Lafayette, We Have Arrived!

July 2009 - Mount Lafayette, White Mountains, New Hampshire

It was a humid July afternoon. Colin and I were being sluggish on our couch in Allston, watching Tim and Eric Awesome Show Great Job!, waiting for Nick to get home from work so we could head to New Hampshire. By the time Nick arrived and we hit the road, we bumped into the Friday rush hour traffic that plagues 93 North all summer, every summer. After a few hours drive and a pit stop at the New Hampshire State Liquor Store (a requirement for any car coming from Massachusetts), we arrived in New London, where we would spend the night. It was already dark and we only had one thing on our minds: food. A rural town like New London offers few late-night food options, but luckily we found Pizza Chef. We ordered a couple of pizzas (we're growing young men after all) and looked on as middle-aged townies flirted with the clearly high school-aged cashiers. Greasy as the pizza, they were! Our bellies full of 'za and Dr. Pepper, we headed to Colin's grandparent's "camp" to kick back and sleep before hiking Mount Lafayette* the next day.

The camp (read: lake house) on Pleasant Lake was quiet and empty. The grandparents were still in Mass for the weekend, so we had the joint to ourselves for the night. After cracking a few Pabst and looking at old photos of Colin and family, we hit the hay. In the morning, we woke early, sat out on the porch, and enjoyed the view of the still lake.

We decided to take an early morning canoe/swim before we left for the mountains, so we grabbed the boat and hit the water. Landing on a small island, we took turns jumping off of rock outcrops. The air was still cool, but the water was warm and inviting, smoothly wrapping around our bodies in that way only lake water does. The morning was passing us by, so we made way for the house, packed a lunch, and got in the car.

Nick took the wheel and drove in an aggressive manner that both suits him and made Colin and me rather nervous. After speeding through the narrow pass where Lafayette and Cannon meet, we got out in the parking lot at the base of the mountain and watched an old man fishing in Echo Lake, floating on an inner tube. The parking lot was busy, but most people seemed to be opting for the arduous chair lift ride up to the summit of Mount Cannon to look down at the rubble that was once the Old Man of the Mountain (Colin joked that it would be cheaper for the state to rebuild the Old Man than change all of the state signs that feature him).

Searching for a way up Mount Lafayette, we found the Green Leaf Trail across the still highway, hidden next to the on-ramp. Heat was radiating off of the asphalt, so we were glad for the cool shade of the trees.  Streams of sunlight peered through oak leaves and moths buzzed around our heads. We hiked for a long time without much talking. Past an exposed sheer rock face looking out on the valley, we entered a hemlock grove, where mountain streams trickled unseen beneath a carpet of thick moss, reminiscent of Endor. We passed no one. A bit farther on, we came to Greenleaf Hut and took our lunch, looking over Eagles Lake. A few old timers gave us gruff stares as we pulled out our phones to snap pictures--not to text gurlz, as they must have thought. Colin, feeling weary, was conflicted about pushing on. But with the summit in view, he decided to continue, Vans slip-ons and all.

As we left the tree line, we scrambled over large boulders and--fooled by the treeless view, like many who climb in the Whites--figured that the summit was imminent. Granite boulders became larger and more geometric, carved from the mountainside over a hundred years ago for a shelter at the top. Finally reaching the peak, we stood as cool clouds passed over our sweaty skin. We met a through hiker from England--whose legs could have been mistaken for hairy tree trunks--and he took our photo. He told us about hiking the trail, home, and a weekend of R&R he'd recently taken to Boston. As he picked up his pack and schlepped his lumber yard of a body to Mt Garfield--and Katahdin beyond--we headed back down Green Leaf, rewarding ourselves with an occasional pull of Evan Williams (only the finest Kentucky has to offer for us).

We stopped again at the rock face for a pipe and watched the sun cast an orange glow on the mountains. We were close to finishing, but the highway seemed an infantile stream in the valley below. I let one more smoke ring off into the air before we picked up our packs and finished the hike in time to catch the setting sun fall behind Mount Cannon. We laid on the hot pavement for a moment, soaking up the warmth, and enjoyed the last bit of New Hampshire air before we sped away in the car, back to our trash-covered little corner of Allston.


Photo: Left to right-Colin, me and Nick on Mt. Lafayette

*Fun fact, although Mt Lafayette is in the Presidential Range, Lafayette (the man) was never actually president. Sorry Gilbert. 

Fievel Goes West

May 2009 - Arizona

I had never seen what lies west of the Mississippi River--much less a desert--before I was 20-years-old. I'm an Eagle Scout and no stranger to the outdoors, but I had no idea what to expect while boarding an early morning flight to Sky Harbor International. Frankly, I was more concerned with surviving the fast-approaching meeting with my new girlfriend's apprehensive parents (they had referred to me as "Steph's friend" before this trip) than desert survival. Despite my worries, they were kind and generous and probably a bit more than happy I wasn't some intolerable yankee. 

After accidentally setting the backyard alight with her brother on the first day, Steph tried to reign me in with activities ranging from exploring Old Town Scottsdale to visiting the zoo, and eating Mexican food almost exclusively. Despite her best efforts to slowly introduce me to Arizona, I was like an eager puppy on a walk, pulling on the leash in a ceaseless effort to get out and explore. There were canyons to discover! Mountains to summit! Cacti to get pricked by and buzzworms to piss off! Nothing in New England had prepared me for the Southwest, and I was eager to tread over every inch of this new, strange land. In order to appease my wishes, the family decided on a trip to the Grand Canyon and Steph promised to take me to Sedona. I was gitty. 

The four-hour drive to northern Arizona took us through the Saguaro-filled Sonoran Desert, into the towering mountains north of the city, past the expansive high plains, through Flagstaff, into the open range south of the Canyon and, finally, to the Grand Canyon. To say I was unprepared for this site is an understatement. Across the canyon we spotted California Condors, rainstorms, lightening, rainbows and a palette of colors made all the more awesome by passing clouds. Aside from almost knocking an old woman into the abyss (her fault, I swear), it was a wonderful and delightful experience. After a few hours of exploring the rim, we hopped back into the car and headed back to Phoenix. My eyes glued to the window, I watched derelict cabins rush past and gaunt horses gallop across Navajo land. As the setting sun cast its waning light on the Painted Desert, more stars filled the desolate sky than I had ever seen back east. 

Two days later, Steph and I woke early (as early as the previous night's margaritas would allow), printed out trail maps, packed day bags, and hit the road. Heading north again, we drove the two hours to the Red Rocks: Sedona. Coming out of the mountains, the land drops down and opens up into a wide, expansive valley. The distortion from the heat reflecting off of the desert floor washed away the view to the north. But as we made our way past tractor dealerships and old ranch homes, the rim came into view and the towering red rock spires reach into the azure sky. In our days before smart phones and GPS devices, we relied on Map Quest--much to our chagrin. After a few wrong turns, we made our way into the town. From scrub-lined roads through rich cottonwood and oak groves, we came into the bustling town of Sedona and pulled over to stretch our legs and explore a few stores. After we'd had our fill of window shopping, we consulted a map and got our bearings to find our first hike. 

We headed down a dirt road--Steph even let me drive (I didn't have a license yet)--past sheer rock walls and occasional ancient American Indian dwellings. At one point I jumped out of the car to investigate a large snake in the middle of the road--a harmless gopher snake--but had to get back in to appease Steph's protests (Arizonans have a natural fear of snakes we Eastern swamp dwellers lack--go figure). Another fifteen minutes on the smooth dirt road and we came to a Forest Service booth. After parking the car, we spoke to the Forest Ranger about the site, an ancient Honanki cliff dwelling. She gave us the rundown: stay on the trail, don't take anything, don't write our names on the walls, etc. We headed up the rocky trail past prickly pear cacti, juniper, mesquite bushes, agave plants and crucifixion thorn. A low hum began to fill the air and, by the time we reached the dwellings, became so loud we had to talk at quite a volume to be heard: bees. The deserts of Arizona are home to some 1,300 species of bees and, apparently, they all lived in this canyon, high up on the rock walls out of reach of sweet-toothed predators. The dwellings were fascinating. I had never seen such ancient structures in the Americas and was drawn in by the architecture and petroglyphs. After accidentally disrupting a brick, I found a hollow filled with old corn cobs. Feeling like quite the Dr. Jones, I marveled at the discovery for a moment before returning the mud brick (forgive me, archeology friends!). The site was small and we took in as much as we could before heading back to the car. We said goodbye to the kind ranger and headed to the next site: Boynton Vista.

The website that lead us to the ruins gave simple directions to three other sites we planned to visit before heading back to Phoenix. We chose Boynton Vista as our next spot because the hike was short, only about a mile round-trip, and the road description was similar to the one we'd just left--a ten-mile dirt road. Sounds good. Our first hint that something was not right was a convoy of pink tour jeeps exiting the road to the Vista. I was stubborn and demanded we push on anyway. Within a mile, large rocks and potholes began rattling the undercarriage of Steph's 1997 3-door Saturn sedan. There was nowhere to turn around. I was stubborn and demanded we push on. By the fifth mile, the car began to burp and spirt, but there was no longer anywhere to turn around. With barely enough room for two cars to pass each other, we were blocked from turning around by a steep slope on our right and a long drop on our left. The best thing we could do was push on and turn around in the trail head parking lot. Steph was becoming increasingly nervous, wide-eyed and short breathed, cursing constantly. We finally came to the trail head just as the car shit the bed. We pulled over and lifted the hood, only to be greeted by a plume of noxious steam. The Saturn had overheated.

Now more than eight miles from paved roads and a good ten miles by the crow from the town, our prospects were not looking good. My limited knowledge of cars lead me to believe we could add water to the coolant without destroying its gutty-works, but we didn't want to risk it. It was Sunday, so no car shops were open to give us answers much less tow us out of the park (it is doubtful they would have even tried). We attempted to hail a few jeep tours, but the drivers and passengers simply pointed and laughed. Eventually, a lovely couple from Missouri stopped and offered us assistance. They confirmed that we could add water to the coolant without killing the Saturn and offered to run down to the town to get us coolant. We accepted, traded numbers, and began to wait. While Steph was trying to cope with the stress, I enjoyed the view while eating a sandwich, repeating, "Well, we couldn't have got stuck in a more beautiful place." This did not help. 

The sun began to set behind the tall ridge to the west and my first thought was Mountain Lions. We hadn't heard from the couple and no one else was venturing up the road, so we devised a plan: we would turn the car around in the parking lot, throw it into neutral, and roll down the mountain road. This would give the engine time to cool off and get us to the safety of the parking lot before the sun set. Steph was not in much of a condition to drive, so I offered my expert services (did I mention I didn't have a license?). We took the bumpy road back down the slope, with Steph's white-knuckled hand wrapped around the door handle and my eyes concentrating on the road and NOT on the stunning vista to our right and--after a sobering 20-minute drive--we made it to the parking lot. We called the couple and offered to take them to dinner, but they never returned out calls. Steph took the wheel and we headed back into town, stopping at the first restaurant we could find: the Red Planet Diner. 

Surrounded by models of alien spacecraft and posters of "Greys" that read "We're just here for the beer," we wolfed down the delicious meal set before us (the best spice is hunger). With the fiasco behind us and food in our belly, we got in the car and headed back to Phoenix. As night set in, a rainstorm overtook us and I began to doze off. I woke at some point just in time to see Steph calmly avoid a rockslide tumbling onto the blackened road. She made no note of it and smoothly turned back into our lane of traffic. Who's the cool customer now?

Returning to Scottsdale, we purchased some margarita supplies and drove back to Steph's house to calm our unsteady nerves.

Photo: (Left to right) A Saguaro cactus in Steph's backyard outside of Phoenix; Steph in the wash near her house; Honanki Indian ruins in Sedona; The Grand Canyon from the South Rim

Note: I didn't take exceptional notes on my comings and goings until 2011, so I will do my best to get the right dates and locations. If I misname a trail or date, please let me know.

In the Beginning...

Hello Dear Reader,

This blog is an anthology of the adventures undertaken by my friends and me--from exploits out West to day hikes around Boston. The winter months are a bit slower than the rest of the year, so I'm going to take this opportunity to catalog trips from years past. I might even throw in some Reenacting tales and short stories; we'll see how this thing goes.

Names will be changed to protect individuals involved.

Rory Thomas

Eric and me in a canoe. Deer Isle, ME 2011.