It's a Jersey Thing: Part III - Along the Appalachian Trail

(Left to right) Tomek, Eric, Ryan and Alison standing on a cairn atop the summit of the Kittatinny Ridge. 

July 2011 - Blairstown, NJ

It was summer and, again, Eric and I found ourselves on the way to visit Tomek in Blairstown. The air was warm and heavy, smelling sweetly of scattered summer storms. Between steel-colored thunder clouds, rays of sunlight would shine onto the lush forests and suburban homes of the Northeast. With the last bit of daylight, we passed over the Tappan Zee Bridge, admiring the towering Palisades of the Hudson, and spotting the glimmer of the setting sun reflecting off of buildings in Manhattan. As we traversed northern New Jersey, the fiery glow of smokestacks illuminated the night before passing out of sight, our view swallowed by the hills and forests. With the darkness came the rain. Our visibility was limited as a storm passed over us. We barely noticed that we'd come to the Columbia/Blairstown exit until it was right before us. Pulling off the highway, the rain subsided and we sped along the sleepy streets on our way to Tomek's place.

The night was still and the only sounds were the pitter-patter of water falling on leaves and the masked thud of a nearby bass drum, muted by concrete. Tomek greeted us and lead us to his basement, where a group of friends were celebrating the impending freedom of the weekend with liquid enjoyment. There was also a drum kit, two amps, a bass and a guitar. After throwing back a few well-deserved drinks (driving through New York traffic on a Friday night is not for the faint of heart), I hopped on the drums to join Tomek in playing "Slow Crostic" by Fugazi. The night started to wind down and one of Tom's friends decided to fall asleep under a table. We let him lay for a while before carrying him upstairs to rest on a couch (how courteous of us!) and headed off to sleep ourselves.

*     *     *      *

The next morning, we woke, discussed our plans for the day, and had our usual big breakfast and French-pressed coffee. All of the previous night's guests had left, except for the one who cared to join us on our hike: Ryan. A humorous and goofy young man, Ryan  makes for good company. He's positive and maintains a good pace on the trail; he doesn't hold the group back nor does he push too hard--a good companion for the trek we were about to undertake. Our goal was to do nine miles of the Appalachian Trail, starting at the fire tower and ending before the Yards Creek Reservoir. The Appalachian Trail (AT for short) runs approximately 2,200 miles through the wilds of the East Coast, beginning on Springer Mountain in Georgia, with its terminus at Mount Katahdin in Maine (or beginning in Maine and ending in Georgia, if you want to be different). Every year, many attempt to do the whole hike in one sitting; few complete it. It is an undertaking that most should attempt at some point or another during their life--myself included I suppose--if only to understand desperation and defeat. But for now it is July. Nine miles will do just fine.

We make sure we have everything we need. Food: Check. Water: Check. Maps: Check. Other provisions (sunscreen and such): Check, check. Now we just had to pick up our last companion.

We pile into Tomek's Corolla (still runnin'!) and took a long road that follows the Kittatinny Ridge while passing though quaint farmland. With a sudden turn, Tom tears down a dirt road that eventually leads to the Appalachian Mountain Club's (AMC) Camp Mohican. Before arriving at the camp, we pulled up to a beautiful house, built of wood logs and boasting a wrap-around porch. The driveway and stairs leading up to the house were littered with empty beer cans and solo cups. A young man was milling about, smoking an e-cigarette and picking up the trash. Ryan and Tomek got out, began talking to him, and asked where his sister was.

"Upstairs," he responded. "She hasn't gotten up yet."

We headed upstairs to gather our final hiking buddy, Alison. She'd been up late the night before, managing a joint-party she and her brother (the fella picking up the trash) had thrown, and she was not ready to start the day--much less hike. Tomek knocked on her door, and received no response. After several fruitless attempts to rouse her in this way, Ryan walked in the room and proceeded to harass her until she got out of bed. Alison emerged from her room, groggy, and set about getting food and coffee into her system. She was immediately against the idea of a long hike, but with a bit of persuasion (if badgering can be called persuasion), she agreed to accompany us on our walk in the woods. While she got her gear together, I wandered around the house. Above the mantle were several antique rifles -- a percussion cap, a lever action and a flintlock -- and a few old cutlasses. Before I could attempt to handle one of these instruments, Alison reemerged and we made haste to the car. Walking back into the yard, I noticed a grove of Indian fern. Pulling out my trusty Leatherman (never leave home without it!)*, I cut a few branches and secured them to my backpack to keep the mosquitoes at bay.

It was a short drive from Alison's to our starting point at the fire tower. As the car meandered through Worthington State Forest, passing towering rhododendrons that darkened the forest, Eric and I stuck our heads out the window, pulling the mountain air deep in our lungs while "The King of Carrot Flowers Pt. 1" played on Tom's stereo. A couple of thru-hikers walked passed us as we pulled into the trail head "parking lot," which was essentially a patch of dirt on the side of the road. We grabbed our bags and made our way quickly up the Appalachian Trail, driven by our enthusiasm for finally starting the hike. It was getting close to 11, but the cool morning air still lingered under the canopy. Black flies and mosquitoes buzzed by our heads, while robins and blue jays called out, hidden in the depths of the forest. I kept my ears keen and eyes peeled for any crotalus horridus--timber rattlesnakes--but found none resting by my feet. Such a disappointment. Walking up the ridge, I spot white paint on a tree, boasting the AT symbol--we had arrived. Ryan was holding his iPod, playing Iron Maden songs through the device's built-in speakers. Tomek noticed I was becoming annoyed with this audio nuisance and politely asked Ryan to turn off the music. He kindly obliged.

Walking to the fire tower.

The trail ahead opened up, and the ground was covered in tall grass, lightly blowing in the wind. Before us stood the fire tower, an older structure about thirty feet tall, covered in generations of New Jersey's second-favorite art form: graffiti (their first is Bruce). A young couple with babes strapped to their backs was cleaning up their lunch and heading back down the trail. We took turns climbing up the fire tower, enjoying the view of the Jersey farmlands to the east, the ridge running north to south, the Delaware Water Gap and the Pennsylvanian Appalachia to our west. The mountains and hills faded from green to emerald to blue, distorted by the summer haze. Scattered white, puffy clouds hung suspended in the air, casting light shadows on the ground beneath. Turkey vultures and other raptors soared on the thermals above the land, and a low buzzing indicated a glider flying by over Blairstown below. We enjoyed the sights for a few minutes before getting back on our journey. There was ground yet to cover ahead while it was still under us!

New Jersey's Appalachia.

Now atop the first ridge, the hike became more of a stroll. The ground was level, dotted with large rocks, and short oak trees blocked the July sun from bearing down on us--not quite the intensity of other AT sections, like the unforgiving Presidential Range. It was a welcome change of pace for my skeptical feet. We were not long into our hike, and Alison was rejuvenated, back to her spunky self. She and Ryan took turns being outraged at each other, poking buttons and busting chops, the way it's supposed to be. The trail was lined with blueberry bushes, currently in season, so we all grabbed fistfuls of the juicy fruit, its aroma sweet in the air. A couple of hikers passed us, reed buckets filled with blueberries attached to their back.

With the sun high in the sky and the heat increasing, we rested for lunch on a rock face overlooking the Skylands. Ryan took off his t-shirt and sunned himself on the promontory while we cracked a few lunch beers. A loud troop of boy scouts made their noisy way through the woods, telling brutish jokes and quoting Family Guy, as boy scouts can do until kingdom come. After we could no longer hear the troop, we got back on the trail. From somewhere off in the woods, the scent of cannabis indica wafted across the trail; another hiker no doubt enjoying his/her day in the forest.

Catfish Pond

It was after noon now, and the trail began its rocky descent to Camp Mohican. Granite rocks stuck out of the trail in strange angles, making the going slow and laborious. Without twisting any ankles or scraping our knees, we made it to the outskirts of the campground. Following the trail through the camp, we came to a large lake: Catfish Pond. There was a sandy beach, covered in thru-hikers and campers, young families and a couple of beefed-up white supremacists (hey, even fascists like to have fun, I think?). Kayaks and canoes glided over the water. Across the way was a hill that ran the length of the lake, mostly covered in loose rocks. We were warned against venturing to the rocks, as they were the home to numerous rattlers, which are not known for their hospitality. We dropped our gear on the beach and jumped in the water; it was like hopping into a bathtub. Despite swimming in warm water on a hot day, our aquatic interlude was beyond enjoyable. Tom, Eric and I swam across the lake and basked on a boulder that rested in the water. While swimming back, we spotted a large snapping turtle breach the surface of the water for some air--another of the Northeast's herpetological specimens that deserves a bit of space. Near the beach, I continued to swim while others got out and dried off. Tomek began loading his gear back into his bag, and I took that as my cue to get out of the water.

*     *     *      *

Ryan, Alison, Tomek and Eric at Camp Mohican

We passed by the AMC lodge and stopped in for a few snacks. Next to the door was a picture of a five-foot timber rattlesnake climbing up the steps to the lodge, dated only a week before (just missed it!). With candy in hand, we took off down the trail, drying off as we went. The AT began a sharp upturn, bringing us to the Kittatinny Ridge. The air was hot and the way was rocky, causing me to sweat a fair amount as we got higher on the trail. I grabbed blueberries where I could, their sweet juice refreshing me as I went. Ahead, Alison and I noticed a large animal move through the underbrush. A black bear? A mountain lion? We never got a clear view of it, but it was most likely a mundane whitetail deer. It's still fun to pretend!

Viewing Yards Creek from above.

Walking along a shaded cliff face, we looked down at ponds, farmland and the Lower Yards Creek Reservoir, some 600 feet below. Ahead, the Kittatinny Ridge jutted out to the south at a right angle, creating a steep gully that dropped sharply. Our goal was to find the trail that meandered down the ravine and opened up about a half mile from Tomek's house. We studied our topo map and spotted where the trail should leave the AT, about 300 yards after the highest point of our hike.

The high point of this section of the Kittatinny Ridge--somewhere short of 1,500 feet--is bisected by power lines, with the forest clear cut for 20 yards on each side of the lines. In the middle of the clearing was a large cairn, marking the summit (photo at top). The sun was waning in the sky, coloring the horizon crimson. We walked to the top of the cairn and looked out upon the land around us. We were only about an hour from the biggest city on the Eastern Seaboard and a few miles from one of the worst coal factories in the nation, but the land before us was like something from centuries before, appearing untainted by modern poisons.

A view of the Delaware and Pennsylvania from the top.

Leaving the summit, we took our time trying to find our trail home. It was nowhere to be seen. We tested a few deer paths that disappeared into the underbrush and had to double back several times, worried we'd missed the trail head. The forest was growing darker and it was over four miles back to the campground, so we needed another option. From where we stood, we could make out the road that goes from the Upper Yards Creek Reservoir to the lower. The issue was, however, since 9/11, the public is not allowed to venture through the property; homeland security and such. But what were our other options? There were no other outlets within miles. We couldn't follow the power lines down, as the way was far too steep. We hadn't taken flashlights, so hiking in the dark would be treacherous. Yards Creek seemed like the only viable plan. So it goes.

Leaving the cherished Appalachian Trail, we bush whacked through the woods for a time, eventually exiting the forest above the upper reservoir. It was completely drained, the water having been pumped to the lower pool to generate electricity. (They pump it back up at night, when the electricity is cheaper. Engineers, man!) The way to the road was blocked by a chain link fence. Mosquitoes were swarming in thick hordes and the "burump!" of bullfrogs and the shrill cry of gray tree frogs filled the air. We wandered around the desolate property for a while, trying to find a way around the fence. Ryan and Alison took off downhill through the trees, hoping to eventually come across the road, while Tomek, Eric and I tried to locate where the fence ended. After a long search, we had a breakthrough, called Alison and Ryan over, and began our descent (dissent?). The pavement was pale-blue and cracked by years of cold winters, hot summers and constant neglect. As the road switch-backed down the mountain, we passed giant tubes that looked like water park slides. Machines, pipes and wires transformed the pristine land into an industrial complex fit for some scifi movie or Call of Duty game--hardly the expansive forests of the AT we'd just left. The occasional buzz of some unknown machine would make us jump, but the place was barren of any staff, leaving us to travel through the facility unmolested.

The night grew darker as we neared the end of the road. Ahead, we spotted the gatehouse. The flood lights were on, blacking out the surrounding woods, illuminating the guard sitting in a chair at the side door, feeding feral cats. He was a larger man, older with white hair coming out from under his Department of Homeland Security hat. He hadn't spotted us yet, so we took a knee to discuss the best way to exit the property. Should we sneak out through the woods? Should we walk right by him and not say anything? All of the options seemed either too rude or too sketchy, so we opted to just walk out the front gate and let him make the move. As we approached the gatehouse, the cats walked off into the woods and the old man looked up at us. He sat in his chair,  hands folded on his lap, staring at us as we walked down. When we got close, he said "hello" and asked how we were doing. We said hello back and returned the pleasantry, prepared to tell him that we'd become lost on the Appalachian Trail, a story he must have heard before. The reflective retinas of the hiding cats glowed in the dark.

"Well," he said. "I don't think I saw anything tonight if you didn't see anything."
"I don't recall seeing anything." I replied.
"Very good," the old man said. "Have a good night."

He turned away from us and rubbed his index finger and thumb together while making a ticking noise with his tongue, calling for his cat friends to come out of the woods. We took the short walk back to Tom's.

On our way home, we discussed the feast we would undertake: Burgers! Onions and peppers! Corn on the cob! Baked beans! Beer! It would be extravagant. We got the grill going, meat and veggies sizzling, and livers failing while we talked about the hike. We took out our topo map and determined that our detour had driven the hike closer to 12 miles than the nine we'd intended. Oh well, math is for accountants anyway. Tom and Eric placed the food on the table and we scarfed it down like starved dogs. Preparing for a long night of celebrating ahead (as we were delighted to not be on our way to a federal detention center), Tomek and I put more beer in the downstairs fridge to cool off. Coming back upstairs, we joined the others on the couch, where--one by one--we all fell into a deep, restful sleep; none would wake until the next morning.

*     *     *      *

Tomek picking raspberries.

Ryan and Alison made their way home in the morning. Tom, Eric and I joined Mr. C in the garden and picked fresh raspberries and blueberries for breakfast smoothies. The day was young, but it was already hot by the time we hopped into Eric's jeep to pick up Tomek's car by the fire tower. Eric tossed me the keys and told me that I needed to learn to drive (I did not have a license at this time). I took the helm and we made our way up the winding roads. Tomek's car was just where we'd left it (surprising in New Jersey!) and we decided that we should enjoy a swim before heading back to Boston.

A wonderful day at Blue Mountain Lake.

We took the road deep into Worthington State Forest and pulled off at Blue Mountain Lake. The beach was packed with people, but we found a spot of nice grass near the lake's dam. Tomek knew some of the folks nearby, so we chatted them up while applying sunscreen. Jumping into the water, we took our time swimming out to the island, where young folks were jumping off a tall rock into the deep water below. I took a few turns jumping in, not as bashful as I was last time. We swam for another few hours, but I was reluctant to leave when Tomek said it was time. Back home, we found Tomek's parents pulling fresh cooked ribs and other plates out of the stove. Ever the gracious hosts, they demanded we stay and enjoy this feast with them. We ate our fill and--against my better judgement--left for Boston, where the summer was still young and waiting for our next adventure.

Driving past the Yards Creek gatehouse, we saw the old guard standing in front of the building, calling to the cats. "Don't be shy little ones," he said. "Come on out of the woods."



*Hey Leatherman! I could use a good corporate sponsor...

Camping Tricks!

I'm finishing up a story right now, but Steph sent me this and found it too good to not pass along.

Also I wanted to keep it somewhere where I could easily reference it when I need to.

http://www.buzzfeed.com/peggy/camping-hacks-that-are-borderline-genius


Enjoy!

Rory Thomas

Science Friday

May 24, 2013 - Harvard Research Forest, Petersham, Ma

Today I am in the Harvard forest with scientist-extraordinaire Colin, studying the effects of microbes on carbon and nitrogen cycles in hemlock and ash soil. He's also going to teach me to taste the difference between organic horizon and mineral layer soils. Eating dirt in layman's terms. 

Normal Friday stuff.

Update: We found this little fella in the leaves: an eastern spotted newt. I haven't seen one since I was a little kid. Good find!

Reflections on Summer Showers

May 20, 2013 - Brighton, Ma

It's raining right now outside; the sky's had fists for the last few hours and the clouds finally opened up. I'd just finished working on the garden when the pops of falling raindrops began its quick crescendo. It's been a humid day, so the accompanying thunder was not surprising. I can hear the storm's surges by the rain's clatter on nearby gutters and the shwooshing of wet tires driving by; between that and the thunder, it's been quite a relaxing evening.

I've always liked these summer storms (I know it's not summer yet, but it feels like it -- I've already been barbecuing). When I was a kid, my childhood home sat upon a hill. There was a large window that faced the northeast and during the summer, when the air grew thick and the sky blackened, my sister Chloe and I would construct a fort of blankets and chairs near the big window, watching the storms roll in. We'd scream and jump at the crack of thunder and count how many lightning bolts we could see. Whenever a thunderstorm is on its way now, I try to find a place to watch it, hoping to catch a glimpse of the lightning.

*     *     *     *

August 20, 2011 - Sebago Lake, Me

Sebago Lake

It was two summers ago now, Eric and I needed a way to fill our weekend. We had grown tired of Lake Winthrop, we didn't care to drive all the way to the mountains of New Hampshire or Vermont, and traveling to the Cape seemed like a chore. A funny idea struck us: what about the lakes of southern Maine?  The closest lake to Boston with an available campground was Sebago Lake. It is both the second largest and second deepest body of freshwater in the state (Moosehead Lake being the first). And, as I vaguely recalled from my childhood, it's quite a great place to spend a weekend. 

The storm's brewin' across the lake.

We arrived at the lake by mid afternoon. The sun was out and the campground's private beach was brimming with families, boaters, loons and mallards. The lake was surrounded by fir, pine and oak trees, and large rocks rested along the shoreline. We swam in the crisp water and peered down at the smooth rocks on the lake bed, clearly visible some twenty feet below. As the sun cast the last bit of heat on the lake, Eric and I laid on a raft, taking a break from the cool water, warming ourselves in the solar rays.

As the families left, Eric and I grabbed our canoe and set out on the lake to watch the sun set. Across the water, we could see clouds growing over the mountains to the north. The air was humid but still, so Eric and I sat and watched the tempest grow and erupt. The sky over the land across the lake grew black and distorted from the rain. Slivers of electricity shot to the ground, striking trees. Moments later a low boom would echo out across the lake. It was a fierce storm, but our side of Sebago was unaffected. The sky above us was bright and sunny, cloudless but for a few, stray cumulus clouds, painted sherbet by the setting sun. 

Soon, the sun vanished and the sky grew dark, revealing a few bright stars. The storm lingered across the lake, stagnating over one area for a long while. With its last bits of strength, the squall fired down a few more lightning bolts, illuminating the surface of Sebago. Rumbling to a slow death, the storm dissipated into the evening, slinking off in the inky black of the Maine night.

The best part of these summer storms is they often leave the sky cool and cloudless. The sun had barely set before the sky was alight with countless stars; a wondrous, unobstructed view of the cosmos. The low hum of motor boats piloted by inebriated lake men began to grow, so Eric and I headed to shore to avoid being struck by one of these lake cruisers while in our peasant's boat.

*     *     *     *

Enjoy the night; it'll be cool and clear.

Here's to summer storms.

Deep in the Heart of Texas

May 1 - 7, 2011 - Austin, TX

writer's note: this is not the usual adventure I write about here. but hey, I can have an urban adventure just like everybody else.

The sky was deep blue, spotted with cumulus clouds that shaded the distant farms of Hill Country when we landed. Steph and I adjusted our sunglasses as we waited in the pleasant Austin heat for Colin and Sarah to pick us up. Their SUV pulled up and Colin exited, giving us energetic hugs and his characteristic, enthusiastic "heeeeeey!" He was wearing Ray-Ban sunglasses, a short sleeve button up and black cut-off jean shorts that he'd owned as long as I could remember. I'd known Colin since I was in high school. He played trumpet in the The Flamingos with my sister's then-boyfriend and, upon meeting me, quickly took me into his group of wonderful friends. It is hard not to like Colin upon meeting him, and the folks he surrounds himself with are, and have always been, wonderful, kind and patient with me throughout the years. Colin's mantra of "stay positive" has had a profound effect on me and I strive to be "posi" as much as I can. We hopped in the car and were greeted by Sarah  -- a lovely gal who's ever smart, witty, and easy to be around, no matter what the occasion -- and their new dog, Mandy, a brown and white creature who fades between fits of energy and slightly sullen shyness. Driving out of the quiet airport, I spotted a cluster of longhorn cattle grazing under the shade of a live oak alongside the on-ramp. "Welcome to Texas," I thought.

Steph and I were enjoying our now-annual vacation. The previous two years had taken us to Arizona. This year, however, we were thinking about our post-Boston future (I am doubtful it involves moving to Arizona). Steph is a big fan of urban areas and I, well you might guess where I prefer to spend my time. Austin seemed like a good in-between: you can bike or drive to many beautiful natural areas and be home in time to meet up with friends on 6th Street. Everybody wins. Furthermore, we know a fair number of friends in Austin, so we wouldn't be stranded in a strange land, expected to find our own friends amidst strangers -- new people are terrible.

(Side note: when I tell Texans about my love of King of the Hill, they often tell me to move to Austin. So there's that.)

After a quick tour of 6th Street, where we stopped in a bar called the Jackalope and met a bartender from Boston, we arrived at Colin and Sarah's house, hidden behind tall hedgerows about a block from the Texas State Cemetery. The air smelt of fresh, hot asphalt, as there was ongoing road construction in front of their place. We'd picked up some Lone Star Beer (about the only thing other than water I'd drink on the trip) as well as queso and Texas-shaped tortilla chips (one can literally find anything desired in the shape of Texas: waffle irons, clocks, tomb stones...) and spent most of the afternoon hanging out in the backyard. Texas was experiencing one of the worst droughts in its history at the time, and the dried, brittle grass showed it. We threw toys for the excitable Mandy to chase while taking occasional breaks from the sun beneath the pecan tree that draped over their back yard, quenching our thirst with cold Lone Star.

As the sun set and the night cooled down, the third roommate, a wonderful young woman named Danielle, joined us on the front porch before we all ventured off to a vegan potluck/hootenanny up the street. It was a pleasant walk; the night was calm and warm. Walking up a steep hill, we came to a small one-story house with a large prickly pear cactus and century plant flanking the entrance way, giving it a very southwestern vibe. Once inside, I could have sworn I was in Allston again. The house was filled with a scrambled assortment of used furniture, nicknacks, kitsch art, show fliers and band posters. Attendees -- sporting angular-cut hairdos, plaid shirts and band patch-covered cutoff jeans -- wandered around with plates of faux-cheese covered nachos, veggie hot dogs, vegan chili and other treats while listening to acoustic folk punk songs. It was like I never left home.

At some point during the night -- a few more Lone Stars in -- I received a text message from a friend from home, Mike, informing me that Osama Bin Laden had been killed. Rudely, I shouted "Holy shit!" during someone's heart-filled song and decided it might be time to head out. When we arrived back at the house, we turned on the radio and listened to Obama's speech detailing the raid in Pakistan. Outside, one could make out the cheers emanating from UT Austin. It all felt very far away. While reporters frantically tried to gush out every detail they could, I slumped over and fell into a deep sleep.

*     *     *     *

We woke the next day to find the sky grayed by clouds and a fine mist. It was a bit chilled outside as Steph and I made our way to the center of the Capitol. Mohawk'ed punks, dingy hippies and bearded hipsters shared the same streets with leather-clad bikers and good ol' Texan cowboys, and everyone shared the space, equally, without obvious judgement. It was strange to see people walk past one another, without sneering, coming to unfounded conclusions. Odd, I thought.

We walked past empty bars on 6th and arrived at Congress Street. To the left was the Colorado River (no, not that Colorado River) and Ladybird Lake. To the right was the capitol building, a grand, adobe-brown structure adorned with statues of Lady Liberty and heroes of the Civil War (or should I say the War Between the States?). Seeing monuments of Confederate soldiers was certainly a first for me, and we took our time investigating the plaques whilst a memorial for police officers killed in the line of duty carried on behind us. 

Leaving the capitol building, we crossed over the Congress Street Bridge. Beneath us, over one million bats chattered lightly and the scent of guano percolated up to the street level. I'd never smelt bat guano before, but instantly knew what the aroma was. As we arrived at the other side, the sun began to peer out through the clouds and the day slowly warmed. We window shopped, laughed at a "Gun Store" sign that still hung above the American Apparel store, and wound up venturing in to Uncommon Objects, a boutique full of all the cool things people look for while visiting thrift stores. It is my favorite store on the planet. We must have spent over two hours in the place, admiring all of the unique items they had for sale, wishing we could purchase every one of them (though Steph seemed apprehensive about my purposed acquisition of a lamp made out of a cow leg with a shade build from thin leather adorned with classic western scenes). We left the shop and made our way back to the house, stopping by Tears of Joy, a hot sauce store where our eyes cringed as the chefs brewed homemade habenero pepper sauce. To be fair, the store owner was crying too.

We relaxed on the front porch for a few hours before heading to a bar called the Grackle with Colin, Sarah, Danielle and their friend Eric. The evening humidity was rising and we cooled down with a beverage on the Grackle's caged-in porch (I think it's supposed to resemble a bird cage?). After a drink, we walked out to one of the food trucks in the parking lot -- a Mexican establishment -- where I ordered a lengua burrito, now brave from beer. The truck's employee handed us a numbered card and told us to place it on our table. We followed his orders and headed back to our spot in the bar. Within a few minutes, a man came to our table carrying out food. What great service! And what delicious cow tongue! We carried on with our Mexican food and beverages for some time, discussing events we'd undertake during our trip, talking about Eric's exceptional art work -- which included a crucifix made of phalluses as well as the notorious "Party Cat" -- and enjoying the warm, humid air, which was welcome after the unseasonably chilled day.  We paid our tab (well someone did at least) and made our way back to the house, where Mandy waited, ready to play.

*     *     *     *

In the morning, Colin and Sarah took us to a local Mexican food stand, called El Chilito, for some breakfast tacos. Huevos rancheros in a puffy taco shell? Count me in. While we waited for the feast to be prepared, Colin and I enjoyed a ride on a mustache-shaped seesaw that had been attached to the restaurant's sign, laughing like lunatics all the while. After our decadent breakfast, we hopped in the car and made our way to UT Austin while listening to Cut Copy on endless repeat (they had just seen the group a few weeks prior at South by Southwest and listened to this album almost exclusively during out visit). We passed by the university's infamous bell tower and sat next to a small pond that was brimming with algae-covered sliders and other turtles. 

After Colin went to his UT lab -- he's some sort of scientist -- Sarah, Steph and I went to the Austin Botanical Gardens. Flowers were in bloom and the park smelt of fresh spring and plant sex. Small anoles darted in front of us and through palm fronds that lined the trail. Small fish sulked under lily pads, hiding from a hunting heron. Streams of sun peered down between leaves of pecan trees, willows and live oak as we passed by historic buildings and small springs. While we stood in front of a waterfall and let the mist cool our bodies on this hot day, a group of young kids on a field trip walked by. One of them shouted "hey hipsters!" as he passed and stuck his tongue out. "What hipsters?" I pondered, looking around to see if there was anyone else nearby. There was not.

Defeated by the third grader's taunt -- he was some bully, I tell you what -- we grabbed Colin and headed back to the house, where we built a small fire in the backyard and cooked hot dogs, applying sauerkraut, Russian dressing and Swiss cheese for effect. With the sun waning in the sky, Colin and Sarah told us they had a surprise and took us on a short walk to the Congress Street Bridge. Dusk was setting in and there was a large group of people on the bridge facing east. Below, eager tourists riding river boats circled in the water, illuminated by the occasional camera flash. I'm sure those photos came out great. With a bit of light left in the sky, fluttering black specks began to emerge from the hollows beneath the bridge: bats. Within moments, the small stream of bats turned into a black flood, whipping and spinning, flying into the night sky, spreading out as far as could be seen to decimate the bugs of Hill Country. Darkness grew, and the boats below turned on flood lights, pointing them up into the sky to spot the flying mammals, like search lights spotting German bombers over Britain during World War II. We watched as long as we could; when the sun finally set and our eyes could no longer discern the river of bats, we could still hear the flutter of their legion of wings.

*     *     *     *

Everyone at the house was busy on our fourth day, so Steph and I schemed to take out a couple bikes and explore the city. The temperature would reach nearly 100°, so our game was to find a place to swim. Colin and Sarah lined up their collection of bikes for Steph, but she was too short to fit on any of them. There was only one other option: the tandem bike. We took the bike out of the shed and took a few moments to tune it up. It was a classic model, sturdy and heavy. The problem was that Steph, even on a normal bike, is not much of a cyclist; her upbringing in Arizona had not prepared her for such activities. And I had only been on a tandem bike once, where the pilot of the bike had jumped off, leaving me to slowly crash into a telephone pole, as I was unable to stop the behemoth. 

To say it was a rocky start would be polite. After about an hour of riding around the quiet neighborhood, undertaking a few spills but no scrapes -- which I'm sure would have killed the whole endeavor -- we took the vessel out onto the busy streets. Sadly, we did not manage to get any photographic proof of us on the tandem bike; I'm sure it would have made a lovely Christmas card. It was stressful at the beginning: cars whizzed by us uncaring, Steph had trouble keeping balance, and we were undergoing some slight communication issues. Luckily, after a few blocks of riding, we found a bike lane that was separated from the road. It was safe and took the stress level way down. Gliding across wood bike bridges, we spotted some of the biggest sliders I'd ever seen, basking on rocks in the gully below. Passing over Lady Bird Lake, we admired the azure water below, translucent in the afternoon sun with visible plants and fish kissing the surface. Kayaks glided over it, appearing to hover over the lake bottom.

After crossing, we passed through a cool glade of palo verde, willow, mesquite and live oak, with yucca in the underbrush. The area soon opened up and we came to a building: the entrance to Barton Springs. We paid our cheap entrance fee and walked down to the pool. Barton Springs is one of many natural springs that occur around this part of Texas. No matter what time of year it is, the water's temperature is always in the high 60s. When the temperatures reach 110° in August? The water's still 68°. 45° in February? 68° The water is crystal clear, giving one the ability to see straight to the bottom. It is a very strange place, unlike anywhere I've ever been. The spring is surrounded by a rock reef, giving it a natural appeal. However, circling the spring is a concrete walkway and even a diving board at one end, making it feel like a man-made pool. At the far end is a dam, where the water exits the pool and pours over a rocky spring on its way to the Colorado; many people take their dogs to swim at this section (which is also free) while they smoke pot and drink on the shore. Barton Springs is instantly appealing, and I was eager to jump right in. We placed our blankets and supplies on the knoll that overlooks the pool and jumped in. The water was quite cold, starkly contrasting with the hot air above. I jumped right out, chattering. We repeated this routine, jumping in only to hop out quickly, for much of the afternoon. Eventually, I acclimated to the water and could not be bothered to leave. 

 

Now well pruned, I climbed out to relax in the sun. Steph and I were chatting and I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. It was one of those moments where your brain knows something you are seeing is off, but you haven't figured out what it is (I am finely tuned to this feeling, after years of "spot the difference" games in Highlights for Kids). Then I saw that there was a young woman walking around topless. I pointed it out to Steph and we both stared bewildered. There were children about, by gosh! No one seemed to take any notice of this anomaly. She disappeared into the crowd and we hopped back in the water for a while longer before returning home. Upon our arrival at the house, we told Colin and Sarah about our encounter with the topless woman. They informed us that in the city of Austin, there is no law barring women from walking around public places without a top on. It gets hot in the summer and if men can walk around without shirts, why can't women? Go longhorns.

We changed out of our sweaty clothes and made our way to a fancy hotel bar in downtown Austin called the Driskill. It is a wondrous Romanesque-style building, built in the 1880s, that acted as a fine place to stay for those heading westward in the 19th and early 20th century. It still holds its olde-tyme appeal, with posh marble colonnades, ornate floors and wall-mounted lamps made out of six shooters and boot spurs. We ordered fancy whiskey drinks and some appetizers. When we walked home, we passed a colony of junkies under a bridge. One lit a crack pipe and exhaled his hit just in time to ask us for spare change. Scenic Austin!

At night, we made our way back to 6th with Colin and watched a $1 midnight matinee at the Alamo Draft House. While watching The Love Butcher (I highly recommend it), the ADH staff ferried out food and beer to the patrons. Every 15 minutes or so, they would come through and take order cards placed on the table in front of you. Soon after, they'd bring out nachos, burgers, fries and beer. It's essentially heaven. It was late when we left, but as we walked on to the street, it was flooded with a horde of drunks that would put a weekend in Allston to shame. It was Wednesday. Everything's bigger in Texas.

*     *     *     *

The end of our trip was closing in, and the days raced by. Sarah took Steph and me to the Austin Zoo, a wonderful establishment that adopts exotic animals from unfit homes and zoos across the state. We saw lions that had been used as junkyard dogs, wolves that didn't make good pets, and tigers that used to live in small concrete enclosures. We learned about how one of the big cats had sprayed a fourth grader the day before -- marking his territory -- as well as how the tigers had adopted a bullfrog that had made its home in their swimming pool. Pets get pets too. The cycle continues.

At night, we enjoyed a delectable meal at the Graj Mahal, a BYOB Indian food truck that operated nearby. We had hoped to spot Eric working there, but we had no such luck. Afterwards, we went to the Double Down Bar, where Danielle was working, and enjoyed a few drinks. Some patrons had brought their dogs in -- one, and old lab, was wearing a t-shirt that read "the contents of this shirt love to party" -- and the canines quarreled in the middle of the floor without anyone taking notice. A few punks sat down next to me and elbowed me continuously throughout the night. At one point, one turned to me and burped in my face. We took that as our cue to leave.

It was after 10 and we headed down to 6th, where the streets were clogged with rowdy drunks -- more than I'd seen in a lifetime. Cops lined the intersections of the street, barring cars from driving across, allowing the entirety of 6th to become a pedestrian walkway. We managed to make our way to a place called Shakespeare's. Inside, we scrambled to one of the establishment's numerous bars and each ordered a mini pitcher of mixed drinks for the cost of $5. Classic pop songs blared over the speakers -- everything from Sweet Fantasy to the Space Jam theme song -- while skating videos were projected on the wall. I'd never been in a bar this big and I was becoming disoriented from all the people, so we took our drinks to the roof deck and watched all of the inebriated folk pass by on the street below. We enjoyed another drink before making our way back to the house.

*     *     *     *

The next day found us driving out of the city, through the Hill Country on our way to Hamilton Pool. It was our last full day in Texas and we wanted to get one adventure in. We drove past the gun club where Sarah attended the weekly "Ladies Night." Ladies shoot for free! As we headed west, the area became more sparsely populated. The hills, browned by drought, were dotted with live oak and alligator juniper and extended off out of sight. The sun was bright and the sky was cloudless. No hope of rain.

We pulled off down a dirt road, passing a ranger station adorned with the skulls of  longhorn, coyote, deer and other local fauna. The parking lot was in an open field, surrounded by tall grass, prickly pear and the occasional yucca.  Down the way, we spotter a road runner dart across the road.

Exiting the car, I followed Colin, Sarah, Steph and Danielle down a windy, shaded path through the woods. The trail meandered down a hill and eventually opened up at a small, sandy beach. Before us, a cool, circular pond rested beneath a large rock awning. Ivory stalactites hung from the roof and large moss-covered boulders lined the far shore. A small stream trickled from above, creating a pitter-patter echo in the cave as the water splashed into the pool. A long time ago, this pool had been an underground aquifer. A few thousand years ago, the roof collapsed and exposed the pool, for the enjoyment of all today. A path circled the spring and we walked around, admiring the unique geological forms, spotting tiny frogs and turtles, and passing a forest ranger who had what appeared to be shin guards on his legs. It took me a few moments to realize that the leg wear is designed to protect the lower legs from venomous snake bites. Venomous snakes: noted.

We swam in the pool for a while, chasing turtles and floating around while admiring the cave. Like Barton Springs, the water here was quite cool. After some time, we made our way further into the park. Entering a cypress grove, we walked along a stream that was about seven-feet wide and 10-feet deep. The water was beautiful and you could see to the bottom clearly. A snapping turtle swam down the river, appearing as though it was flying (how often can you say a snapping turtle is a thing of beauty?). A large fish snuck up on another and swallowed it whole. Turkey vultures sat on a branch and watched us as we passed. Quite the nature walk.

Through the trees, we could see that there was a clearing ahead. The trail stopped abruptly as the land dropped before us, eroded by the now shallow Pedernales River. We slid down the sandy bank, laid our towels on the beach, and ran around in the warm turquoise water. We jumped off a rock monadnock in the center of the river and watched small fish dart around our feet. I went up the stream in an attempt to take some scenic photos. Standing on an island/dried bank in the river, I saw something small dart past my feet. I followed its route and discovered a young cottonmouth poised to strike beneath a log. I backed away slowly, figuring it wise to leave this critter be (it's the young venomous snakes that are more deadly). On my way back to the group, I was walking from rock to rock when I felt something staring at me. Looking ahead, I saw that there was another cottonmouth perched on the rock I was about to jump on. Pausing, I requested that the asp head somewhere else. It obliged me and slithered off the rock, revealing its five-foot body length. Having dodged reptilian trouble twice in such a short time, it seemed prudent to head back to the City, where we would enjoy happy hour margaritas and an endless queso bar.

*     *     *     *

Our last day in Austin, we walked through a street fair, where people sold handmade crafts, fair food and cheap beer along the street (did I mention you can drink in public down there?). We were on our way to a cluster of food trucks at the other end of Congress Street. My mother (hi mom!) had told us we should go to a place called the Mighty Cone, and we obliged her, much to our benefit. Their signature item -- of their namesake -- is a tortilla served in a paper cone. At the bottom is homemade coleslaw topped with your choice of fried chicken, fried shrimp, fried avocado (seriously, fried avocado) or any combination of two, all topped with a chipotle mayo. If you're ever in Austin, dear reader, I highly recommend stopping by this food cart.When I heard my name called, I eagerly jumped up and walked at my normal Yankee pace to the pick-up window. The owner of the cart took my haste with some surprise. "Slow down, pardner," she said, "It ain't goin' anywhere." But I was going somewhere, sadly: home. And I had to get my mighty cone NOW.

We were cutting it close to our boarding time, so Colin rushed us to the airport. We boarded our plane by the skin of our teeth and flew over the dried fields of East Texas, crossing the flooded plains of the South, eventually landing at Logan.

Leaving Texas, I was anticipating some feeling of ecstasy, overcome with all the Lone Star state had to offer. But I wasn't, and this lack of emotion caught me off guard. More than anything I felt rested, comfortable. Certainly it was not that I didn't enjoy myself (else wise I wouldn't have spent all this time writing about it). What was it then? It took me some weeks to put it all together, and eventually I filtered it down.  Austin offered something that I hadn't known, a place I could feel comfortable, a place where folks didn't unjustly label one another, where you had to constantly struggle against the rip tide of "cool." It was a city where I could easily find excitement, but also where I could just sit on the porch and think; a place I could rest. It felt like a town I could wind up in and feel just fine. Like the song says, "anywhere I'm gonna lay my head, boys, I will call my home."

Some day, maybe.



Photos: Police Memorial at the Texas Capitol Building; UT Austin Bell Tower; Austin skyline at sunset; Barton Springs; Driskill Hotel lobby; Hamilton Pool (photo credit: Steph); Path through cypress grove along stream; Pedernales River; Our order from Mighty Cone.

The Other Things I Do...

Hello dear readers,

I'm also in this band called Interrobang!?. We released our fist full-length album this week called Forge On. If you want to listen to it or download it, it's up for free/donation. It'll be up on iTunes and Spotify in a few weeks.

http://interrobangmusic.bandcamp.com/


Thanks!

Some Thoughts on Xeriscaping

April 23, 2013

I'm back from a wondrous adventure through the Mojave with my dear friends Tomek, K.A. and D.K. and am here in the safety of the post-Police State (-Commonwealth?) of Boston. Between the dramatic bits of "news" I was able to receive while out in the back country, I did my best to unwind from a harsh week in my hometown, losing myself in the silence and stillness that I've only ever found in the Southwest. Forest, lakes and rivers all offer their own sanctuary from the bustle of everyday life, but even there, still, there is motion, sound, activity. This isn't to say the desert is void of life, but rather that in the vast expanse of untainted wilderness, sound and life seem to disappear into the back drop and one is left with only the sound of blood flowing past your ear drums. There is no breeze through the trees, no trickle of water over smooth stones; you are free to look out and experience everything and nothing all at the same time. It is a foreign planet, void of skyscrapers, tweets, news feeds or people. It is lovely.

I'm no desert rat myself, but I have a love for those peculiar folk and an affinity for the places they relish. Driving through Ballarat and Panamint Springs, you find a queer mix of folk who are there to enjoy or exploit the vast surroundings. They all see a reward of sorts in the desert. Congregate enough of these people around strategically-placed desert springs, and you come into the major fallacy of the Southwest: its cities. The vast, sprawling urban areas of the region are like nothing I know from my East Coast upbringing; standing on a mountain and looking down on these cities boggles the mind. While surrounded by the modest -- and sometimes almost nonexistent -- life of the desert, these cities spread farther than what seems reasonable or logical. The sweeping suburbs of Las Vegas. The domineering borders of Phoenix. The water-draining dwellings of SoCal. How can the land sustain itself?

Odds are, it can't. Sooner or later, the springs, aquifers and lakes of the Southwest will dry up and large urban areas will either have to start stealing water from other nearby municipalities or abandon their cities for fairer land. (Or, I suppose, they could truck it in? And if you thought gas prices were high...) Their lawns, their trees, their beloved golf courses will all perish, withered and disfigured by the fiery desert heat.

An example of this is Pahrump, Nevada. An unassuming city, to say the most, Pahrump lies on a large underground aquifer and is but a few measly mountain ranges from Las Vegas. The area around the city is stunning and mostly untouched. Pahrump itself shows the folly of the desert's endangered species: desertus urbanus. Driving past empty lots of desert holly and sage so dry that a strong enough breeze might render them dust in the wind, one can spot towering stands evergreens, palms and other green-leafed trees. Surrounding the city is a mostly barren, red, mountainous landscape that is as foreboding and unforgiving as it is beautiful. It is a strange sight to behold grassy lawns and tall trees amidst such an inhospitable environment. Yet here they stand, sucking up water that may have better purposes than feeding the neighborhood's ill-advised ash trees. When it comes down to it, Pahrump only has so much water. What's worse for the city, its neighbor Las Vegas uses more water than it has. Soon will come a time when Las Vegas either buys water from Pahrump or simply steals it through some geological trickery. All to feed golf courses and landscaping, as well as the tourists attracted to them.

You can see this play out across the Southwest. Folks love the desert, but for some reason try their darndest to make their yard look like it's somewhere else, in a more fertile land. Palm trees and other tropical plants can be seen in on every corner in Scottsdale. Even in Death Valley's Furnace Creek, one can spot a plethora of unnatural botanical specimens that are nothing but towering -- albeit beautiful -- sponges. The process of rendering desert oases where they don't belong.

If you love the desert, why must you develop the land in such a way that would destroy it? The practice of Xeriscaping -- gardening your land in such a way that uses little water -- is widely used throughout America's desert lands. Filling your yard with all sorts of cacti and desert trees is a wonderful way to make your land beautiful and fitting while lowering your water footprint on the desert. While all of the places I've mentioned follow this practice, they also employ the aesthetics of tropical plants. But why? I understand the beauty of them and how every city wants to be LA or some Mediterranean port, but you've built a city in a hot, hostile environment where only the strongest survive. Drive through any of these areas, and it will be easy to find dead stands of palm trees, towering tombstones decaying in the fierce sun. Uncared for, all of these artificially introduced plants with either die or kill everything around them by stealing all of the water. 

Why do that to your land?

Listen, I get that every part of the country grows plants that aren't meant for their region. Heck, I planted a Japanese maple last spring. Yet there are plenty of plants that not only look wonderful, but can survive in a desert without causing great damage to the land, and likely exist naturally in your area. Artfully placed cacti and succulents look great, do less damage, and fit into the landscape better. Plus, you can grow plants that can be useful: Mormon tea for a natural energy beverage, mesquite trees for a barbequing spice, prickly pear cactus to cook with, etc. So cut down that pine tree, that palm, that maple, oak or elm in your yard. Save the water, save the desert.

After all, you're in an arid climate. Every state has places with trees, but very few have areas that boast the kind of plant and animal life one finds in the Southwest. The people who live in the desert are those who love it (or those who can't get out of it). Enjoy it for what it is!


Trees are wonderful, but they weren't made for the Mojave or the Sonoran. Tuxedos are fantastic things to wear to parties, unless that party is in Allston.

If the desert is your party, it's time to start dressing it like it.


Photos: Beaver Tail Cactus in Bloom at Red Rock Canyon National Conservation Area, NV; Cool Cacti at the Desert Botanical Gardens in Phoenix, AZ; Area behind Steph's house in Scottsdale, AZ