.

As the toxic smell of spray paint drifts up from the basement and splotches of red paint dry on my hardwood floor, I ask myself, how is it possible that men still rule the world?

For the past seven years, I have coached a group of kids, most of them boys, in Odyssey of the Mind, a creativity/problem-solving program that coaches love to hate.  This year, for the third time, I’m coaching an all-boy team of four seventh graders and a sixth grader.  The boys are developing a skit about a traveler who visits an unknown place which he perceives as a threat to his community; the skit includes a set that moves without direct human power.

I’ve known these boys since they were six or seven years old.  I know them well.  They love PVC pipe, spray paint, and explosions, real or imaginary.  They also love the idea of winning–but only if they don’t have to work too hard.  Instead of “thinking out of the box,” they often struggle to think their way out of a paper bag, mostly because they can’t be bothered.

Odyssey of the Mind has taught me that when I retire, I definitely don’t want to spend my time “working with children.”  These boys often drive me crazy.  They bang hammers on dining room tables.  They leave hot glue guns burning on plastic tarps.  They splatter paint and paper maché mixture all over the floor.  

The purple glitter lumps are rock candy crystals. The yellow lumps are corn cobs. The mess is 100% middle school boy.

The purple glitter lumps are rock candy crystals. The yellow lumps are corn cobs. The mess is 100% middle school boy.

The boys have progressed/matured a little bit from last year.  So far, no one has shut my cat in a box and forgotten about him.  Pencil hurling mostly has stopped.  The kid who used to pick up anything dangerous (a two-by-four, a section of pipe) and absent-mindedly swing it around has departed.

Still, I know I can’t leave the boys to their own devices for long, because without supervision, they will take a PVC pipe that I purchased for them and cut into it without taking any measurements, or considering how they will get four cuts from one length.  One will grab a beautiful piece of large cardboard scavenged from a local store for use as a set backdrop, and cut a hole, right in the middle.  They are good at ruining things.

Why cut a readily available smaller piece of cardboard when you can destroy a large piece the team had intended to use as a set backdrop?

Why cut a readily available smaller piece of cardboard when you can destroy a large piece the team had intended to use as a set backdrop?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As the mother of a mild-mannered only son, I am not used to yelling at kids, or even being stern.  But in March, as we get closer to our tournament, I ask the boys if they want me to crack the whip.  I can crack it or not, I explain, but you guys aren’t winning anything if you don’t stop fooling around.  They always say yes, please, crack away.  They know themselves well.  So the filters come off.

“Stop swinging that knife, NOW.”

“Do you really think the judges want to hear about how you want to kill your brother?”

“WHY are you standing with your dirty feet on the backdrop?”

Odyssey is a Do-It-Yourself program for kids.  The rules prohibit adults from telling the kids what to do and from doing things for them.  However, we can teach them skills (this is HOW you use a drill without putting a hole in your eyeball), and we can ask questions that help them to devise solutions.  Early on these questions fall well within the program guidelines:  “How else could you support the structure?”  “How you could create the illusion of an exploding volcano?”

But by mid-March, my questions are more direct, perhaps bordering on the forbidden “outside assistance.”

“Is that really all you are going to do with that set?”

“Which team do you think is going to earn more points, the team that makes creative costumes, or the team that doesn’t bother with costumes?”

“Do you think these unpainted cardboard boxes look like a castle?”

Behold, the golden statue of the Gummy Bear leader. Even I have to admit that the boys did a pretty good job fashioning him from a plastic bottle, nubs of PVC pipe, and a Pokemon ball.

Behold, the golden statue of the Gummy Bear leader. Even I have to admit that the boys did a pretty good job fashioning him from a plastic bottle, nubs of PVC pipe, and a Pokemon ball.

Right now the pressure is on. Every room in my house is full of backdrops, structures built from PVC pipe, and drying paper maché.  Debris from exploding party poppers litters the floor. These are the times that try coaches’ souls, the times we love to hate.

The boys love this program, which is why I continue to coach.  How often do you see teenaged boys gleefully running around pretending to be Gummy Bears?  Or taking pleasure in transforming a stuffed teddy bear from innocent to evil?  Or building a giant’s lair which they secretly hope they can transform into their own personal lair once the competition is over?

Next Saturday, the kids will compete.  Instead of pulling things apart, they will pull it together to work as a team, and pull off a flawless performance.  I know the outcome will be great.  Even so, we may or may not make it to the State competition, or to the World Finals in Iowa.  The girls will probably rule.

But perhaps not.  The boys have a knack for getting the judges to laugh out loud.  While the girls spend hours working on elaborate costumes for a few bonus points, the boys practice the art of hitting the most points for the least work.  Who wouldn’t want that skill?

Also, seventh grade boys who willingly become Gummy Bears don’t care what other people think.  They’re doing what they want to do.  Other people’s expectations or definitions of “cool” do not concern them.  They please themselves, rather than trying to please others.

Maybe these strengths explain why men still the rule the world.  At least that’s what I tell myself, if only to push away the future image of a slacker son working just enough hours making YouTube videos to pay his cell phone bill and contribute a few bucks in room and board for living in his parents’ basement.

Wait–not the basement.  It’s full of cardboard and PVC pipe.  Besides, the WiFi reception down there is terrible.  And the lair slides so easily into the family room with the wide-screen TV.

P.S. Just to be clear: I don’t wish for me to continue ruling the world, or for women to take over—sharing power between the genders is definitely the goal.  I just wonder how this fact is still possible, given my experience in working with these boys.

Drinking coffee and looking for aliens in Roswell, New Mexico

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In Roswell, in need of coffee and a bathroom, we stopped at McDonald’s.  I ordered a cup of Newman’s Own and opened out my wallet.

“Fifty-three cents please,” the cashier said.

Fifty-three cents?  Where in the United States does anyone sell coffee for 53 cents?  Back in 1978, in a nice restaurant, my grandfather loudly complained about paying 50 cents for his coffee.   He expected his cup to cost a dime, but the rest of the family understood that 50 cents was the going rate.

But that was 35 years ago.  Now, here in Roswell:  53 cents.

As I waited for my cup, another customer approached and placed some change on the counter.  “I’ll have the senior coffee,” he told the girl.

Senior coffee?  I looked down at my receipt.  Sure enough, the cashier had charged me the “senior” price for my coffee, with no ID required.  Roswell surely was a place of bizarre happenings.

The initial newspaper article told of a UFO, but the next day another military press release reported that a weather balloon had crashed.

The initial newspaper report told of a UFO, but the next day another military press release reported that a weather balloon had crashed.

Roswell is famous as the town in the-middle-of-nowhere, New Mexico, where something happened in 1947, on an isolated ranch just outside of town.  Exactly what happened, no one knows, or at least no one is telling.  Many believed—and still believe—that a UFO with three or four aliens on board crashed and burned on the scrubby plains outside of town.  The official story from the U.S. military was a crashed weather balloon.  The “Roswell Incident” has made this small city, located 200 miles from anywhere else, an unlikely destination.  Like many others, we had come to Roswell to find out what happened back in 1947.  The senior coffee was—I guess—a bonus.

To get answers, we turned to Dennis Balthaser and his UFO Tour, which, as he informed us, is the #1 Attraction in Roswell on TripAdvisor.  He’s not so popular at Roswell’s International UFO Museum and Research Center, which has banned him from the premises.  I wasn’t surprised when Dennis told us of his banishment, as he struck me as a man of strong opinions.  Sometimes battles rage bigger and longer in small communities than large ones, because the combatants can’t disappear into a crowd.

Dennis was a congenial host in Roswell and full of information about the mysteries of the 1947 "Roswell Incident".

Dennis was a congenial host in Roswell and full of information about the mysteries of the 1947 “Roswell Incident”.

Dennis spent more than two hours driving us around Roswell and out to the former military base where the military might have packed some aliens off to another facility in Dayton, Ohio.

The Roswell Incident occurred on a July night in 1947 when something fell out of the sky. Rancher Mack Brazel found debris from the crash when he went out with his teenaged neighbor to check on his sheep.  He took some of the material back to his shed and then brought a few pieces to show his neighbors, the Proctors.  They suggested that the debris could be the remnants of a spacecraft and told him he should bring the material to the sheriff.

A strange series of events followed.  Major Jesse Marcel, an  intelligence officer for the 509th (Atomic) Bomb Group which was based at Roswell Army Air Field (RAAF), went out to the ranch to investigate.  The Roswell Daily Record, via a military press release, reported as  a flying saucer. But as higher ups got wind of the crash, the story changed.  The next day, the Air Force announced, in a second press release, that the saucer was  actually a weather balloon. To read the entire story of the incident, check out the UFO Museum’s description.

The flying saucer story was quashed and forgotten.  The citizens of Roswell didn’t want to make trouble.  World War II had just ended.  After pushing back Hitler, the military enjoyed unsurpassed support and respect.  Best not to ask too many questions.  Nine years earlier, Orson Welles’s radio broadcast, “The War of the Worlds,” had caused hysteria and panic, with many believing that the fictional drama was an authentic news report.  Why stir up that pot again?

But then came the 1960s, when everything was subject to questions.  In Roswell, residents began to share stories.  Mack Brazel had been warned not to talk, and didn’t.  But the radio station owner said he’d been told that his broadcasting license would be pulled if he reported on the incident.  The local mortician said that the Army had called to inquire about the availability of child-sized coffins.  The sheriff’s two daughters recalled hearing death threats made to their parents.  As the years went on, various military personnel sworn to secrecy began to talk about what they remembered, mostly fragments and bits of information.  Lots of secrecy. Boxes put on planes.  Heads without noses, and slits for mouths.  Shiny materials that could be crushed into a ball and then spring back into their original shape.

Dennis is a man obsessed with finding the truth.  Somebody knows something, but those somebodies won’t with be with us forever.  Many have already died, taking their Roswell secrets with them. Dennis encouraged us to go the Museum, take in more information, and make up our own minds. We shook hands and headed over to the museum on North Main Street.

On the February morning when we visited, the International UFO Museum in Roswell was bustling with people interested in learning more about the Roswell Incident.

On the February morning when we visited, the International UFO Museum in Roswell was bustling with people interested in learning more about the Roswell Incident.

The Roswell UFO Museum mostly consists some hokey alien figures (fun for photos) and  walls covered with newspaper clippings.  Much of the information echoed what Dennis had told us.  But at the Museum, I learned that 1947 had been the summer of UFOs.

On June 24, pilot Kenneth Arnold reported seeing some kind of disc flying at supersonic speeds in the vicinity of Washington’s Mount Rainier.   His report received widespread media coverage.  In the following three weeks, people reported hundreds of UFO sitings all over the country, including a report in Milton, Massachusetts, near my hometown of Weymouth.

These UFO sitings came on the heels of reports from wartime military pilots of seeing glowing orbs floating in the sky, phenomena that were dubbed “foo fighters.” Pilots initially believed that these “foo fighters” belonged to the Germans—that they were some kind of flare or secret weapon—but after the war, German pilots revealed that they too had spotted the orbs.

What were the foo fighters?  An official panel reported that they might have been electrostatic phenomenon, but they didn’t really know.  Was the Roswell Incident the culmination of a UFO hysteria that created a UFO out of thin air?  Did one story beget another until we arrived at a grand finale?  Or were the UFO sitings that summer—and the foo fighters–the explorations of extraterrestrials who had discovered Earth, and the Roswell crash their grand finale?

I don’t know if a UFO landed outside of Roswell.  But after my visit to this off-the-beaten track locale, I’m convinced that something happened in Roswell and that the military didn’t want the public to know exactly what.  Extraterrestrials?  Maybe.  Experimental weaponry or devices related to the atomic bomb, or which monitored Soviet activity? Possibly.  Could the alleged bodies have been human, disabled children or adults?  Sounds far-fetched–and I don’t want to start any rumors—but 1947 was the era of the Tuskegee Study, in which scientists knowingly allowed syphilis to progress unchecked in hundreds of black men so that they could study its effects over time.  Anything’s possible.

Then again, maybe it was a case of too much coffee.  At 53 cents a cup, it’s easy to keep on drinking.

Aliens in Roswell. Pictured here is my son, NOT my grandson. But now I wonder: should I try the senior coffee scam at home and see if I can get away with it? I do have an AARP card.

Aliens in Roswell. Pictured here is my son, NOT my grandson. But now I wonder: should I try the senior coffee scam at home and see if I can get away with it? I do have an AARP card.

Additional information:

According to this 2013 NBC News report, “After 66 years, the Roswell UFO Incident belongs to the ages,” the final report from the U.S. Air Force, in 1997, stated that the  wreckage came from balloon-borne experiments used to monitor Soviet nuclear blasts, and that the bodies were probably crash dummies used to judge the effect of high-altitude falls.  (Both Dennis and the UFO Museum, however, point out that such dummies weren’t invented or used until several years later).

Every July, Roswell hosts the Roswell UFO Festival, which packs this town of 50,000 people with 20,000 guests interested in everything from pure fun to serious research about UFOs.

Another UFO-related event is the Experiencers Speak conference, which is a gathering of people who believe they have been abducted by UFOs. In 2013, the conference was held in Portland, Maine (See Portland Phoenix article, “Alien abductees gather in Portland“).

Exeter, New Hampshire, the home of UFO abductees Betty and Barney Hill, is taking a page from Roswell and trying to develop its own UFO tradition, with the Exeter UFO Festival.

Cat vs. Camel: An epic battle on Mount Washington provides an opportunity to write about Marty

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Marty on his Mount Washington throne (photo by Brian Clark, a former MWOB observer).

Marty on his Mount Washington throne (photo by Brian Clark, a former MWOB observer).

Marty, the Mount Washington summit cat, has been an elusive animal this week, slipping in and out of the Observatory staff quarters only to eat and use the litter box.  Apparently he has a friend who stays in the State Park employee quarters, and that person is working this week, so Marty is spending much of his time next door, playing with a new toy, or maybe hiding from new summit volunteers.

I did manage to snap his photo after he one of the weather observers captured him yesterday for a brief appearance in an educational videoconference with a group of pre-school children.

Marty, the observers tell me, is extremely territorial, and defends his mountaintop kingdom against all other animals, especially dogs, who tend to slink away when confronted with his stare down and hiss.  He even beat up a camel, back in 2009, when Josh the camel walked up the eight miles up the Auto Road with his handlers to stake a claim on being the first camel to climb Mount Washington.  Marty didn’t hurt the camel, but in the showdown between the two, the camel backed off when confronted with Marty’s hiss and arched back.

As the camel settles in for a rest, Marty strides over to show it which mammal rules the mountain. (MWOB photo by Cara Rudio, July 8, 2009).

As the camel settles in for a rest, Marty strides over to show it which mammal rules the mountain. (MWOB photo by Cara Rudio, July 8, 2009).

Marty is the latest in a series of legendary summit cats at the Mount Washington Weather Observatory, going back to 1932, when the staff first brought in a stray cat to control the mice population.  Marty, a Maine Coon, came to the mountain in 2008, from the North Conway Humane Society, after winning the first-ever Mount Washington Mascot Primary.

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Marty racing past the precipitation can, which is used to measure the hourly precipitation on the mountain (Brian Clark photo).

Winter is tough on Marty. His playground is reduced from anywhere he wants to explore to the building that houses the Observatory and the State Park facilities. For an indoor cat,  this space is cavernous, with endless nooks and crannies to explore. For a mountain cat used to living free, the space, I imagine, feels cramped and claustrophobic.  Marty gets anxious and irritates his fur and skin with excessive licking, so now, in the winter, he takes a mild steroid a few times a week to calm his cabin fever.

A great shot, also by Brian Clark, of Marty jumping upon a rail.

A great shot, by weather observer Steve Welsh, of Marty jumping upon a rail.

Former weather observer Brian Clark had a reputation of being the “cat whisperer” and took many wonderful photos of Marty during his time on the mountain; to see more of them, review his Accuweather blog entries, “All About Marty the Cat,” and “My Favorite Pictures Part 4 Summit Cats“.

Marty looks out over Wildcat Mountain.

Marty takes in the view of the Presidential Range (Brian Clark photo).

I hope to get a few more photos of my own of Marty, but I’m a realist. I’m just another one of the legions of Marty fans on the mountain and around the globe (see the MWOB Facebook page, and the number of “likes” any shot of Marty garners). Maine Coons are usually people lovers, but Marty doesn’t cozy up to just anyone.  This cat encounters a constantly changing set of visitors, both in his quarters and outdoors. Although the weather observers are a stable presence, they come and go in their one-week shifts, making it hard for a cat to bond with a best friend. But as I  have been writing this entry, Marty has come out of hiding. After some slinking around, he cautiously hopped onto the couch where I am sitting. Now he is dozing on the cushion next to me, about a foot away. This is day three on the summit; maybe, just maybe, by the week’s end, Marty will call me a friend.

P.S. Later that night, while I was sitting on the couch and watching a movie, Marty settled in a step closer.  I think I even heard him purring.

 

Time travelling, sea to summit, in the woods of York, Maine

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One of my favorite “backyard” walks is the “sea-to-summit” hike from Highland Farm in York to the summit of Mount Agamenticus.  The walk doesn’t actually start at the beach, but at the York Land Trust Highland Farm property, located on a hill overlooking the saltwater marshes of the York River. From Highland Farm, a series of interconnected trails on various parcels of land lead to the summit of Mount A, the highest peak on the coast south of Camden.

On this cloudy but warm fall day, we had lunch on the cliffs above Folly Pond, deep in the woods of York.

On this cloudy but warm fall day, we had lunch on the cliffs above Folly Pond, deep in the woods of York.

This hike through the forest is full of intriguing natural features as well as the ghosts of those who once farmed this land: Bluebirds and blue herons; old cemeteries deep in the woods and granite-walled cellar holes where families lived and died; a scenic overview above an isolated pond; erratic boulders and steep cliffs carved by glaciers; and finally, at the Mount A summit, a view of the sea to the east and Mount Washington (on a clear day) to the west. Not bad for a hike just that begins just a few minutes from my house.

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Old foundations, cellar holes and other remnants of the past in the woods of York.

This fall, on Columbus Day weekend, I completed the “Sea-to-Summit” walk once again with a small group of friends and two active kids.  The distance from Highland Farms to the summit of Mt. A is about five miles, including a small portion on Mountain Road. Hard-core hikers can easily hike to the mountain summit and back, but most people probably will want to spot cars. If you can’t spot cars, just exploring these trails half-way is a great morning or afternoon walk.

When we dropped one car at Mount A at noon, the summit was busy with hikers and families enjoying the foliage and views of the Atlantic Ocean.  But later, deep in the woods, we didn’t see another hiker on the four-mile hike in the woods from Highland Farm to Mountain Road. (We did run into a York police officer patrolling on an ATV, the same guy we had seen the year before, in almost the exact spot, time and day).  The area is great mountain biking terrain, but the trails are not as “discovered” as the trails in the immediate vicinity of Mount A. Mostly, these woods are unpeopled.  While I love my visits to Yellowstone or Acadia National Parks, every time I walk through this forest, I am reminded that beautiful and often more peaceful destinations await discovery in my own neighborhood.

We began the walk at Highland Farm (a farm for generations, until it became a nine-hole course that went bust), with the two boys sprinting ahead to look at the graves in the first of three Junkins family cemeteries on this route, two on the Highland Farm property and a third deep in the woods on land owned by the Kittery and York Water Districts.

The Junkins family first came to York in 1661, when Robert Junkins settled in the part of York known as Scotland, where he built a garrison house overlooking the York River (on what is now Cider Hill Road, I believe).  Junkins was a Scotsman who had fought against Cromwell’s army during the English Civil War.  He was taken prisoner in 1650 and, with 150 others, sold into indentured servitude on a ship headed for Boston.  Junkins was purchased by Valentine Hill of Durham, New Hampshire, and worked for him until the completing the term of his indenture, when he moved to York. (Valentine Hill’s home in Durham is now the Three Chimneys Inn).

The Junkinses multiplied mightily and many still live in the area. They have an entire website devoted to their geneaology and history, the Junkins Family Association, including a more comprehensive (and fascinating) account of how Robert landed in York.  Two of his sons died in an Indian attack in 1714 and the family cradle that rocked these two sons and many other children that followed now sits inside the Old Gaol Museum in York.  I don’t know if Robert walked these lands, exactly, but his descendants did, and I love walking on this trail that shows such visible artifacts of the human past: the gravestones, the stone walls, the foundations and covered wells.

I'm glad to know that someone take care of these graves in the woods. David Junkins was just a babe during the Revolution, but perhaps a veteran from the War of 1812.

I’m glad to know that someone take care of these graves in the woods. David Junkins was just a babe during the Revolution, but perhaps a veteran from the War of 1812.

Jeremy and his friend soon located the oldest grave is the first cemetery, a small well-maintained patch of land surrounded by a wrought-iron fence. Then they dashed off down the Barred Owl trail, where we found the second Jenkins cemetery up on a little knoll.  One small stone marked the grave of a small child.  “What do these initials mean?” Jeremy asked as he pointed towards an even smaller stone.  I explained that the stone was probably the footstone for the headstone, which memorialized a baby’s short life.

We walked on, intersecting with the Kingsbury Trail, which we followed down a small hill to causeway/dam on the swampy edge of Boulter Pond, where an osprey soared above us.  Shortly after entering the forest again, we picked up the “White Trail” (on Water District land) Water District land.   Soon we were deep in the woods, with steep cliffs and piles of rocks looming above us on the eastern side of the trail.

Further on, we spotted a cellar hole, just off the trail, that opens the door to the human past. Who lived here? What did this branch of the Junkins family do to keep body and soul together? When was this home abandoned, or moved to another location?

Within the granite-slab cellar-hole is a small dark chamber constructed from other stones. Was this a root cellar?  A special pen for sheep or other animals?  I wanted to know, but in a way, not knowing makes the structure more intriguing.

A few minutes later, we came upon another cellar-hole, lined with large slabs of cut granite. A couple of hundred yards off the trail, (to the left) is another cemetery, the family cemetery of the particular band of Junkins who farmed this parcel and probably raised sheep.

Sheep were big in New England in the first part of the 19th century and far more profitable than cash crop  farming in the stone-filled soil common to this area. But as the sheep industry in the West expanded, the industry began to decline in Maine, and so did the farms.  This abandoned home that seems so remote once was part of a small community, one that was isolated from the village of York, but existed as a complete small world of Junkinses.

That black lump on the side of the tree trunk is the porcupine inching his way up the trunk.

That black lump on the side of the tree trunk is the porcupine inching his way up the trunk.

“Look, there’s a porcupine,” my friend called out.

The boys immediately dashed up the main trail towards a tree, where a porcupine was inching its way up the trunk.  After reaching an overhanging branch, the animal settled, sloth-like, above our heads.

Although I wanted to show the boys the third Junkins cemetery, we needed to continue on, due to the press of time and daylight.

When the White Trail intersected with the “Yellow Trail”, we took the turn (on “yellow”) towards Mount A, 2.4 miles away.  A few minutes later, I recognized the side trail up to the rise that overlooks Folly Pond.  We climbed uphill, then settled on some smooth stones carpeted with pine needles  to enjoy a picnic lunch and the view of the pond through the pine trees. Steep cliffs drop down to the pond, but the boys were busy on another rock, discussing Minecraft, so I enjoyed my lunch without the hovering possibility of a boy falling overboard.

After lunch, we continued onward, crossing streams, and passing by the berm at the lower end of Folly Pond.Eventually we emerged from the woods onto Mountain Road, where hikers can either turn left and then take a path into the woods to connect with a trail that parallels the road, or turn left along the road. We chose the road and walked on pavement to the base of the mountain, then headed up the mountain towards the Ring Trail.

View of the cliffs and pine trees that greets hikers as they emerge from the Witch Hazel Trail onto the summit of Mount A.

View of the cliffs and pine trees that greets hikers as they emerge from the Witch Hazel Trail onto the summit of Mount A.

Mount Agamenticus offers many routes to its summit (the most direct being the road). The most direct route, from the parking area at the base of the access road, is the Ring Trail to the Witch Hazel Trail.  After 20 minutes of steady uphill hiking, we again emerged from the woods, to a view of a granite cliff topped with a row of pines.  Nearby, the viewing platform offers a view of Mount Washington, but not on this day, as the clouds had rolled in.

We made it, Sea-to-Summit, a great five-mile hike.

We made it, Sea-to-Summit, a great five-mile hike.

We drove a circuitous route — probably 8 or 10 miles — back to our car at Highland Farm. Within a few minutes, we arrived at the parking lot from whence we departed three hours earlier.  In taking the more direct route to the mountain, through the woods, we had become time travellers of a sort. We had visited the past and walked at the same speed the with which the Junkins children once had travelled to school.  It felt strange to return so quickly in our cars at the Farm.  Maybe this “small adventure” wasn’t so small after all.

Notes and Resources.

The Highland Farm property, (see map at this link) owned by the York Land Trust, offers a neat walk all by itself, through fields and woods and along rocky cliffs.  One spring day a couple of years ago, while walking up on the highest part of the land, I was surrounded by an angry bunch of turkey vultures, probably because I was near  nesting site. Watch out for ticks.

Hikers often get lost in the woods surrounding Mount Agamenticus.  Although trail signage has improved over the years, both at Mount A and on the Water Districts’ properties, hikers who are not very familiar with the area should bring a map to avoid trudging many unintended miles. The York and Kittery Water Districts offer a combined map of their properties here.  A map of Mount Agamenticus is here.  Pets must be leashed on these lands.  Hunting is permitted on Water District lands; hikers should wear bright orange during fall hunting season, or better yet, hike on Sundays, when hunting is not permitted.

The York Land Trust offers a history-based hike of this area every so often, which I hope to attend one day, for this walk holds many layers of history beneath its trails.

For more family hikes, see my post, Round up: Five great family hikes in Maine.