Mohican: (n) a member of a North American Indian people formerly living along the Hudson river and east of it.
Only days ago, when I had first arrived in Vermont, many major highways and bridges were still closed and under repair from the hurricane weeks before. The long list of closures included the one road that lead directly from where I was in Vermont and where I needed to go next in New Hampshire. A short 2 hour drive would be turned into a 6 hour drive if these closures remained as I would have to drive south and loop around the hurricane zone. THANKFULLY the very day I set off for my next destination, one lane on the road I needed had opened up and my path was now clear... ish. Exhausted from a weekend of climbing my first real rocks, but SO excited to continue my adventure I threw my pack into the Mustang and hit the road again. On the way I phoned Brooke to inform her of my E.T.A. "Drive carefully!" she insisted. "There are moose on these roads, it's dark and they are SO hard to see, and they will wreck your car. Drive under the speed limit and keep your brights on!" Her cautionary words troubled me a bit, so I took them to heart which was a wise decision. Daylight faded quickly in the beginning of my journey and once again I found myself driving down rural mountain roads in the dark. It wasn't a moose, but it did startle me. A hitch-hiker, male, was walking down the right side of the road in what must have been 40 degree weather. That got my heart pumping, then later I saw it; big and dark, almost demonic looking. Its eyes are what caught my attention. Brooke was right; they are huge, dark, and very difficult to spot. With no more moose or hitch-hiker spotting I finally made it to New Hampshire. Tense from the drive, achy from climbing, and smelling of both I went straight for the shower before we all sat down for some late night scrabble and good-old girly gossip.
Monday morning, late morning I should add, Brooke and I set off for our morning run after which we dressed and headed for town. Plymouth is a small New Hampshire town that happens to be home to a university, though I wouldn't describe it as a college town. It was cute, quaint, with a few of the quirks that come along with small places. We had lunch with a co-worker of Brooke's before exploring the boutiques and local to-dos. Late afternoon until late night Brooke had work which left me the entire evening to rest, recover, and catch up on the blog. An afternoon nap did just the trick but when it came time to get online I was greeted everyone's favorite phrase "internet explorer cannot display the webpage." Frustrated, and determined to make use of my free evening, I bounced around town in search of other internet connections. Finally I diagnosed that it was not the internet connection, it was my browser. The rest of the night I worked to restore internet function to my computer and was rather unsuccessful. By the time Brooke got home from work we were both in serious need of a drink. We rendezvoused with a few more of her co-workers at a local sports bar for beer and Monday Night Football.
Tuesday morning we had a bit of a crowd over for breakfast and some early morning gabbing before our run, which this day was to take place in the rain. It wasn't until that afternoon that Brooke actually realized that she was moving... on THURSDAY! Yes, only days before my arrival Brooke had made the decision to move back to Michigan temporarily. When I arrived on Sunday, her room was in absolute shambles and not at all ready for packing. The reality finally set in that afternoon, so we kicked it into high gear and spent the remainder of the day running errands, doing laundry and of course packing and cleaning. When she left for work again that afternoon I elected to leave as well, not that I don't LOVE packing and cleaning for my friends, but I had an engagement elsewhere.
An old friend from high school, who when we're both at our respective homes, are less than a few hours from each other, was scheduled to be in New Hampshire visiting family the same time I was passing through. Sometimes life just works that way. I picked Peter up for a short afternoon coffee date where we reminisced about our days at Rockford High School and filled each other in on life since 2005. Every day I am amazed and inspired by how different all of our lives have turned out to be and how small of a world we live in that while we are both nearly a thousand miles away from home, we could have coffee in who-knows-where, New Hampshire together after years of separation. Satisfied and caffeinated, I returned Peter to his hosts and drove south to BOSTON!
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Monday, September 19, 2011
Ver-mont
Vermont: (n) a state in the New England region of the northeastern United States of America.
Tuesday afternoon Mustang Sally and I drove the entire width of New York State into Vermont. Besides the boredom of driving in a straight line for 5 hours alone, the drive went smoothly, that is until I left the interstate. The sun was setting when I exited onto the back country roads of up-state New York. Only a few weeks ago did hurricane Irene sweep across New England washing out entire roads and bridges, apparently that also included the one I was driving on. Suddenly my path was cut off by an array of orange cones and the words "ROAD CLOSED." While I thank the department of transportation for keeping me from driving down a potentially dangerous road, they had failed to indicate an alternative route of any sort. So the question was, right or left? Left. Perhaps I should have chosen right, not that it would not have mattered. It was a dark, windy, and confusing drive for roughly 30 minutes before I found my way back to a main highway. Hours later than hoped for, but all in one piece, I finally arrived in the one-traffic-light town of Poultney, Vermont, home of Green Mountain College where my younger brother, Jon, now attends undergrad.
A great majority of the students at Green Mountain College do not have class on Wednesdays, which makes Tuesdays their Thursdays. After settling into my brother's dorm room he suggested we check out the "bonfire", which was apparently the place to be this Tuesday. Just next to campus, the river which forms the boundary between New York and Vermont runs narrowly. On the Vermont bank, students had tied up a rope swing to an overhanging tree and arranged a circle of logs and stones around a small pit. Every stereotype and preconceived notion I had about this small environmental school in Vermont was exactly what I witnessed, right down to "the tent." I found it quite comical and could not stop the giggling the rest of the night.
Wednesday afternoon Jon and I rented a couple of sea kayaks from the Green Mountain Adventure Program, a department within the college that rents outdoor recreational gear to students for a minimal price and also leads expeditions to various adventure destinations in the northeast. Before leaving with our kayaks we noticed a rock climbing trip scheduled for that weekend. Though it was already overbooked, we signed ourselves up anyway. With two oversized kayaks on top of an undersized VW Jetta, we drove to Lake Saint Catherine to launch our boats. Unfortunately upon our arrival we found that the park entrance, our boat launch, was closed after Labor Day. Unaware of how far the walk would be from the main road, we set off carrying our kayaks on foot. A park ranger in a pick-up truck eventually rescued us from the pain of the heavy boats and the swarm of mosquitoes by offering us a lift to the water. The lake was gorgeous. We kayaked the shoreline all the way around critiquing the houses on the shore and admiring the mountainous backdrop. Near sundown we left the lake by way of a different launch and made it back to campus in time for the rock-climbing trip meeting. Just enough people missed the meeting to make it possible for Jon and I to jump up on the list and attend the trip. We scheduled to leave Saturday morning.
Thursday was a rain out. Aside from a sustainable farming class I was able to attend with Jon and his roommate, I spent the day resting. The sun shone brightly on Friday so I hit the road after my morning run for a day trip to Burlington. At times I wondered if I would ever make it there, the scenery along the drive was so distracting it was hard not to pull over and marvel. Willpower ultimately took the wheel and I arrived in Burlington early afternoon. Immediately I felt at home. Downtown reminded me very much of downtown Ann Arbor, where I lived during undergrad. The city of Burlington sits on a steep slope which dives into Lake Champlain. At the lakefront there is a boardwalk of sorts which faces west over the water with the Adirondack Mountains climbing high in the background. Up the hill from downtown is the University of Vermont, a bustling college campus overlooking both the city and the lake. I spent the entire day wandering about town and needless to say I was sold.
8:30 a.m. on Saturday came much too early, and Jon and I carried our backpacks to the GMC van loaded with climbing gear and set off to northern New York with our group of 7 other students. Most of which were college juniors who had been climbing real rocks for years, where as my climbing experience was limited to the rock wall at Camp Henry years ago. I was the oldest person on the trip, but clearly the underdog. After a couple hours of dozing off in the back seat, the van parked. Everyone loaded their packs with climbing gear before we set off to hike to our first climb, Owl's Head. Again the scenery was breathtaking and then I saw the rock. Upon first glance it seemed nearly impossible that a human, not infected by a radioactive spider bite, could actually climb this rock. Oh how little I knew. While two of the trip leaders set up the top ropes the remaining one gave us a belay orientation and before long we were on the wall. Multiple ropes had been set up for different climbs along the Owl's Head wall, each a different difficulty. My only goal was to make it to the top of at least one climb, and I did. The feeling of climbing cannot be written in words, only experienced, which I hope leaves a bit of inspiration for anyone reading this to try climbing. From the top of the mountain we could see the sun sinking low so we posed for a few pictures before hiking back down to the van. Our group camped out in a New York State Park somewhere nearby. After erecting our tents a fire was built and dinner preparations were in the works, but soon encountered a road block. It took nearly an hour, perhaps more, to repair our camping stove to a cooking quality. How many college students does it take... Eventually, and much later than expected, burritos were served. Quickly my stomach went from imploding in starvation to exploding in satisfaction and with that I was off to bed.
Overnight the temperature dropped into the 30s, the lowest temperature in Vermont this fall, which meant the first rock we climbed in the morning would be freezing. Indeed it was. Sunday morning we traveled to the Beer Walls for our second day of climbing. The wall was sheltered from the sunlight by a thick curtain of trees and the temperature still lingered in the 40s. Fingers froze after seconds of contact with the rock which made for a painful climb. My first attempt was unsuccessful due to the numbing sensation in my hands, a feeling shared by everyone. Belaying as much as possible helped restore the blood flow to my extremities and soon I was ready for a second go. Once again I fulfilled my goal for the day by reaching the top. After a lunch break we moved to another location along the Beer Walls with a vertical height of nearly 90 feet. Though I never made it to the top, I did climb much higher than I expected to on this wall and deemed it a success. Mid-afternoon marked the end of our climbing endeavor and we began the journey back to Poultney, exhausted yet satisfied.
Tuesday afternoon Mustang Sally and I drove the entire width of New York State into Vermont. Besides the boredom of driving in a straight line for 5 hours alone, the drive went smoothly, that is until I left the interstate. The sun was setting when I exited onto the back country roads of up-state New York. Only a few weeks ago did hurricane Irene sweep across New England washing out entire roads and bridges, apparently that also included the one I was driving on. Suddenly my path was cut off by an array of orange cones and the words "ROAD CLOSED." While I thank the department of transportation for keeping me from driving down a potentially dangerous road, they had failed to indicate an alternative route of any sort. So the question was, right or left? Left. Perhaps I should have chosen right, not that it would not have mattered. It was a dark, windy, and confusing drive for roughly 30 minutes before I found my way back to a main highway. Hours later than hoped for, but all in one piece, I finally arrived in the one-traffic-light town of Poultney, Vermont, home of Green Mountain College where my younger brother, Jon, now attends undergrad.
A great majority of the students at Green Mountain College do not have class on Wednesdays, which makes Tuesdays their Thursdays. After settling into my brother's dorm room he suggested we check out the "bonfire", which was apparently the place to be this Tuesday. Just next to campus, the river which forms the boundary between New York and Vermont runs narrowly. On the Vermont bank, students had tied up a rope swing to an overhanging tree and arranged a circle of logs and stones around a small pit. Every stereotype and preconceived notion I had about this small environmental school in Vermont was exactly what I witnessed, right down to "the tent." I found it quite comical and could not stop the giggling the rest of the night.
Wednesday afternoon Jon and I rented a couple of sea kayaks from the Green Mountain Adventure Program, a department within the college that rents outdoor recreational gear to students for a minimal price and also leads expeditions to various adventure destinations in the northeast. Before leaving with our kayaks we noticed a rock climbing trip scheduled for that weekend. Though it was already overbooked, we signed ourselves up anyway. With two oversized kayaks on top of an undersized VW Jetta, we drove to Lake Saint Catherine to launch our boats. Unfortunately upon our arrival we found that the park entrance, our boat launch, was closed after Labor Day. Unaware of how far the walk would be from the main road, we set off carrying our kayaks on foot. A park ranger in a pick-up truck eventually rescued us from the pain of the heavy boats and the swarm of mosquitoes by offering us a lift to the water. The lake was gorgeous. We kayaked the shoreline all the way around critiquing the houses on the shore and admiring the mountainous backdrop. Near sundown we left the lake by way of a different launch and made it back to campus in time for the rock-climbing trip meeting. Just enough people missed the meeting to make it possible for Jon and I to jump up on the list and attend the trip. We scheduled to leave Saturday morning.
Thursday was a rain out. Aside from a sustainable farming class I was able to attend with Jon and his roommate, I spent the day resting. The sun shone brightly on Friday so I hit the road after my morning run for a day trip to Burlington. At times I wondered if I would ever make it there, the scenery along the drive was so distracting it was hard not to pull over and marvel. Willpower ultimately took the wheel and I arrived in Burlington early afternoon. Immediately I felt at home. Downtown reminded me very much of downtown Ann Arbor, where I lived during undergrad. The city of Burlington sits on a steep slope which dives into Lake Champlain. At the lakefront there is a boardwalk of sorts which faces west over the water with the Adirondack Mountains climbing high in the background. Up the hill from downtown is the University of Vermont, a bustling college campus overlooking both the city and the lake. I spent the entire day wandering about town and needless to say I was sold.
8:30 a.m. on Saturday came much too early, and Jon and I carried our backpacks to the GMC van loaded with climbing gear and set off to northern New York with our group of 7 other students. Most of which were college juniors who had been climbing real rocks for years, where as my climbing experience was limited to the rock wall at Camp Henry years ago. I was the oldest person on the trip, but clearly the underdog. After a couple hours of dozing off in the back seat, the van parked. Everyone loaded their packs with climbing gear before we set off to hike to our first climb, Owl's Head. Again the scenery was breathtaking and then I saw the rock. Upon first glance it seemed nearly impossible that a human, not infected by a radioactive spider bite, could actually climb this rock. Oh how little I knew. While two of the trip leaders set up the top ropes the remaining one gave us a belay orientation and before long we were on the wall. Multiple ropes had been set up for different climbs along the Owl's Head wall, each a different difficulty. My only goal was to make it to the top of at least one climb, and I did. The feeling of climbing cannot be written in words, only experienced, which I hope leaves a bit of inspiration for anyone reading this to try climbing. From the top of the mountain we could see the sun sinking low so we posed for a few pictures before hiking back down to the van. Our group camped out in a New York State Park somewhere nearby. After erecting our tents a fire was built and dinner preparations were in the works, but soon encountered a road block. It took nearly an hour, perhaps more, to repair our camping stove to a cooking quality. How many college students does it take... Eventually, and much later than expected, burritos were served. Quickly my stomach went from imploding in starvation to exploding in satisfaction and with that I was off to bed.
Overnight the temperature dropped into the 30s, the lowest temperature in Vermont this fall, which meant the first rock we climbed in the morning would be freezing. Indeed it was. Sunday morning we traveled to the Beer Walls for our second day of climbing. The wall was sheltered from the sunlight by a thick curtain of trees and the temperature still lingered in the 40s. Fingers froze after seconds of contact with the rock which made for a painful climb. My first attempt was unsuccessful due to the numbing sensation in my hands, a feeling shared by everyone. Belaying as much as possible helped restore the blood flow to my extremities and soon I was ready for a second go. Once again I fulfilled my goal for the day by reaching the top. After a lunch break we moved to another location along the Beer Walls with a vertical height of nearly 90 feet. Though I never made it to the top, I did climb much higher than I expected to on this wall and deemed it a success. Mid-afternoon marked the end of our climbing endeavor and we began the journey back to Poultney, exhausted yet satisfied.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
wa-ter-fall
waterfall: (n) a steep fall or flow of water in a watercourse from a height, as over a precipice.
Monday morning began later than I hoped it would. Therefore I elected to surpass Buffalo and drive straight to Niagara Falls which was indeed a great decision.
Car parked in the visitor lot, I slung my camera over my shoulder, stuffed my water canteen into my bag next to a granola bar, and set off to explore. As with many destinations along this journey, this was my very first visit to Niagara Falls. How I have lived 24 years without experiencing it before, I cannot comprehend. The entire day I was dumbfounded by the beauty that surrounded me and the awesome power of the water that raged over the edge, just meters from my feet. Often times a moment or vista would be so overwhelming I would become paralyzed, frozen in a stare exactly where I stood. After returning from my trans, but before moving on, I was sure to photograph EVERYTHING and with the help of a few friendly strangers was able to capture my own presence at the falls. Occurrences such as these consumed a significant amount of my already shortened afternoon. Fortunately I made it to every landmark on the New York side of the falls. This does not include all of the tourist gimmicks. Though I do imagine them to be a great way to experience the falls, they are most definitely not necessary, especially on a first visit. I suppose I could say the same about crossing over to Canada. The U.S. side of the falls has plenty to offer. That, and I fell short on time, which is perhaps the reasoning behind this argument. Truth be told, I have also never been to Canada. Again, how I have lived 24 years of life, in Michigan for that matter, and never crossed the northern border is beyond me. But worry not, Vancouver is on the itinerary for the west coast trip.
The bright colors in the sky indicated a setting sun, which was my cue leave to falls. There was one more journey into unfamiliar territory to be made today and I was not intending to make that journey in the dark. Regrettably, I continued north to 4 Mile Creek State Park in northern New York on the shores of Lake Ontario. Without reservations, I pulled into the park office lot and was greeted with locked doors but a poster of sorts indicating open campsite for the night. The sun was low on the horizon but still shed enough light for me to find a prime location and set up camp. My stomach reminded me that a bagel for breakfast and a granola bar for lunch was hardly satisfactory. Quickly, I weighted down the tent with my sleeping bag and duffle before driving off, yet again, in search of food.
In the one-blinking-red-light town of Youngstown, New York, I walked into the first, and possibly only, local diner. There was an open table next to the window overlooking the river to the west where I sat myself. Exhausted and starving, I quickly ordered the Greek Burger. Sitting alone at a restaurant, and an unfamiliar one at that, was another new experience for me and surprisingly enjoyable. Without the distraction of a companion sitting across the table from me, I was able to understand the presence of the company I was in. A feeling of home swept over me, even though I was literally hundreds of miles away from my actual home, and with that my dinner had arrived. It was quite possibly the greasiest burger I have ever eaten in my life, but I hoped the amount of acid gurgling in my stomach before the meal would counteract that.
By the time I returned to my tent the sun had set and left behind streaks of pinks and purples which I was too drowsy to enjoy. And by 8:30 I was sound asleep. It really is a shame I did not turn off my cell phone before collapsing onto my pillow, because when it went off 2 hours later I may as well have downed a pot of coffee. Though the night was beautiful and camping so peaceful, it was nearly 3 in the morning before my eyes closed again. At some point during the night the wind picked up to speeds that would have blown my tent into Lake Ontario had I not been sleeping in it. My tent was on the verge of imploding on me around 8 a.m., by then sleep was hopeless. Hope the chocolate covered espresso beans from Philip last me the next 7 hours to Poultney, Vermont!
Monday morning began later than I hoped it would. Therefore I elected to surpass Buffalo and drive straight to Niagara Falls which was indeed a great decision.
Car parked in the visitor lot, I slung my camera over my shoulder, stuffed my water canteen into my bag next to a granola bar, and set off to explore. As with many destinations along this journey, this was my very first visit to Niagara Falls. How I have lived 24 years without experiencing it before, I cannot comprehend. The entire day I was dumbfounded by the beauty that surrounded me and the awesome power of the water that raged over the edge, just meters from my feet. Often times a moment or vista would be so overwhelming I would become paralyzed, frozen in a stare exactly where I stood. After returning from my trans, but before moving on, I was sure to photograph EVERYTHING and with the help of a few friendly strangers was able to capture my own presence at the falls. Occurrences such as these consumed a significant amount of my already shortened afternoon. Fortunately I made it to every landmark on the New York side of the falls. This does not include all of the tourist gimmicks. Though I do imagine them to be a great way to experience the falls, they are most definitely not necessary, especially on a first visit. I suppose I could say the same about crossing over to Canada. The U.S. side of the falls has plenty to offer. That, and I fell short on time, which is perhaps the reasoning behind this argument. Truth be told, I have also never been to Canada. Again, how I have lived 24 years of life, in Michigan for that matter, and never crossed the northern border is beyond me. But worry not, Vancouver is on the itinerary for the west coast trip.
The bright colors in the sky indicated a setting sun, which was my cue leave to falls. There was one more journey into unfamiliar territory to be made today and I was not intending to make that journey in the dark. Regrettably, I continued north to 4 Mile Creek State Park in northern New York on the shores of Lake Ontario. Without reservations, I pulled into the park office lot and was greeted with locked doors but a poster of sorts indicating open campsite for the night. The sun was low on the horizon but still shed enough light for me to find a prime location and set up camp. My stomach reminded me that a bagel for breakfast and a granola bar for lunch was hardly satisfactory. Quickly, I weighted down the tent with my sleeping bag and duffle before driving off, yet again, in search of food.
In the one-blinking-red-light town of Youngstown, New York, I walked into the first, and possibly only, local diner. There was an open table next to the window overlooking the river to the west where I sat myself. Exhausted and starving, I quickly ordered the Greek Burger. Sitting alone at a restaurant, and an unfamiliar one at that, was another new experience for me and surprisingly enjoyable. Without the distraction of a companion sitting across the table from me, I was able to understand the presence of the company I was in. A feeling of home swept over me, even though I was literally hundreds of miles away from my actual home, and with that my dinner had arrived. It was quite possibly the greasiest burger I have ever eaten in my life, but I hoped the amount of acid gurgling in my stomach before the meal would counteract that.
By the time I returned to my tent the sun had set and left behind streaks of pinks and purples which I was too drowsy to enjoy. And by 8:30 I was sound asleep. It really is a shame I did not turn off my cell phone before collapsing onto my pillow, because when it went off 2 hours later I may as well have downed a pot of coffee. Though the night was beautiful and camping so peaceful, it was nearly 3 in the morning before my eyes closed again. At some point during the night the wind picked up to speeds that would have blown my tent into Lake Ontario had I not been sleeping in it. My tent was on the verge of imploding on me around 8 a.m., by then sleep was hopeless. Hope the chocolate covered espresso beans from Philip last me the next 7 hours to Poultney, Vermont!
Monday, September 12, 2011
Cleve-land
Cleveland: (n) a port in NE Ohio, on Lake Erie
By noon on Friday I was clocking the first of what is sure to be thousands of miles in the eastern United States. To avoid Grand Rapids traffic, I elected to take the back roads to the highway. As the car idled in a line of vehicles behind a man in a hard hat holding a STOP sign, I came to regret my decision. With a flick of his wrist STOP became SLOW and the line of traffic moved through the construction zone like a centipede. 100 miles later another parade of orange cones slowed this first leg of my very long journey. After adding nearly an hour to my driving time Ann Arbor was finally in sight. The pains of street parking and the cocktail of aromas on State Street brought me back to senior year. Diane and I rendezvoused on the upper floor of Bivoac while I practiced my decision making skills on the abundant selection of sleeping pads. Purchase in hand we walked together toward Kerry Town to visit the Tea Haus. The hours passed far too quickly as we gabbed over tea and once again I hit the road.
My preconceived notions of Cleveland were not the greatest. For one, it is in Ohio. Need I say more? After hours of driving under bright sunny skies, the moment the Cleveland skyline came into view drops of rain began falling onto my windshield. Of course. My host shared just as much enthusiasm for this city as I did but was determined to make the visit worth my time. Scott, his girlfriend Dede, their neighbors Jack and Kim, friend "Climber" and I spent our evening at the Great Lakes Brewing Company in downtown Cleveland. Already my opinions of the city were changing. The Brewing Co. is housed in a beautiful 19th century brick building, carefully restored. We enjoyed a few pitchers of Oktoberfest in the "speakeasy" style basement before taking a brewery tour on which I sampled the Eliot Ness Amber Lager and the Edmund Fitzgerald Porter.
Which leads me to this question: According to the lyrics by Gordon Lightfoot, how much weight was the Edmund Fitzgerald carrying when it sank in 1975?
Saturday morning the fun from the night before had caught up to a few people in our group. While they relaxed away the hangover, I met up with Philip to explore some more of Cleveland. We began with breakfast at house converted to restaurant/bakery for what may have been the largest omelet I've ever attempted to eat. Philip, an architect, was sure to point out every significant building and house along the way to Cleveland's famous West Side Market. The bustling indoor food market was a beautiful contrast to the slum-like markets in Central America I had grown accustom to. If only I had a grocery list. We picked up some delicious chocolate covered espresso beans and moved outdoors. The rest of the sunny afternoon was spent along the shore of Lake Erie climbing up and down the jagged concrete seawall at Edgewater Park. Saturday night was the first night game in The Big House. The University of Michigan Wolverines kicked off against the Fighting Irish of Notre Dame in Ann Arbor while Scott and I, dressed in our maize and blue, cheered them on from the suburbs of Cleveland. If you missed the game, shame on you. Truth be told, Michigan played terrible football for the entire first half, but the entire game really came down to the last, very exciting, 2 minutes. In the end, Michigan took away the victory 35-31. The overabundance of adrenaline surging through our veins fueled us into a marathon of house games until 3:30 a.m.
Sunday morning Scott was in a similar state as the day before, so Dede and I spent the morning together running through the park. Kayaking was on the agenda for the afternoon and the skies were clear when we returned. So we packed for a day on the water and stopped for breakfast along the way, during which the skies turned a mean shade of dark and erupted with thunder and lightning. Alternative suggestions were made, but never decided upon, as we cruised around town. Borders' going out of business sale was the first thing we agreed upon. Finally Dede insisted on black-light mini-golf which was a surprisingly legitimate putting course. We concluded the weekend with burgers at the B-Spot and cheers to new friends.
I had an amazing time in the most unexpected of cities and am looking forward to a short reunion on my return trip home.
By noon on Friday I was clocking the first of what is sure to be thousands of miles in the eastern United States. To avoid Grand Rapids traffic, I elected to take the back roads to the highway. As the car idled in a line of vehicles behind a man in a hard hat holding a STOP sign, I came to regret my decision. With a flick of his wrist STOP became SLOW and the line of traffic moved through the construction zone like a centipede. 100 miles later another parade of orange cones slowed this first leg of my very long journey. After adding nearly an hour to my driving time Ann Arbor was finally in sight. The pains of street parking and the cocktail of aromas on State Street brought me back to senior year. Diane and I rendezvoused on the upper floor of Bivoac while I practiced my decision making skills on the abundant selection of sleeping pads. Purchase in hand we walked together toward Kerry Town to visit the Tea Haus. The hours passed far too quickly as we gabbed over tea and once again I hit the road.
My preconceived notions of Cleveland were not the greatest. For one, it is in Ohio. Need I say more? After hours of driving under bright sunny skies, the moment the Cleveland skyline came into view drops of rain began falling onto my windshield. Of course. My host shared just as much enthusiasm for this city as I did but was determined to make the visit worth my time. Scott, his girlfriend Dede, their neighbors Jack and Kim, friend "Climber" and I spent our evening at the Great Lakes Brewing Company in downtown Cleveland. Already my opinions of the city were changing. The Brewing Co. is housed in a beautiful 19th century brick building, carefully restored. We enjoyed a few pitchers of Oktoberfest in the "speakeasy" style basement before taking a brewery tour on which I sampled the Eliot Ness Amber Lager and the Edmund Fitzgerald Porter.
Which leads me to this question: According to the lyrics by Gordon Lightfoot, how much weight was the Edmund Fitzgerald carrying when it sank in 1975?
Saturday morning the fun from the night before had caught up to a few people in our group. While they relaxed away the hangover, I met up with Philip to explore some more of Cleveland. We began with breakfast at house converted to restaurant/bakery for what may have been the largest omelet I've ever attempted to eat. Philip, an architect, was sure to point out every significant building and house along the way to Cleveland's famous West Side Market. The bustling indoor food market was a beautiful contrast to the slum-like markets in Central America I had grown accustom to. If only I had a grocery list. We picked up some delicious chocolate covered espresso beans and moved outdoors. The rest of the sunny afternoon was spent along the shore of Lake Erie climbing up and down the jagged concrete seawall at Edgewater Park. Saturday night was the first night game in The Big House. The University of Michigan Wolverines kicked off against the Fighting Irish of Notre Dame in Ann Arbor while Scott and I, dressed in our maize and blue, cheered them on from the suburbs of Cleveland. If you missed the game, shame on you. Truth be told, Michigan played terrible football for the entire first half, but the entire game really came down to the last, very exciting, 2 minutes. In the end, Michigan took away the victory 35-31. The overabundance of adrenaline surging through our veins fueled us into a marathon of house games until 3:30 a.m.
Sunday morning Scott was in a similar state as the day before, so Dede and I spent the morning together running through the park. Kayaking was on the agenda for the afternoon and the skies were clear when we returned. So we packed for a day on the water and stopped for breakfast along the way, during which the skies turned a mean shade of dark and erupted with thunder and lightning. Alternative suggestions were made, but never decided upon, as we cruised around town. Borders' going out of business sale was the first thing we agreed upon. Finally Dede insisted on black-light mini-golf which was a surprisingly legitimate putting course. We concluded the weekend with burgers at the B-Spot and cheers to new friends.
I had an amazing time in the most unexpected of cities and am looking forward to a short reunion on my return trip home.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
road trip
road trip: (n) a journey via automobile, sometimes unplanned or impromptu
This July I returned to the United States after living and working in Honduras for a year, and traveling throughout northern Central America. Those who had been in touch with me for the duration of my time abroad know that much has changed in my life. The state of being I found myself in upon reentering the U.S. was nowhere near anything I could have ever pictured for myself at the prime age of 24. Though surprising and unexpected, it was also a very exhilarating feeling. With a bachelor's degree from the University of Michigan and a year of teaching experience in a foreign country, I also had no job awaiting me, grad school to attend, or boyfriend to base decisions around. I was uncommitted in every sense of the word and ready for a brand new chapter in my life.
Among the thousands of life lessons I have learned in the last 12 months, one of them is how important it is to be happy with where you live. This, in combination with my recent life status and incurable desire for adventure, is what put the "wheels in motion" for my next journey.
This fall I am traveling the country in pursuit of a new place to call home. Other objectives include visiting prospective graduate schools, searching for jobs in architecture, reuniting with physically distant friends and family, exploring cities for the first time, and seeing national parks and monuments. After living in the tropical mountains of Honduras for 12 months, HOURS away from a swimmable water source, I've narrowed my search down from the entire country to the east and west coasts where I can be near to the water again. Part one of my journey is an east coast road trip.
My uncle Eric has so graciously loaned me his 1992 Ford Mustang for the next month as I set off to visit 12 cities on the eastern seaboard in 36 days. On the itinerary: Cleveland, Ohio; Niagara Falls, New York; Poultney, Vermont; Boston, Massachusetts; New Haven, Connecticut; Woodbourne, New York; Washington, D.C.; Quinton, Virginia; Raleigh, North Carolina; Charleston, South Carolina; Blacksburg, Virginia.
East coast, here I come!
This July I returned to the United States after living and working in Honduras for a year, and traveling throughout northern Central America. Those who had been in touch with me for the duration of my time abroad know that much has changed in my life. The state of being I found myself in upon reentering the U.S. was nowhere near anything I could have ever pictured for myself at the prime age of 24. Though surprising and unexpected, it was also a very exhilarating feeling. With a bachelor's degree from the University of Michigan and a year of teaching experience in a foreign country, I also had no job awaiting me, grad school to attend, or boyfriend to base decisions around. I was uncommitted in every sense of the word and ready for a brand new chapter in my life.
Among the thousands of life lessons I have learned in the last 12 months, one of them is how important it is to be happy with where you live. This, in combination with my recent life status and incurable desire for adventure, is what put the "wheels in motion" for my next journey.
This fall I am traveling the country in pursuit of a new place to call home. Other objectives include visiting prospective graduate schools, searching for jobs in architecture, reuniting with physically distant friends and family, exploring cities for the first time, and seeing national parks and monuments. After living in the tropical mountains of Honduras for 12 months, HOURS away from a swimmable water source, I've narrowed my search down from the entire country to the east and west coasts where I can be near to the water again. Part one of my journey is an east coast road trip.
My uncle Eric has so graciously loaned me his 1992 Ford Mustang for the next month as I set off to visit 12 cities on the eastern seaboard in 36 days. On the itinerary: Cleveland, Ohio; Niagara Falls, New York; Poultney, Vermont; Boston, Massachusetts; New Haven, Connecticut; Woodbourne, New York; Washington, D.C.; Quinton, Virginia; Raleigh, North Carolina; Charleston, South Carolina; Blacksburg, Virginia.
East coast, here I come!
Saturday, September 3, 2011
mouse
mouse: (n) any of numerous small Old World rodents of the family Muridae, especially of the genus Mus, introduced widely in other parts of the world.
Actually, "mice" would a more appropriate title for this post. For it is not a singular mouse that has frustrated me into taking up my blog again after 9 months of absence but rather, a colony of mice. However, the dictionary defines the word "mice" as "the plural form of mouse." And so here we are. No matter the word, this story is of the physical creature and its incredibly destructive tendencies.
For this up and coming Labor Day weekend, my cousin Jimmy is flying to Michigan all the way from California to visit our extended family. It has been at least 4 years, my last trip to California, since we've seen each other. To celebrate his reunion with the rest of our family, as well as the national holiday, the Klos family is camping out at Granny's. Though it hardly qualifies as camping. Grandma's 3 bedroom, 2 1/2 bath house is on small inland lake with a large, lightly wooded with great big pine trees, lot. "Camping" in the lawn is just a better way to enjoy the lake and prevent cramming everybody into one house.
In preparation for "camping" my father asked me to clean our pop-up camper and take inventory of the camping gear. This morning he popped-up the camper in the driveway and upon entering...
The only thing more appalling than the sight of our camper, was the smell. An entire neighborhood's worth of mice had made themselves very much at home in our Coleman Fleetwood camper. Within each storage cabinet were nests of sorts, constructed with bits of our chewed through game boxes, pillow cases, and dish rags. Mouse droppings dotted the entire interior like sprinkles on a cupcake. Stains and fur remained plastered to the canvas where deceased members of the mouse colony had been decaying for an untold amount of time. Of course today had to be the hottest September day on record in Grand Rapids since the 1980s. Need I say more?
It took several trips in and out of the camper while holding my breath to remove the accumulation of our family camping accessories from inside. In some places the Shop-Vac was the only tool able to reveal what was salvageable beneath all of the shredding and shit. There was not much left. Literally EVERYTHING had been contaminated with mouse feces. Anything that was worth keeping needed an extra long swim in a pool of bleach. What was left of the camper was not much better. The mattresses were stained and chewed, droppings were stuck in every crevice and fold of fabric, and the exterior canvas was chewed completely through leaving jagged and unwanted skylights above the beds. The smell alone was cause enough to call it quits on the camper all together. Unfortunately the company who manufactured this particular camper is no longer in business due to bankruptcy in 2008. There is no saving this camper. Amazing how a 3 inch mouse, and its friends, can completely destroy a 21 foot camper.
I'll be in the tent at Granny's this year.
If anyone is interested in camper parts for a Fleetwood Coleman pop up camper, please contact me.
Actually, "mice" would a more appropriate title for this post. For it is not a singular mouse that has frustrated me into taking up my blog again after 9 months of absence but rather, a colony of mice. However, the dictionary defines the word "mice" as "the plural form of mouse." And so here we are. No matter the word, this story is of the physical creature and its incredibly destructive tendencies.
For this up and coming Labor Day weekend, my cousin Jimmy is flying to Michigan all the way from California to visit our extended family. It has been at least 4 years, my last trip to California, since we've seen each other. To celebrate his reunion with the rest of our family, as well as the national holiday, the Klos family is camping out at Granny's. Though it hardly qualifies as camping. Grandma's 3 bedroom, 2 1/2 bath house is on small inland lake with a large, lightly wooded with great big pine trees, lot. "Camping" in the lawn is just a better way to enjoy the lake and prevent cramming everybody into one house.
In preparation for "camping" my father asked me to clean our pop-up camper and take inventory of the camping gear. This morning he popped-up the camper in the driveway and upon entering...
The only thing more appalling than the sight of our camper, was the smell. An entire neighborhood's worth of mice had made themselves very much at home in our Coleman Fleetwood camper. Within each storage cabinet were nests of sorts, constructed with bits of our chewed through game boxes, pillow cases, and dish rags. Mouse droppings dotted the entire interior like sprinkles on a cupcake. Stains and fur remained plastered to the canvas where deceased members of the mouse colony had been decaying for an untold amount of time. Of course today had to be the hottest September day on record in Grand Rapids since the 1980s. Need I say more?
It took several trips in and out of the camper while holding my breath to remove the accumulation of our family camping accessories from inside. In some places the Shop-Vac was the only tool able to reveal what was salvageable beneath all of the shredding and shit. There was not much left. Literally EVERYTHING had been contaminated with mouse feces. Anything that was worth keeping needed an extra long swim in a pool of bleach. What was left of the camper was not much better. The mattresses were stained and chewed, droppings were stuck in every crevice and fold of fabric, and the exterior canvas was chewed completely through leaving jagged and unwanted skylights above the beds. The smell alone was cause enough to call it quits on the camper all together. Unfortunately the company who manufactured this particular camper is no longer in business due to bankruptcy in 2008. There is no saving this camper. Amazing how a 3 inch mouse, and its friends, can completely destroy a 21 foot camper.
I'll be in the tent at Granny's this year.
If anyone is interested in camper parts for a Fleetwood Coleman pop up camper, please contact me.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
dance
dance: (v) to move one's feet or body, or both, rhythmically in a pattern of steps, esp. to the accompaniment of music.
One month from today will be our school's annual Christmas program. The details of this I am still not sure of. Up until last week the only thing I knew about this program was that it is on Friday December 17th. Then, at our staff meeting last Thursday, I was told that each grade was to learn a choreographed dance to a predetermined song. GREAT! We spent the majority of our staff meeting scanning through the DVD recording of all the dances sent to us from our school headquarters in Tegucigalpa. I saw a 20 second clip of my dance which was just long enough to stress me out over the thought of my 5th graders being disciplined enough to pull this off. I will be needing a miracle for sure. And when are we going to practice?
Monday morning I overheard talk between some of the teachers, in Spanish, about the Christmas program dances. I only caught the tail end and the few words of Spanish that I knew. I quickly asked Andrea, who speaks fluent Spanish, what was going on with the dances. The look on her face matched my emotions exactly after she told me that we are to take 2 class periods every day, from now until Christmas, to practice for the dance. I'm sorry? I just had parent teacher conferences this weekend where loads of parents insisted that I spend more time on subjects such as History and Science, because their students are struggling in those classes. So I asked the principal, just to be sure. He said Science, History and Reading aren't the important classes, Math and Language are what really matter. Right. So after I told parents that I would spend more time on those classes, you are telling me to cut them so we can dance? Sometimes... the way things are done here in Honduras...
ANYWAY. I spent the next few mornings frantically rearranging my schedule for the rest of the semester, in order to have enough time to dance and still give these kids an education. That meant EVERY class would take a hit, the important ones and the "not as important" ones.
Bryony and Holly used their Penmanship time on Tuesday to start teaching the dance to the 5th graders. I was amazed, when I used Art class later that day to work on the dance with them, to see that they had actually learned something. Miraculously by the end of the day Wednesday half the dance was finished. Sure my voice is sounding a bit froggy and I never want to count to 8 again, but the 5th graders, MY 5TH GRADERS are learning a dance! I never thought I'd see the day. Let's just hope the second half of the dance goes just as well. :)
One month from today will be our school's annual Christmas program. The details of this I am still not sure of. Up until last week the only thing I knew about this program was that it is on Friday December 17th. Then, at our staff meeting last Thursday, I was told that each grade was to learn a choreographed dance to a predetermined song. GREAT! We spent the majority of our staff meeting scanning through the DVD recording of all the dances sent to us from our school headquarters in Tegucigalpa. I saw a 20 second clip of my dance which was just long enough to stress me out over the thought of my 5th graders being disciplined enough to pull this off. I will be needing a miracle for sure. And when are we going to practice?
Monday morning I overheard talk between some of the teachers, in Spanish, about the Christmas program dances. I only caught the tail end and the few words of Spanish that I knew. I quickly asked Andrea, who speaks fluent Spanish, what was going on with the dances. The look on her face matched my emotions exactly after she told me that we are to take 2 class periods every day, from now until Christmas, to practice for the dance. I'm sorry? I just had parent teacher conferences this weekend where loads of parents insisted that I spend more time on subjects such as History and Science, because their students are struggling in those classes. So I asked the principal, just to be sure. He said Science, History and Reading aren't the important classes, Math and Language are what really matter. Right. So after I told parents that I would spend more time on those classes, you are telling me to cut them so we can dance? Sometimes... the way things are done here in Honduras...
ANYWAY. I spent the next few mornings frantically rearranging my schedule for the rest of the semester, in order to have enough time to dance and still give these kids an education. That meant EVERY class would take a hit, the important ones and the "not as important" ones.
Bryony and Holly used their Penmanship time on Tuesday to start teaching the dance to the 5th graders. I was amazed, when I used Art class later that day to work on the dance with them, to see that they had actually learned something. Miraculously by the end of the day Wednesday half the dance was finished. Sure my voice is sounding a bit froggy and I never want to count to 8 again, but the 5th graders, MY 5TH GRADERS are learning a dance! I never thought I'd see the day. Let's just hope the second half of the dance goes just as well. :)
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