Tenzing's Adventures

2011-10-18T23:03:00.000-07:00

Binghamton Flooding

2011-09-13T15:23:00.001-07:00

Nuff said

Listen Old Man

2011-06-08T15:31:00.001-07:00

Listen old man

I’m sick and tired of this game. I respect you and everything you’ve done in this sport. Maybe you could respect my enthusiasm and what I want to do. Instead of constantly trying to find ways to bring me down and reassert your alpha-status, maybe you could be a little more supportive.

I was thinking about another boater, Tommy Hagg, who had to deal with this type of nonsense from damn near everyone. Sure, some of it was self-inflicted – you don’t get to call yourself Eddy McGnarlz and get away with it – but at the end of the day, nobody was directly hurt by anything he did. And he had some good ideas on how to grow the sport and advance into the upper echelons of canoeing.

And now I get a bit of shit from a few people. I don’t have the combative personality of Eddy McGnarlz, at least I don’t think I do. I’m very passionate and very excited about whitewater canoeing, and I want to share that, but I’m not disrespectful, and I try not to step on toes. So when someone constantly tries to bring me down, and tell me that I might as well just kiss the ring because I’m not going to make it in this sport, I get mad. And now I’m motivated.

I want to be one of the best canoeists out there. By what metric, I’m not sure. But I don’t want to have to say, listen old man, I did this and you only did that. Instead, I want to remain respectful and enthusiastic and just paddle.

Moral of the story? Haters gonna hate. I don’t care. I just want to go boating.

Cheap Haircuts

2011-05-16T22:14:00.001-07:00

In an effort to start saving money now, and also transition into a more low key lifestyle, I've been looking for low cost alternatives to my expenses. I had a slight victory this week, in the haircut department.

My hair gets pretty shaggy pretty quickly, and I find myself needing a haircut as soon as my bangs start to get in my eyes. Now, there is an even cheaper alternative to my method, which is to get a friend to do it for you, but I haven't found anyone willing to do more than a buzz, and I don't look good as a jarhead. So I expanded my options, and found beauty school.

Now, it seems like every town has a beauty school, where young women - and men - go to learn how to give manis and petis and cut hair. They are constantly looking for live test subjects, and will give haircuts for much cheaper rates than a salon. For example, if I went to a place like CuttingCrew, our local in Binghamton, a cut with a tip would run me anywhere from 17-20 bucks. At the beauty school? Ten bucks. All you have to do is sign a waiver saying that you won't bitch and moan if a young stylist to be messes up your hair. Or lops off an ear. Cuz it's hard out there, learning to cut hair.

So next time you're in need of a cheap cut, look up a beauty school.

New Wheels

2011-05-16T10:25:00.000-07:00

So I bought a truck. It's a '99 Toyota Tacoma SR5 Xtracab 4wd. The idea is that I want to be able to live out of it full time after I graduate. So how am I going to go about doing that?

Well to start, I bought a camper shell, a Leer 148 for the extra head room. New caps cost anywhere from 1500-2000 dollars or more. I picked this one up used off of Craigslist for 100 bucks.

So what now? As I'm planning out the layout for the truck, I've divided it into four sections. First is the front seat area of the cab, which will be for driving myself and whoever is in the passenger seat. Second will be the seats behind the front seats, which I plan in turning into storage. I'm going to make a platform to level the bench seats and fill the space in between each row of seats, giving me an even platform to store gear. In this space, I see more of my living gear, clothes, blankets, etc.

In the bed, I am going to build a sleeping platform. I haven't quite figured out the exact design, but I want to build it around Rubbermaid containers, so that I have to sections; beneath the platforms, which will be storage for gear, like paddle clothes, cookset, etc. and above which will be the sleeping area, with whatever pad i decide on, sleeping bag, small light, etc.

Another thing I want to incorporate, if I can, is a solar powered battery. I want it to be small, but powerful enough that I can charge my cameras, power my laptop, etc. This way I don't have to poach power with an extension cord.

It's still in the planning stages, but this summer I want to start by weatherproofing the cap and building the platforms. We'll see how it goes

Updates, Where I See This Going

2011-05-15T20:16:00.000-07:00

Hey guys,

I haven't posted in a while, other than to use a few posts as a dumpling place for pictures. Hopefully that will change. Summer is coming along, and with it, my job in New Jersey where some times the tedium lends itself to blog posts. I need to get in the habit of posting more, so I'll try to put three short ones up this week. The first one deals with what I am trying to do, and how I see this blog playing a roll in that.

I will be graduating college in approximately seven months, with degrees in history and political philosophy. As of yet, I am sure of only one thing; I don't want to go to law school, grad school, or into a career. So I am going to take some time and travel.

But at the same time, I have begun to seriously look at whitewater canoeing as a lifestyle, a vehicle that can take me into the next chapter of my life. Right now canoeing is an escape, a way for me to connect with the natural world in a very unique and special way. I think because whitewater canoeing is a niche area of a niche sport, that uniqueness is very appealing. But at the same time, I want more people to canoe. I think canoeing is absolutely the most legal fun you can have in this country, and I want more people to experience it. So where does that leave me?

I think I want to spend some time over the next few years promoting whitewater canoeing. I want to progress into Class V whitewater (I'm a noob IV right now) and as I progress I want to bring more and more people into the sport. Most of all, I want to get a canoe company that shares this vision and will let me help them with a marketing strategy to expand the industry. Will it happen? Who knows...time will tell.

But as I finish my last seven months of the relative security of college, I will use this blog as a means to detail the planning that goes into this endeavor. I've already bought a pick-up truck - there will be a post on that soon - and my next step is to outfit my truck so that I can live in it long term. Hopefully I'll be able to showcase each step along the way. Also, I'll hopefully be paddling more this summer, as I need the weekend to escape from the computer screen-filled week. And finally, I want to make this blog more personal, so that those who follow me on this journey actually feel like they might know me. We'll see how it goes.

Now, to motivate myself to actually keep up with this blogging...

2011-04-24T12:37:00.001-07:00

2011-01-10T19:17:00.000-08:00

What font is this?

2010-12-27T13:14:00.000-08:00

Does anyone know what font this is?

In Memorium

2010-10-17T18:43:00.000-07:00

Sorry for the month long vacation, and even more sorry to be writing this.

It has been a rough month for the whitewater community, on top of an even rougher year. After losing Jimmy O'Brien, a greater boater, and more importantly a great man, this spring, I was hoping we might have a quiet summer and fall. Unfortunately, that didn't pan out. The Gauley River has claimed three lives, including a Pittsburgh father who friends have told me was one of the nicer guys you'll ever find.

Unfortunately, the one that really hit hard was Carl Schneider. Carl was one of those guys everyone knew. His mustache was out-sized only by his personality. He was a teacher, a champion of the river, and a great person. I only knew him briefly, hanging out at the Yough and in the bar in Ohiopyle, but I wish I knew him more.

My condolences to everyone who lost a friend this year, on the river or off. Be safe out there.

http://jeffmacklin.smugmug.com/Whitewater/2010/Carl-Schneider-photos-from/14028365_TKJFA#1032322916_hLw4Y

Carl Schneider

Running Wild

2010-08-17T09:03:00.000-07:00

There is nothing so beautiful as a wild river.
It is the most powerful force on earth.
It can be tapped, it can be managed, it can be harnessed, but it will always seek freedom.
I pledge to always let them run free.

What motivates us?

2010-08-13T10:09:00.000-07:00

Recent discussion had me thinking, what motivates us to do anything?

People arguing about why we should canoe makes me think, if you spent more time on the water and less time bitching, you'd probably have more fun.

Just a thought

The Chronicles of Tupac & Biggie – Part II

2010-08-09T07:56:00.001-07:00

I’ve been thinking more about the differences between East and West Coast living, in an attempt to determine which I like more. When I first started, there were aspects of the west that I truly loved, the laid back lifestyle, the vastness of it, but I was afraid I was too deeply rooted in East Coast lifestyle. East Coast, to me, is fast-paced. You drive 90 on the freeways to get to work, to go to a ball game, to pick up milk. You don’t drive slowly and take it in, you just get there. And there have been times in my life where I’ve been outside of the Northeast, and I was fed up with the “let’s just drive slowly and look around” mentality. And I’m afraid that’s what waiting for me on the West Coast. It’s not that driving slow, or the larger aspect, living slow, is wrong. I’m just too damn impatient.

Regardless, I decided to start writing a little bit about my perceived differences between the East and the West. And I decided to start with the beauty of each place. Reason? If I become more patient and decide to drive slow and smell the flowers, will it be worth it?

Beauty on the East Coast requires work. The interstates and highways on the East Coast don’t pass by many spectacular vistas; many just go through the industrial wasteland of the megalopolis. Take I-95 through Jersey and you would think the entire state is a wastewater treatment plant and refinery. Take 287 and you’ll think everything is under construction. But if you take a rural road, you’ll wind over rolling hills, alongside small streams in a, well, un-Jersey-like fashion.

Drive around on the West Coast and everything is big sky and mountains.
Snow-capped peaks of the Olympic and Sierra Nevada ranges dot the horizon, and the powder-blue sky stretches all the way back to Utah. Towering 6,000-foot peaks, higher than nearly every mountain back east, are just “hills” to the locals. Sometimes it is hard to focus on the road when you are surrounded by the spectacular.

The East, however, has its places. The Adirondacks are still stunning, and there are plenty of “scenic overlooks” on the highways that provide an ample view. The rolling farmlands of Western New York, punctuated by the occasional tree line or twisty trout brook, are beautiful to me. But most of the beauty in the East, I have found, is not large-scale. It is something you must get right up and see.

On the West Coast, you have those spectacular vistas, those beautiful mountain ranges, canyons, rivers, etc. But when you get right up to the land, the simple dirt that makes up those vistas, often you find that at close range, the view does not hold up. The scraggly brush and powdery dirt paint a beautiful picture from afar, but up close the brush strokes are too jagged, too barren to be great.

The East Coast, on the other hand, is much more suited for close inspection. Countless times in my travels out here, I have found something small, unique, and breathtaking. The interlocking trees on Fish Pond, the crystal-clear water of the Deerfield River come to mind. And then there is the Bog River. That has scenic vistas, some of the best in the East. But you have to work; it’s a five mile paddle and a three mile hike. But there is also a small scale that I love. There is a marshy bog with a twisting path to a granite erratics. And there is a sandy hill, where rain and the elements have washed away the vegetation. When I first saw it, I thought it was rather ugly, but when I looked closely, I noticed that the pebbles in the sand withstood the erosion of the water. The pebbles kept the sand underneath it from washing away, leaving small pyramids of sand standing like the spines of a porcupine. It took hard work getting there and a careful eye to see, but there is beauty on the East Coast.

And that is what I see now. I think the West has a lock on “spectacular”. It’s hard to find any other place where you can see the mountains, the snow, the rivers, the prairies all in one view. But the East, despite the built-up, industrialized nature of it, still has its beauty; you just have to look.

Whitewater Progression

2010-08-06T08:12:00.000-07:00

Longer post; I'm still working on the family one.

I’ve been thinking a lot about whitewater, mostly about why I like it so much. I’ve had serious interests before, but nothing quite as addicting as boating. One of the big reasons I like whitewater is because you can so easily track your progression.

I was practically born in a canoe. As early as I can remember, I was in the bow of my father’s Curtis Companion, paddling up and down the twisty Bantam River, pulling errant golf balls out that fell in from nearby Litchfield Country Club. And I learned how to solo a boat on Saranac Lake during a summer vacation, paddling that same Companion along the shore to fish for perch. I soloed a boat on a trip for the first time two years ago, still paddling that same Companion. And I was content, I thought, to continue paddling on flat water, seeing beautiful places that required a little hard work in a unique craft to see.

Then I discovered whitewater. I took a class with my brother in June of last year. We learned how to paddle tandem on the Lehigh River. The first day on the river, I had literally never paddled a rapid before in my life. I had floated down a swift in the nearby Delaware River a few times, and waded a boulder garden once in Algonquin. I had seen rapids before, bigger ones than the Lehigh could ever produce. But the first time I sat in the stern of the boat, watching the river drop away, watching my brother literally go downhill, that was it. I was hooked.

I paddled a half dozen more times in that tandem, learning the lines and the basic maneuvers. I learned how much respect one had to give the river, because the river is stronger than you will ever be, and the river never gets tired. But I also learned how fun the river can be, how beautiful it can be, and how rewarding it can be.

In July of last year, I drove up to Albany one day and bought a solo whitewater canoe, a Mohawk Probe 11. It was old, only a few years younger than I was. But it was a great boat, strong and forgiving. That August, I paddled it down the Lehigh for the first time. The level was nearly twice what I was used to, but I managed to get down the river with a strong brace and no swims. It was at that point that I promised myself that I would canoe as much as I possibly could.

This year, I stayed true to that promise. I paddled the Lehigh so much that I have the rapids memorized, and could talk someone down the river over the phone. But by July, I felt like I needed a bit more of a challenge. It wasn’t that the Lehigh wasn’t a difficult river. It always presented a different problem to solve, and I have swum more than my fair share of times. But I needed to prove to myself that I could begin to do something different, more difficult.

I went to the Deerfield River in July. While most of the river is innocuous Class I, the Fife Brook section ends in the difficult Zoar Gap, a III+ rapid, the biggest I had paddled to that point.

I stood in the shoulder of the road overlooking the gap. I watched the river constrict and then drop into a chute, with two mammoth holes, nearly the width of the river, providing the bulk of the difficulty. Rec boats tried to pass through, but were constantly stopped and thrashed by the holes. But as I watched, I saw a line on the left. Punch over a pourover, keep the boat on the left, sneak between the hole and the river bank on the left. I decided that the line could be run, then I decided that I could run the line. Then I did.

After two more Gap runs, one successful, the other, well, see the video, I realized that it was the progression that I liked. I thought I was a solid Class III boater, so I paddled a III+ rapid. A few weeks later, I decided that I needed a river with multiple Class III rapids, so I went to the Lower Yough. I paddled that twice as well, with only two dumb swims.

I’m not listing these to rattle off a bunch of achievements like a jackass. I’m only pointing out that whitewater gives me a measuring stick that I really like. You know how good of a boater you are based on what level rapid you can paddle, and how well you paddle that rapid. For me, after a few clean runs on a river, I feel ready to push onwards, and when I ready, upwards.

With a few tweaks to my outfitting, a roll, and a bomber forward stroke, I feel like I will be ready to tackle some Class IV next year. I’ll be spending my time this off season working on those three things, so that I can continue to progress. I’m sure at some point, I will hit a wall, unable to paddle anything bigger without taking unnecessarily dangerous risks. But I don’t know where that level is. So for now, I can only paddle to that limit.

--Post Note: After having posted this, I proceeded to swim on the first rapid of the Lehigh, at its lowest level ever. Just goes to show the river demands a little humility.--

Lower Yough

2010-08-05T06:45:00.001-07:00

Just a short post while I try to write a longer one about familial obligations.

Some pictures from the fellows at Outdoor Adventure Photography. Immediately previous to me in the first series is Joe, a great open boater. Previous to me in the second series is Sarah.

July 31 - Hour 10 - Page 21
http://adventurephoto.exposuremanager.com/p/3702/lower-p01-978661_16_1_6_33_4

August 1 - Hour 8 - Page 2
http://adventurephoto.exposuremanager.com/p/3691/lower-p22-985518_16_1_7_2_2

More paddling this weekend on the Lehigh!

Deadliest Catch

2010-07-30T14:01:00.000-07:00

Short post before I head out for a(nother) weekend of paddling, this time at the Lower Youghigany River.

I will have a more detailed post about this later, but I want to get the secondary stuff out of the way now. Especially because this deserves more than one post.

What is that, you ask?

Deadliest Catch.

Now, I don’t watch TV. In fact, the only show I watch is Deadliest Catch. But this season and more specifically these last few episodes deserve some mention, because they have been incredibly touching/moving/heartbreaking/brilliant.

For those who don’t know, one of the main characters, Captain Phil Harris of the fishing boat Cornelia Marie, died this February of a pulmonary embolism. He had had one a few years earlier, and then suffered a massive stroke a week before his death. What was especially heartbreaking, however, was that it had looked to all involved in the days leading up to his death that Captain Phil would survive, and possibly recover.

I just want to write that the show did an amazing job of dealing with this sensitive and taboo subject. Never before had a television character actually died on screen. Sure we had the sitcom characters die, and sometime, when an actor passed, the on screen death of his character could be very emotional. And sometimes a real person would die in the middle of a production, forcing the show to deal with that person’s passing.

But never before had someone so real, so like us, died in front of all of us. And that was difficult to watch. Also difficult was how the older son, Josh, dealt with his father’s death, his younger brother’s drug addiction, and the completion of the fishing season. Maybe it’s because I’m an older brother that I felt so connected to Josh.

Anyways, this isn’t some stupid recrap, and the next post, which deals with something I noticed in the show won’t be so superficial. There’s a reason I’m bringing up the show, and its more meaningful, unique, etc. But I have to go paddle, so those thoughts will have to wait.

Cheers

California Thoughts

2010-07-24T21:30:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting in a hotel room somewhere in Fullerton, California. The evening breeze is blowing in the sounds of young kids playing at the pool, and the distant hum of a generator coming across the street from the Cal State campus. Tomorrow will mark the end of the second week that I've been in California, and my last day here.

Somebody back home asked me what I thought of Cali. At first I thought I was too harsh, but I decided to really look into it. I figure my opinion is biased, but so is every opinion in some way. I'm biased because I'm on business, which is a double-bladed sword. I have no needs or wants at the present, because the ludicrous nature of a business trip means I don't have to worry about anything. Somebody does, but not me. Instead I have to worry about my business, which I do, constantly.

The other edge of that sword is that I spend nearly every waking moment working. I have logged 70+ hours the past two weeks. But on my day off, I went to LA, to get a feel for Southern California.

What I saw was a portion of this country to wrapped up in itself, too detached from the normality of the rest of the world. Or maybe that's my East Coast coming out.

For one thing, it is totally normal to sit in traffic for hours at a time. Traffic delays of two hours are common. Four hours happens probably once or twice a month. And this is an accepted cost of living here.

The living conditions here can be deplorable. Los Angeles has a high number of homeless people, but makes no effort to hide them by setting up shelters or keeping them in the barrios. Unlike New York, where the homeless are shuffled away from the more ascendant classes, everyone mingles together. So on a train coming back from Hollywood, you'll have a homeless guy, a crippled woman wrapped in a blanket on a crappy power scooter, a marketing copy writer (me) some construction guys, a lawyer, and a Hollywood executive. It's a decent cross section of society, all together, all heading the same way but going in completely different directions.

No one gave a shit. That homeless guy could have been a veteran, a firefighter. The crippled woman was somebody's daughter, maybe at one point somebody's mother. But who knows, because no one stopped to give a shit. Including myself. In LA, we are all too absorbed in the minuscule bullshit that makes up our daily life to care about anything or anyone that is beyond our immediate scope.

And that's why I'm bumming on LA. I'm not some detached moron who doesn't realize that scenes like this play themselves out in every corner of the world every day. And I'm not too impractical to realize that there wasn't much anyone on that train could do. Yeah, we could have pitched in and given that guy a meal and a shower, maybe really pitched in and gotten him a home and a job. But what about all the other homeless people in LA? California? The world?

This isn't a rant against homelessness in America. Nor is it a bash against the entire West Coast, as my love for Oregon, Washington, and B.C. is still very strong. This is more a picture. This is my attempt to render a scene of life in LA, and then try to determine why it bothers me. At the end of the day, this is simply a protest against the way we live our lives. We punch in, we punch out, but we are too wrapped up in the trivial distractions to focus on making the most of the very little time we have. The only difference is, in LA, they don't even try to hide it.

And one other thing. I said everyone on that train was going to the same place, but I didn't just mean Union Station. As human beings, we are guaranteed one thing. We are not guaranteed love, or kindness, or happiness, or warmth, or clarity. We are only guaranteed death. From the moment we are born, we are never younger, and death is never further away then it is at this instance in time. We might live 100 years. Or 100 days. So, my question for you is, with this one guarantee, this one certainty, what are you going to do?

Me? I'm going to canoe.

"Life's journey is not to arrive at the grave safely in a well preserved body, but rather to slide in sideways, totally worn out, shouting, 'Holy shit, what a ride!' " Nolan Whitesell

Video from Deerfield

2010-07-06T21:43:00.000-07:00

http://www.vimeo.com/13146243

As promised...

Deerfield

2010-07-05T17:14:00.000-07:00

Just got back from the Deerfield River. We ran the Fife Brook section, which they call a Class II but was for all intents and purposes a solid I+. However, Zoar Gap at the end of the run, is Class III+. That didn't stop a bunch of rec boaters from trying to shoot it, most of whom got absolutely trashed.

I ran the Gap three times over two days. The first time was my best run. I chose the left line, hit an eddy, blasted over the pourover rock on river left, and managed to sneak in between the rock and the hole on river left.

The second run, well, was not so good. I got too far to the left, and when I compensated, my bow came out too far to the right, got caught by the hole, and I rolled into a rock. Luckily (or unluckily, depending on how you view it) I had the bow cam going. (Note: The video is a little large, so I'll have a Youtube link or something similar in its place shortly)

I was a little pissed that I had blown what was to be the last rapid of the trip, and knew I was going to be miserable if I had to drive from Massachusetts to Allentown to New Jersey that night, thinking about my little mistake. So I threw the boat on the car, drove to the top of the gap, and ran the damn thing again.

This time, I ran the line better. I got stuck in the hydraulic kicked up by the pourover rock, and did have a good deal of water in the boat, but I was able to punch out and grab the line. Video courtesy of Sarah:

All in all it was a great trip, and I felt that I was paddling at a notch above my previous level. Who knows, in a few weeks, I might give the Yough a try.

Planning for the Deerfield

2010-07-01T18:48:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting in my apartment in New Jersey, killing time until I can go to sleep. Tomorrow I work, and then I drive.

I'm headed to the Deerfield River in western Massachusetts for some whitewater with a friend. I'm very excited to head out, see a new river, face new challenges, etc.

I have a list of stuff I need to take in my head, and I keep going back over it, scrutinizing each choice of gear. I've read NPMB and Cboats so much I'm afraid I'm going to get fired.

This is nothing abnormal. In preparation for any new trip, be it a day or a month, I read everything I can get my hands on about the location. I get excited thinking about what I might see, and trying to figure out the minute details, like how to get there, what to eat, and so on. That excitement helps get me through the week of anticipation, of wanting to be there now.

And in 24 hours, I will be.

More to come...

Whitewater

2010-06-29T17:12:00.000-07:00

This is a mini-report for the Uppper Lehigh River, which I try to paddle once every two weeks during release weekends, while also hitting the lower. Nothing too in-depth, just some pictures and commentary on whitewater in general. Hopefully I'll have a cooler report from the Deerfield after this weekend.

Surveying No-Way, a Class III

I tried a Spanish Fly...

With mixed results

Back in my Probe.

More to come (hopefully)

Eulogy for Orville Loomis

2010-05-30T18:12:00.001-07:00

Eulogy given at memorial service for Orville Loomis (5/29/10)

I never knew my grandfather without Parkinson’s. The larger than life figure that many of you know, the South Dakota farm boy, the sailor, the father of three, that man was only a face in a few faded black and white pictures. Even in my earliest memories, the man I knew had the shakes, the pains and the symptoms of Parkinson’s. And so it is, that I don’t have a funny story about the time we played catch, or went fishing, or practiced football. I don’t have these stories, because my grandfather was robbed of his physical capabilities before he could ever play with his grandchildren. I do, however, have stories about euchre, a simple card game that allowed three generations of my family to connect.
Euchre is an incredibly counter-intuitive game, where jacks are higher than aces and diamonds are hearts, sometimes. It is a complicated game, but it is the basis for many of the stories I hear about my grandfather. Stories like, that time Grandpa Orv ordered with no trump, and won. Or that time one of the Semmel boys went alone with right left king, and Grandpa Orv euchred him. The stories were always told with a laughing disbelief; nobody would do something that crazy, except Grandpa Orv.
My grandfather taught me euchre at the kitchen table, dealing each card face up, explaining the right bauer, the left bauer, which cards were trump, and which were not. He taught me how to play the game hard, how to pay attention to details so that I could play smarter. And he taught me how to play clean, that at the end of the day, it was just cards.
I remember the first time we sat down to play, Ruth and my father versus my grandfather and me. He took the cards, gingerly shuffled them and then, with a smile starting to trace his lips, he dealt to my father and said. “Three bad ones to you.” To me, “Two good ones for you.
After that first game, the countless others blended together. It seemed like whenever he visited, we had barely brought the suitcases inside before the cards came out. Whenever we played, my grandfather wanted me to be his partner. He said it was because I brought the luck, but I realize now that he liked playing with me because of how excited I was to play with him. Then, as I grew older, and my brother learned the game, my brother became his partner.
As his Parkinson’s worsened, we used euchre to gauge his condition. Even in instances where he would lose track of where he was, or who we were, he would still remember his last four hands. His passion for cards never seemed to dim, and the game helped everyone cope with what was a very difficult situation.
I still remember the first time we visited him at the hospital. We had been warned that he was unaware of his surroundings, that his mind wasn’t what it once was. And I remember thinking, if he really is gone, we will know when we play cards.
We sat down in the dining hall, and someone pulled out the deck. The game moved along, and my grandfather struggled to keep up with the conversation. He was confused easily, and sitting next to him, I wondered if he was going to be able to play. A few hands in, I dealt, turning over a club.
“Pick that up.” He said.
I picked up the card, making clubs trump.
He led a low club, meaning he was going to lose the trick. My father and I looked at each other. “That’s trump.” My dad said.
My grandfather nodded as I trumped his card and won the trick. I won the next trick too, and was on the verge of euchring him.
It was then that my grandfather, his hand trembling slightly, flashed my brother a quick thumbs up. My dad and I looked at each other again, and watched as my grandfather took the next three tricks with off aces. It was a gutsy move, but it paid off. And in the end, it only added to his legend. Hey, remember that time Grandpa Orv pretended he was too confused to play, gave you the thumbs up, and won the game? It makes me laugh to this day.
In speaking with many family members this week, I have come to realize that my grandfather lived a life divided into various stages. And the stage of his life I am speaking about today, when he had Parkinson’s, is probably a time in his life many of us would rather forget. But is a testament to my grandfather that despite the hardships he faced, I still have very fond memories of the time we spent together. There are some of us here today like me, who only know Orville Loomis when he had Parkinson’s. People like my brother Zack, his other grandchildren Mercedez and Camdyn, and Ryan and Cory. And as hard as his disease must have been on my grandfather and the people who loved him, I think we can all take comfort in the fact that he was still able to make a difference in the lives of young people, something I could tell meant the world to him.
As we gather today to celebrate a man that meant many different things to many different people, we should look back on the times we spent with him, all the times. We do not remember days, we remember moments. There might have been days where my grandfather struggled with his disease, but he still led a rich and rewarding life, filled with many moments where he touched us all.
It is comforting to know that he is in a better place, where his physical abilities have returned, his mind is clear, and a 9-10 with 3 off aces isn’t that bad of a hand.

Home is...

2010-05-16T21:09:00.000-07:00

What is a home? What is a house?

A house is a dwelling, a structure of some type. The term "house" generally implies ownership and space.

Home is different. Home is much more personal, emotional. A connection of some sorts. Roots. You might live in a house but it is not your home.

I am thinking about this as I move from the home I have spent the last ten years or so at, to an apartment in New Jersey.

When will that become my home?

Will it ever?

27 Minutes

2010-04-28T12:22:00.000-07:00

27 Minutes.

That's how long it took Army snipers Randy Shughart and Gary Gordon to go from two regular Delta Force soldiers to heroes. They saved another man's life, at the cost of their own.

The oversimplified story is this: On October 3, 1993, during a raid to capture a Somali warlord in Mogadishu, a U.S. Army Black Hawk helicopter was shot down. When another Black Hawk took its place in the sky to provide cover for the ground forces, that helicopter was also shot down. Its pilot, Mike Durant, survived the crash but was badly injured, and a thousand Somali guerrilla fighters converged on the site.

After being denied twice previously, Shughart and Gordon were given permission to leave their helicopter and set up a perimeter around Durant. Two men, against hundreds if not thousands of hardened fighters. They reached the crash site, pulled Durant free, and set him up in a covered position before engaging the enemy. After expending all his ammunition, Gordon was mortally wounded. Shughart returned to Durant to give him another weapon. As he left, he simply said, "Good luck." Minutes later, after expending all his ammunition, and that from discarded weapons, Shughart was also mortally wounded. Durant was captured, but later released. He is still alive today.

It took 27 minutes. Less than half an hour. In the amount of time it takes to watch a sitcom, two
men gave everything they ever had, and ever would be, to save one. Have you done something in that short a time that has meant so much? I know I have not.

What is also interesting is that Shughart and Gordon knew what they were asking to do. They knew rescue was far away, and that the area was extremely hostile, but they asked to go in anyways. What motivates someone to ask for such a task, where the outcome is so deeply in doubt? What do you think as you run towards what you know might very well be your death? What do you think as the situation escalates out of hand? Do you still believe in your choice?

27 Minutes. That's how long it took for two men to save a life, take scores of others, win the Medal of Honor, become heroes, and die.

27 Minutes.

Think about that next time you are sitting down, wasting time in the mindless minutia we call life. Think about that, and think about Randy Shughart, Gary Gordon, and the countless others that have changed the world in some way in such a small period of time.

I have no idea what I want to do

2010-03-18T23:43:00.001-07:00

I have no idea what I want to do with my life.

And it feels great.

When I graduate with whatever bullshit degree I decide upon, I'm going to sell my stuff, get in my car, and head west.

"Just drive baby."

Things that interest me now: (in no particular order)

Friends
Baseball
Drinking good beer
Germany
Irish history
Irish Music
Music in general
Good movies
Connections with others
serendipity

Oh well, I guess there is more life out there than one lifetime can handle. Glad I brought tupperware.

More changes

2010-03-11T08:56:00.000-08:00

I hate Twitter. But I really want one.

I don't consider myself interesting enough to get a Twitter, but I see the appeal in having that immediate connection. Sometimes, when I'm watching TV, and I see or hear something strange, funny, or just plain weird, I want to know if anyone else thought the same way. So a Twitter would help with that.

Why do I bring up Twitter? Because the personal connection that one has with 160 characters, and how well he can sum up all the problems in his life in those few letters and numbers, is a lot like what I'm trying to bring to the blog. Personal connection, some kind of reaching out. And at the same time, I want to expand. When I go on my trip, I want to have something tying me back to this blog, some reason to update it, to chronicle my journal, as much for myself as for others. Given the randomness and spontaneity that will drive the Odyssey, it mihgt be my only chance to give peple back home an update to my whereabouts and well-being.

So how do I expand? I'm not entirely sure, but I'm open to suggestions.

How do I make it small? That's coming, I think I have an idea of how to do that. So stay tuned.

Changes

2010-03-11T08:43:00.000-08:00

My last post was in July, last decade. So yeah, it's been a while.

My life has changed considerably in the eight or so months it's been, and I've decided to change the style of the blog, rather than delete it entirely. In my initial post I said I would put musings in here, and I've done a pretty crappy job at that. And honestly, since I don't get to travel as much as I'd like, I can't keep this strictly to films and travel reports. **Side Note** I made a fifteen minute film on Vancouver, using footage I shot whilst there. It's on youtube, on my channel. I'll try to post a link. **

Anyways, my goal with this blog has been somewhat long term. You see, I have about two years left of my collegiate career, but while most people are filling out grad school applications or submitting resumes, I'm saving up for something big, bigger than me, bigger than anything in my life.

I'm going on a trip. A road trip. For a couple years.

I hate writing things down only to see them fail to come to fruition, so it is with great determination that I write this. As soon as I pick up my degree, I'm selling everything I don't need, everything that will tie me down, pack up my car, and go. Maybe I'll leave a few boxes in storage at a friends, but my life will be limited to what I can put in my car, and that's with space for me to sleep.

I'm heading west (unless I graduate early, in which case I'll go south first.) Regardless, there is so much out there that I haven't seen that i feel I need to see. And I'll do anything to get there. If I'm broke and I can grab a job on a farm for a couple weeks, so be it. This will get me as far as Alaska.

After I've seen Alaska - that's a joke - I'm selling the car and anything I can't carry in a backpack. Then I'm getting on a plane and heading to southeast Asia. Cambodia, maybe Laos. We'll see. Money's cheap and life is short. I'm not quite sure why Cambodia appeals to me. Maybe it's the lawlessness, the last vestige of the cowboy. Maybe it's the fact that one can get by on five dollars a day. It'll be an experience, no doubt.

So that's the plan, stay tuned. My next post will be how I plan to change the blog.

Hello from Vancouver!

2009-07-30T20:45:00.000-07:00

Hey guys, sorry about the lackadaisical updates, that will hopefully be changing.

As I previously mentioned, I am going to Vancouver Island for two weeks, and I am writing this from a hotel in Vancouver. I'll be heading up to Squamish tomorrow to play around on the Stawamus Chief before heading to the Island. Hopefully I'll have pictures tomorrow, the camera is cranky tonight.

Today was absolutely awesome; I went to Victory Square to see a monument I had read about and always wanted to see; the WWI obliesk inscribed "Is it nothing to you? Those who pass by? They will be remembered here evermore."

Very sobering to think not only of the sacrifices such young people gave, but also that that chapter in history is about to close as I can count on one hand the number of WWI veterans alive today.

I also went to Stanley Park, which is the most incredible free space I've ever seen maintained in a city; I wish other cities would consider keeping some green space like Stanley.

Other than that, it is insanely hot, around 35-40C which is about 95-100F. But I'm happy as can be and I can't wait till tomorrow when the video camera finally comes out.

Cheers!

Chris

What's Next

2009-05-30T20:29:00.000-07:00

First of all, thanks to everyone who helped me get my film out. Jim Cavers and Forest Wisdom were kind enough to post the video on their blogs, thanks so much guys.

So, what's next? Depending on how much time I can get off work, I'll be going back to the Adirondacks with my brother for a climb of Cascade's Trap Dike, or possibly going back to Saint Regis to film the first installment of Worst Portage in the World, where Zack and I seek out insane carries, and then film ourselves getting crucified by them.

Then, I'm off to Vancouver for about two weeks, where I'll be hitting Squamish, the Juan de Fuca Trail, West Coast Trail, and some other awesome locales.

And of course, I'll be bringing both cameras along.

Saint Regis Reflections - Premier

2009-05-23T11:26:00.000-07:00

Hey guys,

I just finished a 14 minute film about the Saint Regis Canoe Area, my favorite place to paddle in the Adirondack Mountains of New York. This is my first film while camping or canoeing, so there was a steep learning curve, and I'm still working out the kinks. But I welcome all suggestions and criticism; I'm trying to do this at a more professional level.

I put the film on Youtube to increase views, but as you guys know, the quality is not what it should be. If you can, watch it in HD. Thanks so much for your help, and I hope you like Saint Regis Reflections

Tenzing

Part One - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AAMJ3nX21ic

Part Two - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QiG0eRsON7Y

Big Project!

2009-05-05T21:22:00.000-07:00

OK, so I have not publicized this blog much yet, nor have I promoted my work yet.

That's about to change.

I recently got back from Saint Regis Pond (trip log forthcoming). I brought my video camera, and was able to shoot enough footage to hopefully have a short film, 15-20 minutes or so. I'll start editing it next week when I go home, and hope to have it all done by the end of May.

This is a huge step for me, and I'm planning to release and promote the hell out of it, to see what people's reactions are to my work.

Thanks for all the support so far, and I'm really excited to see what everyone thinks of my film.

Song Of The Paddle

2009-05-01T10:39:00.001-07:00

Missinaibi?

2009-02-18T22:17:00.001-08:00

The Missinaibi River?

Uhh...HELL YES

Valentine's Day Project Link

2009-02-09T19:53:00.000-08:00

Link to the youtube location for the Valentine's Day film I made. Nothing much, just some old pictures and video that had not been used before.

Sometime this winter, I'm going to try to import the Alaska movie.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hSVlGb8PleE

Algonquin 2003 Trip Log

2009-02-05T18:44:00.000-08:00

Trip Log
August 2003

Cedar-Catfish-Hogan-LaMuir-Bruntroot-Nipissing R-Cedar

Intro

This trip was a rite of passage, planned since my father knew of my impending arrival. In August, with my mother six months pregnant, he left for this same trip with her two brothers. And ever since my first time sleeping in a tent in the backyard, or the first camping trip to Long Pond when I was three, this trip had always waited. I was a gangly teenager in the summer of 2003, and I was off to Algonquin.

Day One

Hit the road early, at about 2:30 AM. It takes about ten hours to get to Brent from Pennsylvania, and we wanted to hit the water at 1:00PM in hopes of getting to Catfish before dark.
The drive up was long and uneventful. After passing customs at Thousand Islands, we headed down 401 towards Kingston before picking up 15. The only hang up was in Carlton Place, but we were able to find 15 again quickly, and were then on 17, headed towards Brent. After a stop in Petawawa for gas and for subs, we reached Brent at 12:30 and were in the water just after one.
Cedar was very calm, but even in its placidity I was overwhelmed by its vastness. I had paddled on Upper Saranac in the Adirondacks, but always near shore. Cedar was huge, deep, and open, not at all the lake I wanted to be on in wind. And, as if he had read my mind, Dad was quick to bring up the times he had gotten blown around the lake, riding up and down three foot waves like an Alaskan fishing boat.

(Cedar Lake - Deceptively calm)

We reached the first portage in about twenty minutes and quickly unloaded. We had made a decision to single carry, figuring that a little extra weight trumped two extra trips. I carried the dry pack, which had the tent, tarp, bags, pads, and clothes. Dad had the food and the canoe. After clipping the thwart bag to the top of the dry pack I headed up the trail.
As it was the first portage of the trip, and uphill, it seemed a lot worse than it probably was. A young couple had taken out with us. I started off with the woman slightly ahead of me but quickly passed her. I was feeling pretty good when I heard, “On your left.” The guy jogged by effortlessly, canoe on his shoulders, pack on his back, and completely barefoot. They grow ‘em tough in Canada.
We got to the end of the portage quickly and headed up the Petawawa. Just after the first bend, we ran into a bull moose, standing in the middle of the river, munching on the lilies. It was my first moose, so we drifted by very slowly and snapped a bunch of pictures.

(Falls on the Petawawa)

The next portage was around falls, so it was very steep, but also very short. We were back on the river quickly, and saw two more moose, a cow and a calf, at the take out for the next portage. I have heard many names for P 2345. My brother calls it The Beast. My dad calls it The Bi—h. It is all that and more. I plodded and plodded, knowing that the end was just around the corner. I kept going, my hopes rising at the slice of sky around the bend. To my horror, it was just a cut over a meadow. Demoralized, I found a rock to prop up my pack, grabbed my water bottle, and caught my breath.
It was about then that I noticed the mosquitoes. Because of the heat, I had thought it a brilliant idea to wear a sleeveless shirt. As I sat on the rock, I began to get swarmed, which prompted me to get a move on. After another stop or two, I reached the end of the portage, tired as hell and covered in bites. Dad was right behind with just the food pack. He dumped it and turned around to retrieve the canoe, which he had jettisoned a quarter mile back. I sat on the root-covered landing, being eaten alive and just too tired to give a damn.

(Dad on The Beast)

We humped to Catfish quickly, blowing past the last two carries. Dad had a specific site on Catfish in mind, a sight he had stayed on with his brothers-in-law (when my mother was six months pregnant). The site is on the east side, with a huge rock point that juts out quite a ways.
We had the subs for dinner. Packing in pre-made sandwiches isn’t a bad idea, and its one that I’ve taken to lately. After dinner, with a nice fire going, Dad handed me a present to commemorate the trip, a beautiful Helle knife with a curled birch and caribou antler handle. I still have the knife to this day, taking it on almost every trip as an emergency survival knife. It’s still sharp enough to shave with.

(The point on the Catfish site)

Day Two

A quick start put us on the lake early, and soon we were twisting south, towards the first portage. After about thirty minutes, we turned a bend and saw a huge bull, eating about fifteen yards from a blue heron. The bull, Dad informed me, had the biggest rack he’d ever seen in Algonquin. We floated by, snapping a few pics, before the heron took flight and the moose retreated back to the forest. Around the next corner, we spooked a cow, which bolted into the brush.

(Big Bull at the end of Catfish. Note the blue heron center right)

The first two portages were not too strenuous, and we stopped for lunch at the end of the second. We tried the tuna fish already pre-mixed with mayo in a bag; it was god-awful. If we weren’t both starving, I doubted we’d have finished it. We jumped back in the boat and headed down Manta, ready to get the last portage out of the way.
As we paddled along the shore, we saw another bull, with a rack almost as big as the last. Already three bulls, and we hadn’t even gotten to the Nipissing.
The 1945 meter portage into Hogan was a slog, but not nearly as bad as The Beast. I made it to the end and waited for Dad, who was alarmingly late. Just as I started to go back and look, he rounded a bend. As we put the boat back into the water, he informed me that I had failed in my duties. Curious, I asked why. He said that I had not alerted him of a low hanging limb that he had walked right into, canoe-first. The shock knocked him down, and out. When he came to, some time later, he was lying down and the canoe was on the side of the trail, undamaged. All in all, we were very lucky.
We grabbed a spot on the south side, just as the wind picked up. The site was poor, with a marshy pit behind it. If the wind hadn’t been so strong, the bugs would have been horrendous.

Day Three

When we woke up, we were sure we were going to be staying an extra day at Hogan. So sure of it, we went back to bed for an hour.
It was downright miserable. Steady rain fell and a solid wind pushed whitecaps down Hogan, towards Parks Bay. Finally, we rolled out of the tent, made a dash for the tarp, and got oatmeal going. Two cups and three hands of Casino later, the rain stopped, a hole in the clouds appeared, and the wind subsided.
We discussed making a dash for Burntroot. There would be no easy way; we were to cross three large lakes, two of which would be directly into the wind. But we wanted to move, and after a quick breakdown of camp, we set out for la Muir.
It took thirty minutes of strenuous trudging, bucking strong wilds and big waves, to reach the end of Hogan. The portage into Lake la Muir was buggy and wet, so we quickly loaded up and headed to a campsite for lunch. I noshed on some peanut butter and chocolate chip cookies, a personal favorite camping lunch of mine. Then we headed back out for what seemed to drag on and on, as la Muir is a large lake and we were paddling directly into the wind.

(Some of the bug bites on my right arm)

The second portage was longer, but dry, and was all together pleasant. Burntroot was large, but offered shelter from the wind in many places, so we were quickly able to get to the north end, and to a campsite on an island just south of the portage to Whiskeyjack.
The campsite was nice, and from it we could see across the lake to a small marsh, where a cow moose grazed in the distance. It was just a speck, and was our only moose of the day in what was a tiring and rather boring day.
After mac and cheese and a few hands of cards, I scouted the tiny island. I surmised that it was too small for a bear, which was reassuring. The campsite was very nice, and I would definitely try to get it again when I return.

Day Four

When people ask me what the worst portage in Algonquin is, they expect to hear about the Beast. But there is another. Another, beastier portage.
We headed up to Robinson, making quick work of P 1310. Robinson was a nice lake, and the campsites looked nice from the boat. But at the west end, horrors awaited.
We were probably 400 yards away from the take out for P 25 when I noticed the noise. It was a high whine, like a dentist’s drill. “What the hell is that?” “Dunno, sounds like its coming from the carry.” Hanging above the takeout was a black cloud. “Oh sweet Jesus.”
The bugs were of biblical proportions. The swarm pulsated, waiting to dive bomb. Ten yards off shore, we bailed out and, throwing caution to the wind, grabbed what we could and scuttled across the portage. I had a pack in one hand, its strap resting on my forearm. In the other I clutched the thwart bag and both paddles. I made it to the end of the carry and turned to see Dad, holding the food pack in one hand and the canoe by its center thwart in the other, booking down the carry. We piled back into the boat, paddled furiously into the middle of Whiskey Jack, and then stopped to catch our breath.

(Fun fun fun!)

Whiskey Jack and Remona are too small to be considered lakes, in my opinion. Some of the “ponds” in the Adirondacks are as big as Catfish, and to compare that to Remona seemed silly. Regardless, we made it to the Nipissing before noon, running low on water and patience.
After watching a cow moose from the portage and grabbing a piece of jerky, we headed up the Nipissing, having posttraumatic stress from a Tim River, some three or years earlier.
The Nip proved to be less aggravating, and I sat in the bow, drawing happily while noting that the wind (hopefully) would not be a factor in the sheltered valley. After P 850, we finally came to a portion of the river that was wide enough to filter. Our pre-filter got a workout, and even after the water came out, it was still yellow-brown from all the tannic acid. Looked a lot like another liquid…
We both chugged down a Nalgene bottle and refilled. The lack of water was a serious problem for Dad, who was prone to cramp up, especially after kneeling in a boat all day. The cramps were devastatingly painful, not to mention violent, which was not good in a tippy canoe.
The Nip bended and meandered along, past a few more moose including a juvenile bull. We were about an hour away from P 365 when we rounded a bend and ran into a moose. A bull moose. A very large bull moose.
I was happy as could be, as this moose was as big as the one at the end of Catfish two days before. I sat quietly, snapping pictures quickly. The moose looked at us with a bored stare, then turned and climbed out of the river and into the willow. It was then that I noticed Dad, furiously back-paddling, trying to get us away. We were a little close, probably thirty feet or less. We gave the moose a minute to clear the area, then continued along, looking for the next portage.

(Moose in the Nipissing)

We missed P 365. It wasn’t marked, or was poorly marked, and we missed it completely. The next thing we knew, we were heading down a shallow, swift, and rocky river.
After the water became to shallow, we bailed out, grabbed an end, and started walking downstream. The water was pleasantly cool, and the current was strong enough to push us along without effort. We piled back in, only to bail out five minutes later and repeat the process at P 110, just for kicks.
At the bottom of the rapids, I stepped into a deep pool and almost went over my head. Simultaneously, a flashlight that I had forgotten was still in my pocket bobbed to the surface and floated away while my right shoe came off. Panicked, I fumbled around until I found it, lifting it to the surface with my toe. After reattaching the boot, I searched for my flashlight, but to no avail.
I climbed back into the boat, annoyed at my stupidity for losing the flashlight. Reaching into my pocket, I also found a stick of bite juice, which had become my best friend. If I had lost that, I would have been inconsolable.
Just as we were leaving the last patch of swift water, I noticed something bobbing in an eddy; it was my three-dollar flashlight. We paddled over and retrieved it. To my amazement it still worked. Today, it sits on a shelf in my room, a funny memento of the trip.
After opting to actually portage P 180, we made camp on both of the sites at the base of the portage. I went for a dip in the river to cool off, and afterwards we made the last dinner of the trip.
Just as the light was fading, we heard the clatter of paddle on gunwale. A few minutes later, a man stumbled into camp with exhaustion on his face and a thick Boston accent. We quickly vacated the lower site and watched him set up a tent, throw his gear under a tree, and go to sleep.
With one day remaining, sleep came quickly to us as well.

Day Five

After oatmeal, we headed down the Nipissing, our last day on the water. We stopped at a campsite on the south shore for power bars and a picture. The first portage went quickly and before long, we were at the last portage, only a mile or so away from Cedar.
Now, on the last day of a trip, I am melancholy in that I try to take in and enjoy all the aspects of the trip, especially when I am at the “last” of something. However, this does not extend to portages. When I shrugged off the pack at the end of P 915, I could only think of how there weren’t any more portages.
The Nipissing empties into Cedar through a delta-like marsh. We paddled along, past wild rice and tall grass, until we came to Cedar Lake.

(Rice fields at the end of the Nipissing River. Calm, placid water...)

Up to that point, we had been on a river, surrounded by dense alder and forest. We had no idea how strong the wind would be, but thankfully, it was not too strong and in our face rather than blowing across the gunwales, which would be devastating on a lake as large as Cedar.
We started out, bucking a head wind but moving well, pointed at the campground. About a third of the way across, just as we started crossing the “open” section at the mouth of Gilmour Finger, the wind shifted.
“Christ.” Dad ducked his head as we rolled into a trough. “Loose butt, paddle hard, and zip up that goddamn life jacket.” By no means the most encouraging statement.
The wind had shifted 90 degrees, now blowing to the southeast, directly across our gunwales. On top of that, it had intensified, and quickly we were splashing through three-foot whitecaps. The boat rolled and tossed, and I kept digging my paddle into the water, pulling hard, trying to launch us to Brent.
The bow crashed down hard into a trough, spraying cold lake water. The boat rolled, but because of its excellent “secondary stability”, we knew that it could roll to the gunwale and still right itself. A big wave crashed into the side, pushing the boat down into a trough. For a moment, land disappeared, and two walls of water surrounded me with sky for a ceiling. We needed to get off the lake, now.
The waves continued to batter the canoe, but we started to make progress, and after fifteen minutes of terrifying, white knuckle paddling, we reached the safety of the limestone cliff, and were quickly back at Brent.
A few of the campers from the campground had gathered to watch the wind push the boats around. Just as we neared the put-in, probably less than a quarter mile, we were overtaken by a rowboat, breezing along with little effort.
“You want a tow in?” The rower asked, smirking at our canoe. “It’s kinda choppy.”
I knew the comment would likely draw ire from my father, a proud canoeist and also a man of common sense. He looked at the cliffs that had sheltered us from the wind, then turned to survey the choppy mess we had churned through, then at the relatively still water we were in now, then looked up at the rower.
“Nah, were fine.”
The rowboat took off for the put in. Dad shook his head and muttered something that I couldn’t quite understand.
We drifted into the put in nonchalantly, quickly unloading our gear but leaving the boat at the shore. Cedar had taken a lot out of us, both in stamina and in time. We had an extra day on the permit in case of foul weather, so we decided to use it at the campground, the legality of which we neither knew nor cared. I humped the packs into the bed of the truck as Dad rinsed off the boat. Just then, the skies opened up and a tremendous summer downpour finished the job. We waited inside the truck for about twenty minutes, and then the rain stopped just as suddenly as it came. The sun returned with a vengeance and we were treated to three rainbows, stacked on top of each other, bending from one end of Cedar to the other.

(Rainbows on a much calmer Cedar Lake)

As we went to sleep that night, our tent pitched on the ground beside the truck, I made a boneheaded mistake that could have been extremely costly in other situations. When I had unfurled my Thermarest that afternoon, I had neglected to open the valve. Now, at 10 PM, the mattress was as thin as paper, and neither insulated me from the ground nor offered me any comfort from the hard, gravel-packed earth. But what made it truly inexcusable was how easy it would have been to rectify the problem, a simple unscrewing and a little lung action. So I tossed and turned all night, shivering in and out of a restless sleep. When we awoke at 3AM to begin the trip back, I felt tired, cold, and queasy. Sure enough, fifteen minutes down the Brent Road, I quickly rolled down the passenger window and vomited, emptying the ruby grapefruit-mixed water from my stomach.
We saw a moose on the road, giving us at least one moose for each day of the trip. Dad saw a huge black bear as well, but I only caught its shadows as it retreated into the forest. I still felt like crap, so as we turned onto Highway 17, I tried to sleep. That, combined with a nap I took while waiting for pictures to develop back in Pennsylvania, did the trick. I felt much better, and learned a serious lesson that I would never forget.

What Was Learned

• Single portaging is a pain, but it is definitely the best way to go. I understand that doing so solo is much more difficult, but for two guys in a tandem, it is the most efficient and quick way to hit a portage. The Beast only took an hour and a half. It takes some people six.
• DEET! I didn’t use it, and got crucified. I thought the permethrane on my clothes would be enough; it isn’t. In fact, I only slathered on DEET once, at the take out for the portage into la Muir, and the bugs left me alone. It really does work. At the end of the trip, we had so much spray-on left that I took to shooting mosquitoes out of the sky with it. Trust me, it’s fun but not as effective as actually using it.
• Sandwiches. We got BMT subs on the way into the park, and didn’t have to cook the first night. Very smart.
• If you aren’t carrying the canoe, you need to be the eyes for the poor guy who is. Dad could have been seriously hurt. Imagine, me trying to lug a boat, two packs, and him back over the Beast. We could have been seriously screwed if he had busted his ankle when the limb put him to sleep.
• In Algonquin, you need to be ready to adapt to whatever the gods throw at you. If we hadn’t been up and ready to move, we would have missed the weather hole and would have been stranded on Hogan.
• The elevation of the lakes is a joke. According to the map, we reached or height-o-land at la Muir. Then why the hell were we still portaging uphill? Obviously, there was more down than up, but I was still upset.
• Cedar will seriously screw you up if you play around. That wind whipped the lake into some serious chop, and we really risked it running across the lake in those conditions. Obviously, the wind shifted after we had started, but it was still dangerous and I doubt the lake would care much about wind shifts if I went for a swim.
• The Thermarest was a stupid mistake. If I had done that anywhere but next to our car, I would have had to trip sick.
• Most of all, Algonquin is an incredible place. It deserves respect and responsibility, and when those two aspects come together, you can really lose yourself and have a great time being self-reliant and enjoying the outdoors.

(Downtown Brent: Business District - A hoppin' place I wish to see again and again)

New Gear

2008-12-01T18:29:00.000-08:00

Just got back from PA, and am still fighting a cold.

Thanksgiving was fun, the food was good. I got to see Alex, and we are planning two trips, a short St. Regis jaunt in July to prepare for the big trip in August to Algonquin.

I also braved Black Friday crowds to hit up the REI in Philly. I needed a coat, because it's pretty freaking cold in Binghamton. I got a Mountain Hardware liner and shell. They aren't a 3 in 1 set, but they act as such and should keep me warm.

I also looked at the Salomon Techamphibians. They had one pair left, and they were 11.5s. I'm a 12 or a 13. But then I found out they were 50% off. So now I'm a 11.5.

I can't wait to stink them up this summer messing about in boats.

Happy Thanksgiving!

2008-11-25T09:19:00.000-08:00

Okay, so it's a little early, but nonetheless.

Just one more paper to finish and one more test, then I'll be headed home. I haven't seen the valley since early September, so I'm looking forward to it

Ham and potatoes, working out trip details with Alex, all the good stuff.

And climbing too. They say there is a little snow at home, we'll see. I've climbed in worse/stupider conditions.

Binghamton has seen its fair share of snow, at least some every day for the last two weeks. When I talk with people from Avon, a little town a few miles south of Rochester in Western NY, they all sympathize with me about how cold it must be in Binghamton. When someone from Avon feels bad about how cold it will be somewhere, that's not a good sign.

The temperatures are actually not bad, what I would put into the pleasant category, about 20 degrees. Howeer, the wind is pretty brutal, especially on campus. BU sits on a hill, tucked into the center of a horseshoe-shaped ridge that funnels all the wind through. Walking across the quad can be pretty miserable.

But it hasn't stopped me from wearing flipflops.

Thanks

2008-11-21T09:31:00.000-08:00

Thanks for all the birthday wishes, and for the crown. I wear it proudly.

Chris

I Miss Climbing

2008-11-19T11:33:00.000-08:00

(Stover, late winter. Below the crux of Neanderthal 5.8)

I'm sitting in my room, watching the snow fall, putting off a paper, and wishing that I was climbing. I haven't gone since July, an incredibly long time. The little slab work I did in October only made me want more. Binghamton has a lot of great places, but they are severely deficient in crags. I'd even take (gasp) indoor climbing at this point.

This Thanksgiving, I'm going to need to hit Ralph Stover. Saturday for sure, maybe even Sunday morning before I head back.

Footnote:

I heard that one of the crux holds on Neanderthal broke. Obviously, for Stover, this is nothing new. The joke is, Stover is the most dynamic crag in the northeast, because the climbs change so frequently.

That said, if the new Neanderthal is way hard, I'm going to be upset. That was to be a summer problem.

St. Regis - May 2008

2008-11-18T18:43:00.000-08:00

Trip Report for Spring Fishing Trip to St. Regis Pond - Adirondacks, NY

This was the first week of May, 2008. Just a week earlier, I had been hard at work on a campaign for the Pennsylvania primary, working as a field organizer in the southern portion of Lehigh County. At over 100 hours a week, the job had almost killed me, and I needed the trip, the silence, the fresh air badly.

We headed up early, stopping at Saranac Lake for sandwiches and a fishing license. We made it to Little Clear by around 1, unloaded quickly, and started off. I was in the stern of the Eagle with my brother, Zack, paddling bow. With us was my father, in the Companion. The wind on Little Clear was non-existent, the first time I had ever been on the pond without wind in the face. We zipped along to the portage, which had been recently cleared and was in great shape. Dad and I hossed the canoes and the packs, and Zack took the food. The portage was as pleasant as a walk through the woods with a canoe "hat" could be.

The paddle into Saint Regis was very nice, and soon we were searching for a camp site. The lean-to was taken (I think the same group lives there year round). Our usual site on the right side of the lake directly opposite the lean-to was also taken. In the end, we decided to stay on a different section of the pond, on the northern shore across from the lean-to. The site was big and open, and had a great rock landing, with deep, deep water. It was a great site.

I pitched the tent as Dad strung up a tarp. As Zack gathered firewood, I put my rod together and shoved off in the Companion. I cast against the north shore, far away from where I had fished on previous trips. Almost immediately, I was rewarded. I landed a nice splake, about 17 inches or so. I released it and started fishing again. A minute later, a strike, and another splake. It was a little smaller, but still a nice fish.

(One of the fish)

Dad got his line in the water and caught a splake as well. This was the first site we had stayed that had good fishing from the site. Usually, we had to paddle out to one of the "spots".

After the fishing cooled off, Zack and I headed to the other end of the pond to chase loons, a la Gus in Lonesome Dove. Zack wasn't as game as I, probably because he didn't have a coat and it was rather chilly, but we managed to track two and snap a few pics before heading back.

(Loon chasing; cuz pretty soon, there won't be any loons left to chase!)

(A cold, cloudy spring sunset)

The next day, I added another splake to my total, and Dad put up one as well, a beautiful splake that we would keep to supplement dinner.

Later that afternoon, Dad and I paddled down to the fish barrier on the west end of the pond. We scoped out the portage that goes to Fish Pond, deciding to come back the next day.

When we got back to camp, we checked out the land around the camp site. The forest was thick, and there was some great erratics, including this, the bastard love child of a tree and a boulder.

(Geology gone horribly wrong)

In all the tramping around, I lost my brand new sunglasses, a pair of Easton wraparounds that I had bought just for the trip. I wear contacts when I'm tripping, and without sunglasses, my eyes dry very quickly. But I think it was the wasted 25 bucks that stung more. Lesson learned, don't put the sunglasses on top of a wide brimmed hat. You don't feel them fall off.

That night, we dined on the fish. With a little butter, salt, and pepper, it was great.

(Dinner!)

The next day, we hiked down to Fish Pond, meeting a pair of portage cleaners on the way. We stayed at Fish for a few minutes, but without a boat we grew bored and headed back. Once back on St. Regis, we opted to paddle down the St. Regis River into Ochre Pond. It was a bit of an adventure, as none of us had ever tried it before. A few beaver dam-pullovers later, we made it to Ochre, before heading back. It was tiring and I got a little wet hauling the boat over obstructions, but all in all it was quite fun.

("Portage" to Fish)

Back at camp, Dad snagged two more fish, including a beautiful laker. Zack got skunked, unfortunately, but Dad and I had the best fishing either of us had ever had. It was extremely cold and windy, as weather was beginning to move in. Dad and I stayed up for a while, watching the last fire of the trip burn down into coals before heading to the bags.

(Dad's Laker)

The next day, it was wet and misty, but the rain had stopped before dawn. We broke camp and headed towards the portage. Little Clear was engulfed in fog and mist, but again the wind was minimal. We raced for the put in, chased by grey clouds to the north. We made it back to the car and tied the boats down in record time. I snapped a picture of Little Clear just as the clouds opened and the rain started.

(Little Clear, seconds before the rain)

A great trip.

Notes:

We stopped at the Adirondack Loj and then the Mountaineer on the way out of town. Both were very cool, and reaffirmed my wish to tramp about in the High Peaks soon.

Losing my sunglasses sucked. I need to be more careful. On a long trip, that could have been a problem.

The fishing was great, and it was nice to see a part of the lake we had never seen before.

Overboots are okay for getting in and out of a boat at portages, but if there is any wading to be done, like going over a beaver dam, water tends to seep in. In the future, I want a water shoe, one I can wear without socks and that dries fast. Salomon Techamphibians?

It's time to go to Fish Pond and explore a bit.

Chipmunk Video

2008-11-17T21:35:00.000-08:00

Yes, the fabled chipmunk video. No animals were harmed. Enjoy!

Trip Proposals!

2008-11-17T19:20:00.000-08:00

Winter in the northeast severely limits my adventuring, especially since my winter sports are limited to sledding and snow ball fights. But the winter does lend itself to trip planning.

Right now, I have two Algonquin trips going. The secondary trip is for late May, after classes end. It will be "the" loop, from Cedar to Catfish to Burntroot to Cedar, by the Petawawa and the Nipissing Rivers. My plan is to leave off Hogan in the hopes of spending an extra night at Burntroot, and maybe another extra day on Catfish. Maybe even reversing the direction, so we are with he current on the Petawawa.

This time, I want to take some time to fish and to check out the historical sites on Catfish and Burntroot.

But the BIG trip!

This is for late August, a week or two before school starts (if I'm still a student)

It would be my first lead, as this time it would be just me and my friend. I want to do a loop from Kiosk, going down Mink to Club the first night, up Erables to Maple the second night, over to Three Mile, down to Biggar, and over to North Tea the third night, a rest day, and then to Manitou the fifth night before heading back to Kiosk. We'd probably spend that sixth night in North Bay, before heading home through Buffalo (a true loop).

Right now my worries lie in the third day. Maple to Three Mile to Biggar to North Tea is a HAUL. It's about 15 miles, with almost 6km of carries. I have two contingencies planned. If we reach Three Mile and we are tired/late/fed up, we can portage 2800 meters downhill (like that would matter on a 2800 meter portage) to Manitou. And, once we reach Biggar, there are sites all the way to the East Arm of North Tea. But I really want to get to an island site on the East Arm, so that we can have a true rest day.

As for fishing, I've heard Club, Erables, Biggar, North Tea, and Manitou as likely spots for specks, lakers, and smallmouth. It would be great to catch anything, and maybe, if we are lucky, I can introduce Algonquin properly, with some fish dinner.

Lots of time left to plan. I can't secure the permit until February, so I'm sure there will be minor changes. But man, planning is fun.

(The Kiosk Route: I'll draw it out when I can. It looks like the bottom half of a capital "A")

Climbing Ethics: The Krakauer Method

2008-11-17T19:10:00.000-08:00

OK, rant time.

Not really, but I do want to point out something I see often, and in my opinion, too often.

For some reason, hiking does not get the same respect for turn around times that mountaineering does. Obviously, mountaineering is much more dangerous, and hiking is usually done on established, often heavily trafficked trails.

But I question those that push the envelope and summit late in the day. I've seen it at the Delaware Water Gap, in the Adirondacks, even at Haycock. (For those of you that don't know Haycock, it's less than 1000 feet tall, but has no trail, and is a boulder field-summit.)

In Into Thin Air, Jon Krakauer writes extensively of the two o'clock turn around time on Everest. During the 1996 storm, those that turned around before two where relatively safe, reaching Camp 4 ahead of the storm. Those that pushed on and summited at 3 or even 4 got stuck in the gale. Some made it through, some died. Krakauer points out that all would have lived if everyone turned around when they were supposed to.

I'm not equating any of my summits with Everest, but when I climb, I climb with a turn around time. I think that I could survive a night in the woods, but there are two reasons I make sure that I do not.

1) I don't want anyone to worry.

2) I never want to make someone look for me in the woods.

In my opinion, if you are pushing to the point that S&R is called, I think that that is a problem.

It is what it is and I doubt it will change. Just climb smart. Remember Ed Viesturs:

"Getting to the top is optional, getting down is mandatory."

Bog River & Cascade Mountain Oct. 2008

2008-11-17T18:06:00.000-08:00

A quick trip log of a three day trip to the Bog River Area and Cascade Mountain in the Adirondacks.

Dad and Zack picked me up outside my dorm at 10AM, way too early. The whole college thing is very tiring.

We cruised along 86, and then turned north on 87, my favorite highway in the world. after about four hours, we reached the Bog River put in, ahead of schedule but down sandwiches for that night's dinner.

After a quick discussion, Dad elected to drive into Tupper Lake and scrounge some, while Zack and I would grab a site and set up camp. We quickly unloaded the car and shoved off, cognizant of the dwindling daylight.

With Zack in the bow and myself in the stern of the Eagle, we figured it would take about 30 minutes to reach Hitchens Pond. The wind had other ideas.

Now, I have paddled in wind before, and have come to accept it as part of the tripping experience. On lakes. Not on rivers, and certainly not on the Bog. But the wind was incredible. It was right down the initial stretch, blasting towards Lower Dam. It took over 30 minutes to get out of sight of the parking lot. On a normal day, that takes fifteen minutes, tops. The wind continued to push us around, and I found myself prying and drawing a lot more than paddling forward. After almost an hour and a half, we reached Hitchens. Our favorite two sites were taken, so we grabbed the site directly across the pond from the Bog River outflow. It was a little buggy, and had been recently "manicured" with a chain saw, but it would do.

Zack pitched the tent, while I hung the tarp and cut logs for firewood. An hour passed. At 4:30,just as I was beginning to wonder if this had been some elaborate plan by Dad to test us by abandoning us for the night, he pulled into Hitchens. As I found out, his lateness had been in no way intended; he had been crucified by the wind.

After meatball subs, a good fire, and some satellite spotting, we headed to the bags.

The next morning, after oatmeal, we paddled over to Upper Dam for our annual slab climb. This year, I specifically requested my Mad Rocks, intent on working on some slab technique.

The trail to the top of the outlook has changed incredibly since my first bushwhack ascent, some ten years before. The trail was remarkably moderate, and after only 30 minutes, we reached the top. One can see all the way to the Lower Dam and Horseshoe Lake to the east, and Lowe's Lake to the west. In fall, the colors are vibrant, golds, yellows, oranges, greens, and reds abound.

(summit pic, note the bare feet. Rock shoes hurt!)

I scaled up and down the face a few times; the shoes make it so easy, it's truly incredible. After descending down the face, we bushwhacked to the trail head, where we met the ranger. We caught up for a bit, her son would be attending the Environmental Science SUNY school next year. Afterward, we headed into the marsh on the other side of the pond, trying to re-find my route to the railroad tracks I had discovered some four years before. The water was high enough to let us go deep into the marsh, but so high that it had washed out any land routes. We returned unsuccessful.

That night we decided to head out the next morning to climb Cascade on Saturday afternoon, rather than Sunday morning, which would get everyone home six hours early. It was a good decision, and that night, I drifted off to sleep trying to put away any thoughts of a possible first 46er summit.

A much quicker paddle through incredibly thick mist got us to the put in very early. We drove up to Saranac Lake, then to Lake Placid, and then to Keene, to my favorite store, the Mountaineer. After buying a water bag (ours had finally quit), some Clif bars, and a few tips, we headed back to the trail head for Cascade.

(paddling through the mist)

I had emboldened Dad (and myself) be repeating that Cascade was the "easiest" of the 46ers. But as we got closer and closer to the trail head, I noticed a distinctive bald rock top on a peak in the distance, towering at what seemed like Leviathan heights

"Yup, that's it."

We headed up the trail, which was full of people and ranged from pleasantly moderate to calf-bustingly steep. A few stops and an hour's climb brought us to a bald face, where a few dozen people were making lunch. My altimeter was FUBAR, telling me that I was at 3200 feet. We reached the junction for Porter, and finally broke through the trees to the rocky summit. It took a second of puzzle-work to find the right "line" to the summit, but only two hours after starting, we stood at the USGS marker.

The summit was incredibly crowded, and increasingly cold. After ten minutes for power bars, water, and some pictures, we headed back down.

As we passed what I deemed the halfway point, it was around 4:30 PM. It was then that I noticed there were still people ascending. We met a beleaguered family with overnight gear, the mother and young children exhausted. But at least they had shelter. We met many people who were heading to the top with nothing more than a fanny pack.

I found myself at a common dilemma. I find it hard to assertively tell someone they are making a mistake. I have found that for 99 out of 100 people would be fine, and 100 out of 100 won't listen.

But it is stupid and incredibly dangerous to be ascending that late. It takes four hours to summit and descend Cascade. There were only three hours of daylight left. I understand that Cascade is not Everest, but it still deserves respect. These people were running a huge risk of descending a steep, rock and root-strewn trail in total darkness.

We reached the trail head at 5:30. As I stopped to fill out a survey for some UofVermont students, I talked with someone about the late hikers. Just as we spoke, a couple headed up the trail. They would be lucky to summit in daylight.

But back to the fun.

We headed back to Lake Placid, having secured a tent pad along the Heart Lake access road. After shakes at Ben & Jerry's, and then headed to a bar to watch the Sox. Not the usual trip, but a great change of pace and lots of fun.

The food was so-so and a little expensive, but worst of all, the Sox lost in extra innings. Tito needed to pull Beckett earlier, and I don't know why Timlin is allowed to pitch, but that is for a different post.

The next morning, after breakfast in Keene, we headed home. I was dog-tired from the climb, but the short trip left me wanting more.

There will be more posts to come of my two trips to Algonquin, planned for summer 2009.

First Post

2008-11-17T17:49:00.000-08:00

Well, this is my first post.

I'll probably upload a few trip logs and pictures in the next day or two. I have an article out in this month's Prospect Magazine; I'll be posting the link when it becomes available.

Hopefully I'll be able to put up some interesting information.

Note: I am posting personal thoughts, musings, and short descriptions of my adventures. Firstly, all postings, unless specifically noted, are the content and property of the author.

Secondly, and most importantly, I am posting my trip logs and other records for their entertainment value only. Under no circumstances, in no manner whatsoever, do I guarantee the accuracy of my postings. I accept no responsibility for the safety and/or welfare of anyone who reads my posts and/or adventures.

The outdoors is a beautiful, awe-inspiring, wondrous place. It is at times, however, an incredibly dangerous place. I myself screw up routinely, and have come way too close to killing myself a handful of times. I recount my successes and my mistakes so that you can learn from them, but in no way do I advise, encourage, or advocate doing what I do.

In the end, it is you and you alone that is responsible for your safety and well being. I wish everyone the best of luck, and I hope to see you in my adventures.

Chris