A trail ride for Father’s Day

A section of the off-road portion of the 62-mile Eastern Trail that stretches from Kittery to South Portland. About 22 miles are off-road, with plans in the works to complete another off-road stretch from Kennebunk south to Wells.

An off-road section of the 62-mile Eastern Trail that stretches from Kittery to South Portland. About 22 miles of the Trail are off-road, with plans in the works to complete another bike path from Kennebunk to Wells.

The bike bridge across Scarborough Marsh had beckoned to me for several years. Now, on this Father’s Day, we decided to discover it.

At the time (a few years ago), my son was still building confidence as a bike rider and wasn’t too keen on riding the busy roads with non-existent shoulders found in my town and much of southern Maine.  So, we loaded up the car with the bikes, and set out for Thornton Academy in Saco, Maine, where we could park and then ride on an Eastern Trail bike path eight miles to Scarborough.

As a bonus (or maybe a bribe), we planned to finish the day with some rounds of skee ball at the arcade in Old Orchard Beach.

From Saco to Scarborough, the miles flew by on the easy grade of an old railroad bed. As we peddled through a shady of tunnel of trees, I remembered why I love to ride my bike–the feeling of freedom generated by effortless forward momentum.  Other bikers and walkers were using the path, but it wasn’t crowded.  The packed dirt trail attracts mostly families and recreational riders rather than hard-core road bikers, so we didn’t feel intimidated by packs of fast-moving cyclists.

We blinked as we rode out of the woods at Pine Point Road, which the trail crosses and then enters a parking lot for the bridge.  Here, the trail was busy with a mix of walkers, riders, and kids on their first bikes, all drawn by the bridge and the beauty of the marsh.

The eight-ride from Saco to Scarborough culminates in the bridge over the Scarborough River. Currently (2016), the Eastern Trail is raising funds that will close a 1.6 mile gap in the trail so that riders can ride off road continuously to Bug Light in South Portland.

The eight-ride bike path ride from Saco to Scarborough culminates in the bridge over the Scarborough River. Currently (2016), the Eastern Trail is raising funds to close a 1.6 mile gap in the path so that riders can ride off-road continuously from Saco to Bug Light in South Portland.

The trail continued for an additional three miles or so after the bridge. Wild geraniums and buttercups blossomed alongside the path. I easily could have continued on to Bug Light.

High tide at Scarborough Marsh, taken from the pedestrian/bike bridge that crosses the marsh.

High tide at Scarborough Marsh, taken from the pedestrian/bike bridge that crosses the marsh.

But I knew that a 16-mile ride (round-trip) was long enough for a kid, so we turned around and rode back to Saco, on what seemed like faster miles on a downhill grade (although in reality, I suspect the grade shifts up and down all along the trail).

These off-road sections of the Trail are built upon the one-time Eastern Railroad corridor, first constructed in 1842. The views have changed as the forest has grown up around old fields and pasture, but I liked the idea that we were traveling on a path that had carried so many people, and continues to do so today.

Sources and resources

Ambitious riders can ride from Kennebunk to Scarborough on mostly bike path, with a small stretch of road riding from Biddeford to Saco. The Kennebunk to Biddeford stretch is a woods ride, except for the bike-pedestrian bridge that crosses the Maine Turnpike.

To see more of the Eastern Trail, consider signing up for the Maine Lighthouse Ride, an annual September event sponsored by the Eastern Trail Alliance, and which offers riders various route choices, including 25-mile, 40-mile, 60-mile and century rides.  A couple of years back, I signed up for the 40-mile ride, which cycled past a half-dozen lighthouses and over the Scarborough Marsh bridge.  The ride was mostly flat and easy. Next time, I’ll sign up for the 60-mile ride.

Currently, the Eastern Trail Alliance is raising money to build a bridge over the Nonesuch River in Scarborough, so that bikers can ride off road all the way from Kennebunk to Bug Light, South Portland.

The old railroad right-of-way through which the Eastern Trail passes is now owned by Unitil, a New Hampshire-based public utilities company.  Back in the 1960s, Portland Gas Light bought up much of the abandoned Eastern Railroad corridor and installed a natural gas pipeline that still operates today. Read more about the history of the trail here.

 

 

 

Travels on the White Rose Road to Orris Falls

When writer Sarah Orne Jewett stopped by the Littlefield farmhouse in June, 1889, she found Daniel Littlefield, then 68, sitting in his deceased wife’s rocking chair, looking out the window at the same lane on which we walked on a recent Sunday in April.

Although the hike to Orris Falls is a short mile from the trailhead, walkers can get in a good four to five mile hike within the Orris Falls Conservation Area

Although the hike to Orris Falls is a short mile from the trailhead, walkers can get in a good four to five mile hike within the Orris Falls Conservation Area

Littlefield, Jewett observed, had a “large frame…built for hard work, for lifting great weights and pushing his plough through new-cleared land.”

But now, this Civil War veteran, crippled by war wounds, aging, and a lifetime of “undiverted toil,” could no longer do the heavy lifting of farming. Like many in 19th century South Berwick, Daniel and his wife Mercy had lived a hard-scrabble life on their hilly and rock-filled land. They had endured the deaths of infant Izaro, three-year old Eunice, and 22-year-old Henrietta.  Although son Orris stayed on, and daughter Phebe married locally, Daniel and Mercy witnessed the departure of many young people who abandoned family farms and left Maine for better prospects after the Civil War.

But despite the hard living, every farmhouse on what Jewett called the “White Rose Road”  had a white rose bush planted near the door, including that of Littlefields — a small burst of daily joy from June through fall.

Daniel built his farmhouse around 1860 on the foundation of a home built in the 1800s.  In 1889 — and probably long before that — few people passed by the lonely farmhouse, located just over a half-mile off Thurrell Road (Jewett’s “White Rose Road”).

Although we found no sign of the white rose bush, we felt a similar sense of isolation when we explored the Orris Falls Conservation Area.  We saw other walkers, but not many, considering that this April afternoon offered ideal circumstances for exploring these trails, with all the sights and contours of the land fully revealed.

On the old woods road towards Orris Falls.

On the old woods road towards Orris Falls.

When I set out for this hike, I didn’t know about Sarah Orne Jewett’s sketch, “The White Rose Road,” which recounts an afternoon ride through this neighborhood.  After reading it, I was struck by how Jewett’s sketch of an agrarian neighborhood in decline captured the sense I felt of traveling in a lost New England as we wandered through the forest now grown up from the old farm fields.

We began at the Thurrell Road trailhead on the same woods road that Daniel Littlefield and his family rode or walked en route to town, school, or to the closest neighboring house.   About  a half-mile in, we stopped at the Littlefield family cemetery, where Daniel and Mercy are buried along with at least two of their children.

This map from the 1872 Atlas of York County, highlights the isolation of the Littlefield house from its neighbors in South Berwick. Today, visitors may feel an echo of the Littlefields' isolation when they walk to Orris Falls.

This map from the 1872 Atlas of York County  highlights the isolation of the Littlefield house from its neighbors in South Berwick.  Note many of the “old” names still common in southern Maine today. Until World War II, the majority of southern Maine residents consisted of old families descended from colonial era pioneers (Image from trailside kiosk via the Old Berwick Historical Society).

The Littlefield house, now a cellar hole, is just past the cemetery. Daniel and Mercy probably sometimes went for days without speaking to a neighbor, especially during stormy days or intense cold.

A cavity in the foundation of the Littlefield house. I've seen these cavities in other cellar holes in York County and wonder if they were used as a root cellar or for some other purpose.

A cavity in the Littlefield house cellar hole. I’ve seen these cavities in other foundations in York County and wonder if they were used as root cellars or for some other purpose. Daniel Littlefield purchased this land (a 78-acre parcel) for $850 in 1843 and built his home around 1860.  Behind the house are the foundation walls of a large barn. Another large wall is built into the side of the slope that looks out at the beaver pond — almost as if Daniel was intent on building a viewing platform/patio.  But the wall must have served a practical purpose — perhaps flood control. Please leave comments if you have more information.

Continuing on, the trail crosses a wooden footbridge before turning right to Orris Falls, where water was tumbling in a small fall that probably froths large after a heavy rain.   Here, the trail loops back towards Thurrell Road; hikers who wish to continue on to Balancing Rock should backtrack towards the main woods road.

Orris Falls tumbling in April. The Falls are named for Daniel's son Orris, who owned the farm by 1891, when Daniel died. The falls spring from a small gorge and hikers with small children need to watch carefully.

Orris Falls tumbling in April. The Falls are named for Daniel’s son Orris, who owned the farm by 1891, when Daniel died. The falls tumble through a gorge with banks that rise  t0 90 feet, so hikers with small children need to watch carefully.

Continuing on the main trail, we ascended Spring Hill and discovered the Tatnic Ledges, with a pre-foliage view of Mount Agamenticus.  We were beginning to wonder if we had missed the turn-off to Balancing Rock when we came upon a small sign pointing the way.

Balancing Rock, a glacial erratic left by the melting and receding glacier. The Rock is on a short side trail just beyond the legde views of Spring Cliffs.

Balancing Rock, a glacial erratic left by the receding glacier; the Rock in located in a little hollow off the main trail.

After our visit to Balancing Rock, we backtracked to the junction at the Littlefield cellar hole and hiked over to the Big Bump.  Somehow we missed LaChance Point, so that viewpoint will have to wait for next time.

Fifteen years ago (circa 2000), this property was not accessible to the public and was ripe for development. Thanks to the work of many at the Great Works Regional Trust, Orris Falls Conservation Area was preserved through land purchases and conservation easements over private lands  —  an effort that involved years of negotiations regarding multiple parcels of land and various financing arrangements .

It’s hard to imagine that this patch of forest might have become another southern Maine subdivision. I know that people need places to live, but I’m glad that Great Works managed to save this special place so that we can wander here today.

Beyond the LIttlefield homestead, beavers have created a large pond with several dams and beaver houses readily visible.

Beyond the LIttlefield homestead, beavers have created a very large pond with several dams and beaver houses readily visible.

Sources and Resources

For a video visit, see the NHPTV Windows to the Wild episode inspired by this blog post, titled “The Maniacal Traveler“.

Here, the map for the Orris Falls Conservation Area, which is part of the Great Works Regional Land Trust (see the website for a mobile version of the map).

The full text of Sarah Orne Jewett’s sketch, “The White Rose Road,” first published in The Atlantic Monthly, September, 1889, and again in her book, Strangers and Wayfarers (1890).

Scholar Nancy Meyer Wetzel links Jewett’s sketch to the historical people and events in her 2003 article, “The White Rose Road: Sarah Orne Jewett’s Journey to Orris Falls.

Find-a-Grave has photos and more details about the Littlefield Family cemetery.

Waterfall wonderland on the Ammo Trail to Mount Monroe

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Every May, I try to fit in my “end-0f-the-semester hike”, a few days after completing grades and graduation. In May, this hike usually involves some snow and ice, along with cool air, few people. and open vistas.

I love my job as a community college teacher/administrator. But working with students from all ages and walks of life, I encounter more than the typical share of life’s challenges compressed into 15 weeks: students with depression and anxiety, illness and emergency surgeries, suicides and overdoses (usually of family members but sometimes a student), and other troubles, plus a couple of annoying cases of blatant cheating.  I have plenty of students without such troubles, but the weight of those who do tends to build up over the course of the semester.

My work with students is a sacred space of sorts. I usually can’t do anything about the other issues, but I can help them learn to find good sources, or create smooth transitions in paragraphs, or develop an idea into a solid short story.

My end-of-the-semester hike is both a way to celebrate the finish and to enter my own sacred space, where the clutter and noise of the semester subsides, as it must, when I am navigating an icy patch of leftover snow on a steep trail.

This May, I decided to conquer Mount Monroe, one of a handful of 4,000 footers left on my list, a 7-mile round-trip hike via the Ammonoosuc Ravine Trail, also known as the Ammo trail — 2,900 feet of elevation gain, most of it in one steep mile up the Ravine.

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Evidence of Hurricane Irene, which sent trees tumbling into the river and hurled boulders across trails.

On Friday morning, I set out at a good pace through the forest of fir and birch trees. Without the hardwood foliage, the forest was both shady and full of light.

After an easy mile, the trail began to climb along the Ammonoosuc River.  The tumbling river still shows much evidence of the havoc wreaked by Hurricane Irene in August 2011 when a wall of water crashed through these mountains. I was planning to hike the Ammo Trail that weekend with my family, with an overnight stay planned at the Lakes of the Clouds hut, but the Forest Service closed down the White Mountain National Forest, a good decision that probably saved some lives and lots of worry.

After another (relatively) easy mile along the river, I reached Gem Pool.  But I knew tough times were coming — 1,562 feet of elevation gain to the Lakes hut at the head of Ravine, then another third of a mile to 5,372-foot Mount Monroe.

Gem Pool

Gem Pool looks like an inviting place to cool off on a hot summer day.

Sure enough, the hike from Gem Pool was basically straight uphill.  Is it the toughest mile in the White Mountains?  I’m not sure if it’s any harder than Kedron Flume Trail up Mount Willey, or the mile from Galehead Hut to South Twin Mountain.  Since I’ve hiked those trails, I knew I could get up the Ammo.  But could I get down?

Even with the steeps, I couldn’t stop smiling, as I discovered waterfall after waterfall. I’ve never seen so many beautiful waterfalls on one trail, except in Iceland. As I approached the upper half of that mile, I began to encounter patches of hard-packed icy snow.  The sun had softened up the snow, and on flat spots, it was easy to walk across.

Waterfall with small headwall of snow on the Ammo Trail.

Waterfall with small headwall of snow on the Ammo Trail.

But when the trail inclined, I had to consider whether to pull on the microspikes.  Sometimes I could get around the icy patches, but since I was alone, I erred on the side of caution, and pulled on the spikes, then pulled them off, then pulled them on again.  On the last quarter-mile below the Lakes hut, I wore the spikes continuously and they gave me confidence to work my way up the steep slabs of rock and snow.

Another view of falling water.

Another view of falling water.

Earlier that morning, I’d had delusions of grandeur, of possibly summiting Washington, or   at least hiking over to the Jewel Trail after completing the hike to Monroe. By the time I arrived at Lakes, however, I knew that I would ONLY be climbing Monroe — more than enough for my first major hike of the season.

I knew I had reached the top of the Ravine when Lakes of the Clouds hut rose above me.

I knew I had reached the top of the Ravine when Lakes of the Clouds hut rose above me.

After passing the Lakes hut, and shedding my spikes, I continued to the junction of the Crawford Path and the Mount Monroe Loop and climbed up a pile of  rock pile to Mount Monroe.  Above treeline, I encountered no ice, just some patches of soft snow leftover from a storm two days earlier.  The trail to the summit is a bit of tricky climb on rocks, but just a third of mile from the junction, so it didn’t take me long to get there.

The rocky heap of Mount Monroe

The rocky heap of Mount Monroe

On Mount Monroe, I enjoyed a quick lunch as the wind picked up and gray clouds hovered above Mount Washington.  Although the forecast did not predict any storms, I know that in the Presidentials, the weather can change quickly.  I made my way down to Lakes, and rested a bit on a sunny bench there, out of the wind. It was lovely to sit by the always-busy  hut with no people except a small AMC research crew out collecting data on flower blooms.

View of Mount Washington and one of the still-ice covered Lakes of the Clouds.

View of Mount Washington and one of the still-ice covered Lakes of the Clouds. Note the rusty colors of the alpine flora.

Now, it was time to descend the Ammo. I was definitely glad I had my spikes. Carefully, I picked my way down the trail, sometimes sliding on my butt. The quarter-mile from Lakes into the woods was laced with hard-packed slippery snow, and demanded total concentration.

At one point, a text message beeped from my husband. I stopped to text him back,  asking him not to text me again. I was confident that I could get down, but knew that I had to completely focus on the trail.

The waterfalls were still beautiful, but I couldn’t appreciate them quite as much on the way down. After the steep descent, I was relieved to get to Gem Pool, and to the easy hiking from there to the parking lot.

By then, the challenges of the semester were long gone, erased by the work of climbing up and sliding down rocks, reaching for sturdy branches, and putting one foot in front of the other.  Now, I’m ready to begin again.

I added a rock to this pile for the memorial to XXx, a college student who died of hypothermia near this spot in   December 1932 on what was probably his end-of-the-semester hike.

I added a rock to this pile for the memorial to Herbert Judson Young, a Dartmouth college student who died of hypothermia near this spot in December 1928 on what was probably his end-of-the-semester hike.

 

Sources and Resources

The 4000-footers of the White Mountains: A Guide and History, by Steven D. Smith and Mike Dickerman. Always a great resource, especially the view guides.

Checking the Higher Summits Forecast, from the Mount Washington Weather Observatory, is a must before hiking in the Presidentials, where weather conditions can vary dramatically from the Valley.

Note: The Ammo trail is easy to follow but not well-blazed, so hikers need to keep an eye on certain turns where arrows guide the way.  Also, a variation of this hike from the Cog Railway parking lot cuts about a half-mile off the hike.

 

 

If People Magazine existed in 1776: cast your ballot for the hottest Patriot!

John was about 28 in this 1765 portrait by John Singleton Copley, and recently had inherited his uncle's business.  I highly recommend coming face-to-face with the painting at Boston's Museum of Fine Arts.  Both John and the painting are stunning.

John was about 28 in this 1765 Copley portrait. I highly recommend a date  with  the painting at Boston’s Museum of Fine Arts. Because it’s an inanimate object, you won’t have to worry about John flirting with other patrons during your encounter.

Patriot John Hancock is the King of memorable signatures, so much so that his name has become synonymous with signing a document.  As President of the Continental Congress, he was the first to sign the Declaration of Independence on July 4, 1776.

But John was memorable for more than a pretty signature.  When I turned a corner at the Boston’s Museum of Fine Arts and came face to face with this John Singleton Copley portrait of Hancock, I thought, wowza, he is one handsome Patriot!  And probably a fun date, as he reportedly had a taste for luxury and the finer things in life.  Rumored to somewhat of a lady’s man, Hancock finally settled down at age 38 with Dorothy Quincy, but apparently continued to flirt.

As King of the House of Hancock, a merchant house he inherited from his uncle, John Hancock could have lived a life focused on  parties and luxury. But instead — partly because of British policies that targeted merchants — he got involved in politics.  Although Hancock didn’t die broke, he spent a good amount of his fortune to support the Continental cause, instead of using the cause to increase his fortune. Now that’s patriotism.

unnamedMy encounter with John made me wonder:  which other patriots of 1776 might be possible winners in a People-magazine style contest for “hottest Patriot”?  Below, in addition to John Hancock, I nominate four additional Patriot hotties.  Cast your ballot — or contribute another nomination — for your favorite Patriot by making a note in the comments.  All commenters will be entered into a drawing to win a copy of my just-published book, Pioneer on a Mountain Bike: Eight Days Through Early American History.

If you have qualms about voting for a Patriot hottie, because you are married or involved with a significant other, keep in mind: THESE GUYS ARE ALL DEAD.   Be sure to vote — or nominate another Patriot — by the July 12, 2014 deadline!

Doesn't Nathan look like he just stepped off a movie set? No portraits or other images exist of Nathan, so this XXX sculpture is an idealized image, based on descriptions of young Nathan as X, Y and Z.

Doesn’t Nathan look like he just stepped off a movie set? No portraits of exist of young Nathan, so this Bela Lyon Pratt sculpture (1912) is an idealized image, based on descriptions of young Nathan as fair-skinned, with blue eyes and “flaxen” hair that he kept short.

Captain Nathan Hale:  “I only regret that I have but one life to give for my country.”

My second nomination is Nathan Hale, captured by the British in New York City and sentenced to hang for espionage.  He is remembered for his speech at the gallows, in which he uttered some variation of the famous sentence above.

At 21 years old, Nathan was just a kid, albeit a mature and well-educated one who had graduated from Yale in 1773 at age 18, then accepted his first position as a teacher before the outbreak of the Revolution.  Did the British really have to kill him? Breaks my heart. I know it must have broken his mother’s heart, and surely the heart of at least one girl, if not several.

President Thomas Jefferson:  Imperfect Renaissance man

Thomas Jefferson was 62 when he sat for this 1805 portrait by Rembrandt Peale (New York Historical Society).

Thomas Jefferson was 62 when he sat for this 1805 portrait by Rembrandt Peale (New York Historical Society).

Thomas J. was getting up there in years when Rembrandt Peale painted this portrait in 1805, but still projected rugged good looks. Doesn’t he bear a striking resemblance to the actor Robert Redford?

Yes, Jefferson was a slaveowner, and had other imperfections (not to mention his Embargo Act that wrecked the economy), but this lead author of the Declaration of Independence, born to privilege, was a true democrat as well as a republican who believed in democracy, the republic, and the rights of the individual.

After 11 years of a happy marriage, Jefferson deeply mourned the death of his wife Martha, and honored her promise to never again marry, as she did not want another woman to bring up her children.

Jefferson was both a critic of slavery and a slaveowner, and it’s hard to reconcile why he didn’t walk the walk on the issue of slavery.  Was his 37-year relationship with his slave Sally Hemming a mutual love relationship or an exploitive master-concubine one? We don’t know, but I can see why Sally might have found him attractive, even if he was 30 years her senior.

Major General John Stark:  “Live free, or die. Death is not the greatest of evils.”

This is a popular image of John Stark, but I am not sure if it is an actual portrait or an idealized image.  I welcome any identifiers.

This is a popular image of John Stark, but I am not sure if it is an actual portrait or an idealized image. I welcome any identifiers.

During the Revolution, Massachusetts supplied the rabble-rousers like John Hancock and Samuel Adams, while New Hampshire quietly fielded many of the Revolution’s key generals.  Major General John Stark, who is looking pretty good in this portrait, established the strategy for a successful losing battle against the British at Bunker Hill (kind of like the recent US performance in the World Cup; we didn’t win, but showed the soccer world that the American team is now a force to reckon with).  Later, Stark led the Continentals to victory at the Battle of Bennington, Vermont.

Stark’s famous sentence (above), now the New Hampshire state motto, is from a letter he wrote to a group of Bennington veterans in 1809, when they gathered there to commemorate the battle.  By then, Stark was 81 and and not well enough to travel.

In 1776, at age 48, John Stark was no longer a young man, but he WAS dashing.  Perhaps his 11 children kept him young.

Ironic twist: When New Hampshire made Stark’s words the state motto in 1945, they also passed a law making it a crime if to conceal the motto on the state license plate.  In 1977, the Supreme Court said First Amendment freedoms trumped the state’s right to require all citizens to display a particular ideology on the official license plate.

Paul Revere: Midnight Rider/Go-t0 Guy

Paul Revere, 1768 portrait by John Singleton Copley.  Revere probably had more gray hair by 1776, but the same intensity.

Paul Revere, 1768 portrait by John Singleton Copley. Revere probably had more gray hair by 1776, but the same intensity.

Silversmith Paul Revere might seem an odd choice for hottest Patriot.  In 1776, he was the married father of eight surviving children (he eventually fathered 16), and in this  portrait, completed eight years earlier, he was already a little jowly.

But Revere’s nomination illustrates that for all of these Patriots, it’s really the entire package that make a guy attractive — personality, looks, gusto.  The expression on his face — the lifted eyebrow, the piercing gaze — suggests thoughtful determination.  You can tell that Paul is a go-getter, whether it be riding to Portsmouth, N.H. in 1774 to let the town know the British were coming, or sounding the alarm a year later at Lexington and Concord, or in crafting a silver platter or cup.  Revere put his all into anything he took on.

Remember to vote!

Perhaps some will find a contest for the hottest Patriot irreverent.  But as a history geek, I love getting to know the people of the past.  These Patriots were guys who lived lives, who laughed, loved, and sometimes drank too much. They could be heroes, even if sometimes they were hypocrites, and in some cases had an equal number of friends and foes.  All  could  have hunkered down and ridden out the Revolution with their heads bent low to the ground,  but instead chose to risk their lives, liberty, and property to create a new nation.  Now that’s hot!

Enter your vote — or your nomination — in the comments by July 12, 2014 to be eligible for the book drawing!

P.S. At some future point, I will run a contest on Patriot women, although I may have to broaden the category to include a portrait of the very intriguing Margaret Kemble Gage, the wife of British General Thomas Gage, and definitely not a Patriot.

 

Goodbye, antibiotics, hello summer: travels with Lyme Disease

After the phone call, I realized that our pediatrician had an approach, a way of talking about a delicate subject that he had used many times before.

After ten years of near-perfect health, my daughter had become a high-maintenance patient, in and out of the office at least a dozen times in the past year, with many phone calls between visits.

A year earlier, I had found the tick in August. In September, the fever began, and then the horrible wracking cough.  Six weeks later, the fever escalated over several days, then finally broke. The intensity of the cough began to diminish. We all breathed a collective sigh of relief.

But a few weeks after the fever ended, the weird stuff began. Soon, I could predict, on a six-week cycle, the onset of mysterious ailments:  A staph infection on the toe, then on the index finger. An unrelenting headache. Weeping behind the ear. More finger infections. Blood work that suggested off-the-chart allergies, or a parasite, but no evidence of either.

By June, my daughter had missed a third of the school year. When she was feeling good, life went on as usual: Odyssey of the Mind, cross-country, hiking, travels. Every time an infection cleared, I thought we had turned the final corner.

Now, as another school year commenced, our concern centered on a throbbing pain in my daughter’s mouth that had begun with a cold sore, and then spread to her lower jaw. The gum was now recovered, pink and healthy. But the pain remained.  We paid $500 for an x-ray to see if an abscess was in the jaw. Nothing.

Then she woke up with another throbbing finger, leaking pus. As usual, I attacked with my full arsenal: hot water soaks, yarrow poultices, antibiotic ointment.  But the infection remained. We started Augmentin, which we had used several times before. The jaw continued to throb. Overnight, the finger turned hot red to the knuckle.  Cefdin was prescribed. After a couple of doses, the throbbing began to ebb in the finger — and in the jaw.

Then the phone rang.

“I’m very concerned about Jenny,” the pediatrician said.

Finally, at last, after all these months, the doctor was concerned enough to call.  A feeling of relief washed over me. Maybe now the medical professionals would ask more questions, would probe more to figure out what was going on.

“I’m concerned too,” I replied.

“I’m very concerned,” he repeated, and paused. “I think your daughter needs psychological help.”

The mismatch between his words and what I expected to hear was so great that I had to pause and decode, almost as if the doctor was speaking a foreign language I could barely understand.

I took a breath. “What I’ve learned,” I said, “is that when something is mysterious, the fallback diagnosis is psychological.”

After I hung up, I was shaking and trying not to cry, because I didn’t want to scare my daughter. I felt powerless. The doctor who I thought was going to help make my child well was washing his hands of us. Although I wanted an answer, a diagnosis, what I most needed was a sense that the doctor was our partner in solving this puzzle.

Fast-forward through another year.  Days and weeks of missed school.  More finger infections. Five weeks of stabbing abdominal pain, a short break, then months of unrelenting nausea. Many visits to the acupuncturist, the allergists, the gastroenterologists, and the naturopaths.  X-rays, an ultra-sounds, CT scan, and endoscopy. Every sort of rare condition ruled out.

“Is your daughter being bullied at school?” the family practice doctor asked.

All along, I had asked about Lyme Disease. When I pulled the tick off my daughter, it left an itchy red welt, but no bulls-eye rash. The Western Blot had come back negative. No joint pain, no Bell’s palsy. No, it couldn’t be Lyme Disease.

Finally, we met with a Lyme Disease specialist, a doctor who doesn’t operate in the box that constrains mainstream medicine in making this diagnosis. “I’ve seen these symptoms before,” he said after reviewing my daughter’s list of ailments. After more testing, he prescribed four to six months of antibiotics, and various supplements.

2400 grams a day of amoxicillin was daunting, but we took the leap. September began with another attack, pain in the ear, then the abdomen. But we weren’t frightened. We had a name for what was causing the pain. The antibiotics would kill off the bacteria that were digging in and causing problems.

In February, my daughter completed six months of antibiotics.  She had some bumps along the way, but has been free of all symptoms since then. I am not 100% certain that she had Lyme Disease. But I’m certain that she had an infection caused by that tick bite.

I had long worried about Lyme Disease. But when the doctor diagnosed my child with chronic Lyme, I wasn’t scared.   Now, we could focus on getting well.   The scariest moment in our travels with Lyme disease was the day that the pediatrician called.

Additional resources on Lyme Disease

Every year, researchers are discovering new strains of bacteria or viruses that cause disease and are carried by ticks.  Currently, the Centers for Disease Control lists 14 illnesses linked to tick-borne bacteria.

In 2013, the CDC modified its estimate of annual Lyme cases ten fold, from 30,000 to 300,000. Most Lyme specialists believe that the higher number is a low estimate.

ILADS, or the International Lyme and Associated Diseases Society, sponsors research, conferences, and the dissemination of information about Lyme Disease.  Lyme Disease has caused a major split in the field of infectious disease medicine and ILADS is an outgrowth of that split.

Jill Kinmont, my forgotten hero

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

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.

 

 

Heads up: The Maniacal Traveler is coming!

Standing on the summit of Mount Washington earlier this winter.  Temps minus 20ish.  Do I look maniacal?

Standing on the summit of Mount Washington earlier this winter. Temps minus 20ish. Do I look maniacal?

This winter, renaming my blog has been on my t0-do list.  “Random History and Offbeat Trivia” was always a placeholder for me, a starting point, since I firmly believe that it’s always better to begin a journey than to wait for the perfect moment, or perfect blog title.

Thus, as a preview, I now introduce “The Maniacal Traveler.” The next time you see this blog, “The Maniacal Traveler” will be the title (I think….).  It’s still me, so please don’t banish me to your junk mail.

I’ve been making lists all winter, trying to capture the “essence” of my blog and my writing.  I also wanted a title that is unique and catchy.  If you google “Random History,” at least a dozen sites will pop up, none of them mine. But I haven’t found a single site called “The Maniacal Traveler.”

I don't always have a drink in hand, but my mother, sister, and I celebrated an excellent meal together at an adventure in Boston. The drink concoction was called a "Hot Tub"and it was maniacally good.

I don’t always have a drink in hand, but my mother, sister, and I celebrated an excellent meal together at an adventure in Boston. The drink concoction was called a “Hot Tub”and it was maniacally good.

Besides being a little bit of a pun on Maine, The Maniacal Traveler can cover a lot of ground, including travel of all kinds, time travel/history, and mind travel (as in random musings).

I also like the idea of mania because sometimes I do get a bit maniacal about organizing and planning adventures.  And I think Maniacal Traveler has that “edginess” that may grab the attention of internet readers while simultaneously transforming maniacal from a sinister word (as in maniacal killer) to one that celebrates a mania for living every day to the fullest.

Plus, wouldn’t the world be a better place with more maniacal readers, writers, hikers, and travelers?

The snow is about three feet deep in the mountains, but it won't be long before I can start doing some maniacal hiking. These steep ladders climb straight up Mt. Willey.

The snow is about three feet deep in the mountains, but it won’t be long before I can start doing some maniacal hiking. These steep ladders climb straight up Mt. Willey.

Right now I feel especially manic with my writing and traveling.  My files are full of drafts about Thin Mints, Alaska, friendships, hiking, and history.  I’m also maniacally copyediting my book, Pioneer on a Mountain Bike, which will be published later this spring by Piscataqua Press.  Add in a pending visit from a Japanese exchange student, my first stress test/echocardiogram, and a good dose of spring skiing, and “The Maniacal Traveler” definitely feels right.  So does a nap.

Your thoughts and feedback on this name change are much appreciated.  The Maniacal Traveler promises she won’t come stalking.

 

The boys howl, and I crack the whip

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

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.