Lugs, Chains and Paddle Blades

Transcontinentalitis, Days 26 - 30 (Boise City, OK to near Chama, NM)

2011-12-21T18:54:00.000-08:00

Day 26: Boise City, OK to Clayton, NM (46.21 miles, 1972.4 total, 25.0 mph max)

We made it to Clayton, NM without stopping even for breakfast. But that's only because there was no place to stop.

We set our clocks back again. Because of that we arrived at a KOA in Clayton by 10 am. I went to the doctor and he said the hand is ok but it won't get any better until I stop cycling. But at least I know it's not going to do any damage permanently.

We start some serious climbing this week and hope to be out of the worst of it by next weekend (today is Friday). Very low on funds; may need to start using plastic. I really did not want that.

Clayton is cool. We checked out the town and met some locals.

We're way ahead of schedule now and we'll be taking off more often, doing half days like today. We're both really enjoying this part of the country.

Day 27: Clayton, NM to Cimmaron, NM (112.1 miles, 2084.5 total, 42.0 mph max)

What a day. One stop between Clayton and Springer. We're really seeing the mountains. They're very intimidating. I'm petrified about climbing tomorrow.

We are in Cimmaron, NM, at the foot of a mountain. Fifty-five miles to Taos tomorrow, then a day off for Chris's birthday. Taos looks like it'll be a fun place for a day off.

Today Chris broke 5 spokes at the same time and we were 5 miles from Springer. Quite discouraged, we sat and played out the options in Springer. Just then a Backroads van pulled into the gas station where we were. At least 40 bikes were on the roof, and they had plenty of spokes and the freewheel remover tool we needed. It was not a coincidence. This is our guardian angel for sure, and the driver gave us each a PowerBar, too.

We were watching the mountains all day and now they're finally here, right in front of us.

Day 28: Cimmaron, NM to Taos, NM (57.0 miles, 2141.5 total, 33.0 mph max)

I woke up early - 7 am - and just sat and admired the mountains. They're really something else. This town - Cimmaron - is really great. Everybody is so mellow and laid back. They all call each other poncho and are friends with everybody else. They're wonderful to people passing through like us.

It's scary to think that we'll be going over these mountains. It's going to be tough, but I can't wait to get to Taos. (This was the first time I began a journal entry before riding for the day)

The ride from Cimmaron to Taos was the best country I've seen in my life. I day-dreamed about moving out here after graduation all day long. We're now in Taos and our bikes are in the shop. We'll be able to go out to celebrate Chris's birthday tonight and then tomorrow we'll spend the day in Taos.

Everything is made of adobe here. There are art galleries everywhere. I'd like to come back to ski here.

Today's scenery was the best yet. We saw snow-capped peaks, whitewater rapids, wildlife, and beautiful vegetation. Eagle Nest Lake was spectacular.

(the following notes were barely legible)

We went to the bar. I'm messed up and it's fun. Taos rocks. I'm coming here after college.

Day 29: Taos, NM to Tres Piedres, NM (45.4 miles, 2186.9 total, 28.0 mph max)

We skipped out on a day off in Taos. We woke up late and didn't leave until 1 pm, though. We made it as far as Tres Piedres and heard about the Rainbow Gathering. It's like this hippie place. We decided to check it out.

We got a ride to the gathering with these hippies in a mid-70's Jeep Cherokee. No upholstery, no radio, no AC. Only a few door handles, and trash everywhere. The guys were really nice, though.

We made it to camp - 20 miles up a dirt road - and now are at the gathering. A lot of drugs. There's a lady called "Mom" who cooks. She gave us dinner. A conglomeration of potato salad, tossed salad, and potato pancakes, and in one big mess. Camp food. Everybody ate it up, including myself.

I really feel like an outsider. All of these people are drifters. Nobody has a home. They just go from gathering to gathering. I'm anxious since we have to find a ride to the bottom of the mountain tomorrow. They're really different people. Dirty with long hair, beards, and dread locks. I hear there will be a drum circle tonight. I hope so.

I want to meet these people but I don't feel welcome. There are strange people everywhere, about 500 or so of them. It makes me miss home.

It's interesting to hear the stories that these people have experienced. They've been everywhere. I hope I have a home when I get to their ages. I'd say most are at least 25. I hope I have a family at their ages. I'll travel a lot, but I'll need a place where I feel safe. Right now that place is 2100 miles away.

The last couple of hours have been really strange. Chris fell asleep so I went to the frame work of a cabin they're building. There is a fire there. I was watching these people. Generally, they are older men in their mid-40s, they all smoke, and they don't seem to be very smart. I talked to two of them. One has a wife and kids in TN and he left them in December to com here. (It was late June or early July). The other told me about when his father's business was in trouble and he had to go work in a suit and tie. A man and his wife were fighting. She's crying now. He was really mean to her but I'm surrounded by all his peers. I wanted to do something when he was yelling at her. He said to her, "I'm gonna say it on more fuckin' time politely, Get out of my Goddamn face, please!"

Then Chris woke up and we went to the other camp about 500 yards up the hill. There were about 150 people there in a circle, maybe more. Everybody was holding hands and they started humming. I hummed a little. Then they cheered and passed around a hat for a collection. It didn't look like they made much. They call each other 'brother' and 'sister.'

I'm not scared anymore, as much as I was when I first arrived. This guy started praying and the man next to Chris shouted out loud, "Thank God!" as in, "Thank God for this food." Then about a dozen people started walking around the circle with buckets. They gave each person a scoop of whatever was in the bucket. It was some kind of slop, for as well as I could tell.

These people have hitch-hiked thousands of miles to get here. They've come in school buses, VW buses, vans, Jeeps, on bikes, and motorcycles. Some walked. A school bus just rolled in with 25 or more people. I am amazed. It's some kind of cult I think.

When some one pulls up to the first camp, everybody yells, "Welcome home!" This place is weird. We're getting a ride back to Tres Piedres at 6 am in the same Jeep that drove us up. I can't wait.

We were walking back from that other camp and two guys were walking the other way. They asked us if we had anything to trade. I asked what he was looking for. "Hallucinogens or buds," he said.

We're back by the fire. This old Indian man who wears handcuffs just sits and bitches like crazy. He's really mean and then he laughs. He seems really tough. He wears a cowboy hat. A black one, and black jeans and suede cowboy boots with a flannel jacket. A few of these men seem like they're real (American) Indians. Good looking people, but these ones are bitter and tough.

The Indian man talks like some old chief. He's a slow talker and he has an accent. He was telling us how people fear what they don't understand. Actually, he had a pretty good point.

Day 30: Tres Pieres, NM to near Chama, NM (63.1 miles, 2249.0 total, 40.9 mph max)

Not too bad a day. We got to the highest point on our trip (10,500 ft) and just cruised down. We had to wake up at 5:30 am to get out of that crazy place, though. Chris and I were arguing and I got pretty bummed; missing home.

New Mexico is the only state I haven't been dying to get through. It's beautiful here. Chris made a snowman at the summit.

The experiences we had in New Mexico were, I think, profound. After Chris's bike was essentially unrideable, a bike shop on wheels showed up with parts, tools, and expertise. I was able to see the mountains like I'd never seen before. And, I got to hang out with a thousand drifters in a remote spot in Kit Carson National Forest. It was honestly like I'd stepped onto a different planet, but as a kid in my 20s I needed to be exposed to places and people like I was in New Mexico. I think I made some long-term decisions on that mountain.

Camping with the Kids

2011-12-11T19:41:00.000-08:00

We interrupt this series of boring bike-across-the-country journal transcriptions for a tale of potential child negligence, short-sightedness, and generally poor judgement . . .

Molly and I are from Pittsburgh. We're not Inuit, Scandinavian, or Siberian. We're not even Yoopers. While many Pittsburghers like to complain in their own sort of proud way that winters here are tough, they are mild in comparison. Winter here generally kicks in sometime around mid-December, then snow arrives in January, and by late March we're starting to thaw out. The temperatures rarely dip into in the single digits (Fahrenheit) and storms rarely drop more than a few inches of snow at a time.

So, taking the kids (ages 2.8 and 1.4) camping in late October isn't all that crazy an idea.

Molly and I have little exposure to media. We don't get network or cable television. We don't listen to local radio. So, we never received any kind of notification that the forecast had changed as we were packing up the car for an evening in Morgantown followed by a night in the tent at nearby Coopers Rock State Forest, WV. We did expect cold temperatures so I packed a large amount of blankets and even tossed a crib mattress in the car, but none of this would make us feel prepared when we turned off the highway to see a forest blanketed in snow. Even the tree limbs were sparkling.

But that wasn't until a bit later. I don't want to get ahead of myself.

Earlier in the afternoon, as we drove south from Pittsburgh, the weather looked to be generally clear. The skies were blue with few clouds. We planned to drive to Coopers Rock to set up the campsite before heading into Morgantown. It was cold, but not too cold, even for a family of Pittsburghers; maybe somewhere in the low 50s. Even when it began to rain, I wasn't phased. Our tent has stood up to the elements many times. We decided to go straight to Morgantown so that we could give the rain a chance to stop before setting up camp.

Several hours later, Molly and I were in the car looking at each other and reconsidering our plan. We were about to leave Morgantown to drive up to Coopers Rock. I was soaking wet from walking no more than 15 feet to the car and then strapping Otis into his carseat. Molly was similarly wet from the same routine with Indie. For some reason the kids were happy. It wasn't even 9 pm; we could be home before 10:30.

"Indie has been looking forward to this all week," Molly told me. "I left the wipes in the Black Bear," I replied to her, as if the conversation made any sense. We'd eaten dinner at the Black Bear Restaurant and at some point I took Otis into the Men's room to change his diaper. Since there was no changing table in the Men's room I had to change Otis on a bar stool (not sure why that was in the Men's room). Somehow I managed to do it, but in the ridiculous process of changing a baby on a bar stool I left the baby wipes on top of the paper towel dispenser. For a parent about to take his kid camping in the forest for the night, leaving the wipes on top of the paper towel dispenser had enormously burdensome consequences.

"We'll go to Rite Aid. There's one right down the road here." At that point I was exceptionally glad I remembered leaving the wipes on that paper towel dispenser.

We hit the road. "I didn't see the diaper bag. Did you?"

"I didn't have it. Did you?"

"You've got to be fucking kidding me."

"Watch your mouth!"

As important as the wipes may have been, the contents of the diaper bag were even more so. Beyond the obvious content (diapers), there were binkies, sippy cups, medicines for ailments ranging from coughs to diaper rash, both of our cell phones and wallets, and more. A man's wallet or woman's purse contain the effects of an individual; the diaper bag contains the effects of an entire family. Losing the diaper bag might have been worse than losing a kid.

"Okay, I'll pull over and take a look."

Five minutes later I was even more soaking wet than I'd been at the beginning of our 40-minute, 3 mile car ride, and had not located the diaper bag. We found it shortly afterward at the coffeeshop/artspace we had just left, and it was Molly's fault (zing!).

After finding or replacing each of our forgotten items and all of the driving back and forth through Morgantown, we really felt like we had our shit together. Then we started to climb Chestnut Ridge, the mountain on top of which Coopers Rock lives. Upon turning off the highway, the road went literally from wet pavement to slick ice. The trees went from colorful autumn to stark white.

"Is that snow?"

"Holy shit. You have got to be kidding me."

"Watch your mouth!"

"We can be home by 11 if we go right now. Our tent is not a four season tent."

After a short discussion, proper judgment was discarded and we established a plan that would make every father proud. Molly and the kids sat in the warm car while I quickly set up the tent and shuttled gear to it. I was sliding down a snow bank in my sneakers every time I returned from the car. I slipped a few times and tossed everything I was carrying like confetti. When it was ready, I returned to the car and heroically announced that the lair was ready. All were safe.

In the tent (a 3-person tent), the blankets that surrounded us made a fluffy floor eight inches thick. We lost Otis a few times in the fluff because he was camouflaged. He was wearing layers of three one-piece fleece jumpsuits. There was no room for a hat under the three hoods, but I'm certain he was plenty warm. Indie was in the sleeping bag I'd made for her just for this trip, and was comfortably wearing a hat and mittens as well as at least three layers.

Both kids fit together just right on the crib mattress and Molly and I climbed into our sleeping bags. There were blankets cushioning us underneath and warming us above. The snow piled on the tent outside at a rate that would be quick in February, and it was cozy for the time being.

Believe it or not, we had neighbors, and those neighbors had kids with them. We saw them as we drove in, at a site about 50 yards across a snowy field, and they came prepared. They drove RVs. As we heard them chatting around a roaring campfire, we knew they had the comfort of a warm bed awaiting them. They didn't have to worry about their kids freezing to death in October on a mountain in West Virginia. As they laughed and told stories, we tried to fall asleep and I wondered if they even saw us arrive.

Indie fell asleep first, though I will never forget the ten minutes before she did. With little locks of red hair creeping out of her winter cap, she was beaming with excitement about being in a tent in her new sleeping bag. She was clearly the family member with the most confidence in our survival. Toddlers can be so naive, can't they?

Then, Otis fell asleep, but only after Molly put him down to sleep on her chest. He wouldn't sleep on the mattress. Perhaps he was scared or uncomfortable, but he wouldn't calm down unless he was on top of his Mommy. Then, I passed out, and I was even hot as a I slept in the fluffy blankets.

Molly, of course, never fell asleep. How could she sleep with a kid on her chest?

At about 11 pm, Otis woke up and was complaining. He isn't old enough to talk yet, and so we spent the next 90 minutes trying to get him comfortable. The problem, I think, is that he was not able to move with all the layers. He would try to roll over, but couldn't do it. He was miserable, but we weren't willing to take off any of his layers. It wasn't warm in the tent, and a kid his age can't be put into a sleeping bag.

So, at 12:30 am we threw in the towel. I inverted and reversed the process I'd done only 3 hours before by putting the kids in the warm car and breaking camp. There were 3 inches of snow piled up on top of the tent.

On Sunday night, after unpacking and drying out gear and recovering from the botched attempt, I found that an old friend had posted some photos from his weekend on Facebook. The photos looked oddly familiar. As I investigated, I realized that they were taken at Coopers Rock State Forest. Our neighbors at the campsite were neighbors from back home, and they had plenty of extra beds in their RVs.

Git r dun.

Transcontinentalitis, Days 23 - 25 (Enid, OK to Boise City, OK)

2011-12-04T19:15:00.000-08:00

Day 23: Enid, OK to Fort Supply, OK(103.3 miles, 1737.7 total, 32.9 mph max)

Ugh. Rough Day. Left Enid at 9:00. Clear skies and the weather channel said 90 - 100F. A town called Orienta was 18 miles out and then Mooreland was at mile 76. There was essentially nothing in Orienta, not even a gas station, and then 60 miles of absolutely NOTHING.

It's beginning to look like the West. Plateaus, no trees, heat, clear skies. Those 76 miles were killer. We had lunch on the road at a picnic table and then ran out of water one mile from Mooreland.

We made it to Fort Supply. There's a lake with a campground on it. It's very pretty here. A lot of hicks though.

I broke two spokes today, but after replacing them the wheel is still perfect. I love a smooth ride.

Day 24: Fort Supply, OK to somewhere in OK (99.5 miles, 1837.2 total, 36.6 mph max)

We are in the middle of absolutely nowhere! How desolate. I feel like I'm on Mars or something. It's very frightening.

Today, like yesterday, was very tough. We're certainly in the West now. No shade. Hot sun. No people. A gas station convenience store every 25 - 50 miles or so. And, I keep breaking spokes.

We're really moving along. The climbing starts on Friday (Day 26). We're going to do a half day so I can get my hand checked out (I was losing feeling in my left hand at the beginning of each day's riding). I think they'll amputate it. They might as well, because I can't feel it.

Dinner tonight was at "The Hitchin' Post." It might as well have been called "Eat Here or Starve." The only restaurant we saw all day. Kind of scary. The waitress was a bitch. (I don't recall this restaurant, or why I called the waitress a bitch).

Day 25: Somewhere in OK to Boise City, OK (89.0 miles, 1926.2 total, 27.9 mph max)

Another rough day. Steady incline. I think I pushed a little too hard. We made it here (Boise City) by 3 pm. I did not feel well after we stopped. Off to Clayton, NM tomorrow and then a half day off. I need to go to the hospital for my hand.

Boise City looks like a Wild West town. We saw our first tumbleweed today and our first cactus last night. I miss home a lot and thought about it a lot today. There was really nothing to look at. Just the same old Oklahoma.

I'm the furthest from home I've ever been. I can't wait to relax in Clayton tomorrow.

I just spent a half hour wrestling with the shower knob. It fell off when I tried to turn it hotter and water started shooting from the place where it goes. I finally got the cap back, but the shower is stuck on. And, this morning, when we woke up and were packing, Chris opened his handlebar bag and three mice jumped out. It scared the hell out of him, and was hilarious!

When we entered the Northwestern panhandle of Oklahoma, we passed a road sign that said, "Welcome to No Man's Land." It was not at all far from the truth, as the roads continued as far as the eyes could see with nothing on either side. Very few vehicles passed us as we pushed into a prevailing headwind all day long, each day. It was lonely and humbling.

Unfortunately, I don't remember very vividly this stretch of the trip. Perhaps it's because there weren't many people or towns to make memories, or perhaps it's because my gaze was pointed down as I tucked into an aerodynamic position to cut into the wind. Whatever it was, the Rocky Mountain passes that lie ahead were on my mind. I was anxious and excited about the next phase of the trip.

Transcontinentalitis, Days 20 - 22 (Gore, OK to Enid, OK)and Photo Archive III

2011-11-22T18:38:00.000-08:00

Day 20: Gore, OK to Keystone Lake, OK (115.7 miles, 1517.0 total, 36.1 mph max)

I never thought we'd even break 50 miles today. It was supposed to storm all day. It did, but we missed it all! Not a drop. Hopefully tomorrow will be the same story.

Today felt great. The hills were mild and we're getting into Indian territory. There are signs all over like, "Joe Byrd for Chief," or "Dan Whatever for Tribal Council."

We went through Tulsa via interstate. Pretty scary, I must say. It was totally illegal, but cops just drove right past. We made it to Keystone Lake. We're doing better every day. We both wake up grumpy and bitter but by the time we're camping it's just hanging out, laughing.

Day 21: Keystone Lake, OK to Perry, OK (76.4 miles, 1593.4 total, 39.3 mph max)

Arggh! Motel again. We did make it to Perry, OK, though. It was an interesting day. Pawnee, OK is a cool Indian town. We went to the Pawnee Bill Museum. He had a wild west show back in the day. We also got to go to a buffalo auction.

No rain all day again, but 90% chance of severe T-storms tonight. So, the Dan-D Motel was only 20 bucks. Sleezy, but it has a roof.

The hills are coming back. It was beautiful country today -- reminded me of "Dances with Wolves."

I like Oklahoma. I wish we had better weather, tough. Five more days to New Mexico and the Mountain Time Zone. Then the hills will really hit us.

We've conquered the Appalachians and the Plains. Just the Rockies and the desert left. Half way there! How exciting!

Our bikes are really doing well. Lucky, because there is no bike shop for a couple weeks. Las Vegas, we're guessing.

Day 22: Perry, OK to Enid, OK (41.0 miles, 1634.4 total, 30.6 mph max)

Well, today certainly took a lot of turns.Woke up to a torrential downpour and hung out in Perry until 2 pm. We did some Perry-seeing: Antique shops, pawn shop, Post Office. We were interviewed for the Perry Daily Journal and got a tour of the town by the County Courthouse Maintenance Man in his pickup. What class!

Well, it cleared up around 1 and we split by 2.

There was no rain on the road and we got to Enid by 5:15. A guy who worked at KFC offered to let us stay at his apartment. No thanks, weirdo! (I recall being creeped out by the guy, or else I'm sure we'd have taken him up on his offer.)

We heard tornadoes and thunderstorms in the forecast, so we're in the Trail Motel. $30 isn't bad but we're low in funds already. Fought with Chris today. We needed it.

I had forgotten about all the rain in Oklahoma until now. We spent half a day in a gazebo in Perry, OK escaping the rain. The weather was terrible, and not being from the Midwest, Chris and I were constantly unnerved about tornadoes. Even when it wasn't raining on us, we were able to see an enormous, intimidating sky all around us. Storm clouds a dozen miles away appeared to be chasing us.

The dynamics that Chris and I were enduring are well articulated here. We woke up groggy and sore from long hours riding. Seeping together in a small tent night after night was wearing on us. I recall not talking much in the morning, like a couple of teen-aged girls, until we got some food for breakfast. By then, we were both coming out of our shells. Then, what we were seeing throughout the day got us excited. By the evenings, the accumulation of the day's experiences gave us plenty to chat and laugh about around dinner and a campfire. This trip would be difficult for any two people, and from what I read in other accounts, it's surprising that we didn't split at some point and each ride alone. Our daily crescendos suited us well.

Soon we'd be in the Southwest, which would be the most profound portion of the trip (at least for me). Foreshadowing was coming at us in the form of contemporary Native American culture and the buffalo auction. This scratched the surface but we had no idea what would lie ahead.

We made it to Arkansas! We took photos like this at every state border, but for some reason I can't locate them all.

The article from the Perry, OK newspaper. I like to think of this as being analogous to "Washington Slept Here," but some may disagree.

This is not intended to be a photograph of what I looked like in 1995. Rather, check out that sky and the grin.

The scene in the hills -- somewhere in the western foothills of the Appalachains.

This could be anywhere in the middle of the country -- TN, AR, OK, or NM.

Transcontinentalitis, Days 18 - 19 (maybe Conway, AR to Gore, OK)

2011-11-17T19:19:00.000-08:00

Day 18: maybe Conway, AR to west of Ozark, AR (103.4 miles, 1338.2 total, 38.9 mph max)

Whoa baby -- we're cookin'. 300 miles in 3 days. Arkansas in 3 days. We cruised through this state. Oklahoma border by lunch tomorrow.

I like the Ozarks a lot. I did not miss the climbing, though. It's very pretty here. A lot to look at.

The lady at Pizza Hut is from California. She came here and bought a mountain. That's right -- a mountain. She's going to build a house on top and retire. Sounds like a good idea to me.

Day 19: Ozark, AR to Gore, OK (66.2 miles, 1401.3 total, 35.2 mph max)

The first day in Oklahoma wasn't too bad. We're in a motel again. Thunderstorm warnings all over the state. Looks like we may be in motels again later next week. We've made it to Gore, OK and we'll hopefully make it to Tulsa tomorrow

I like Oklahoma. The towns are neat and the people are nice. And helpful. At Gambino's Pizza the woman working there seemed concerned about us. We had no clue what we were going to do. (I think we were waiting there for a storm to pass).

We spent two hours in Bicycle Word in Fort Smith. The mechanic was cool and made a sticker since they didn't have any (I just remembered what this was about - Chris and I were each collecting one sticker from each state that had the stat's name on it. In Fort Smith, we were about to cross into Oklahoma and neither of us had gotten a sticker that said Arkansas on it. The mechanic at Bicycle World wrote ARKANSAS on a Specialized bike sticker and gave one to each of us).

I bought a new wheel. I forgot what a smooth ride was like. What a difference it makes when there's no flat spot in your wheel.

I want to pull a 2500. I'm really getting in shape. (I'm referring to at 2500 meter workout on a rowing simulator; at the time it was the standard by which every rower was compared). It felt like about 20 miles today.

I miss rowing and look forward to spring. I hope to stay in shape.

Anyway, I'm going to relax tonight. I've already watched four episodes of "Welcome Back, Kotter" and plan to veg out to as many as they can dish out on Nick.

Once again, I'm a bit embarrassed at how shallow my journal writing was. Where's the substance? Really, who did I think would give a rat's ass about Gambino's Pizza or Welcome Back, Kotter? Certainly I don't care about it 16 years later, nor do I expect anybody reading this to.

But, what resonates for me in reading these entries are that Chris and I were in the zone. The miles were passing regardless of the weather or roads. We were totally adjusted to what life on the road was: being flexible about whatever came our way, getting to know locals, and doing whatever was necessary to just keep moving. When somebody seemed concerned about us, as in this entry, we shrugged it off. We were accumulating experience at a feverish rate, and with each passing day we were more prepared. We were fine; just fine. I have never experienced this feeling in any other situation.

However, like I wrote before, it's not like we were in Alaska.

Transcontinentalitis, Days 15 - 17 (Jackson, TN to maybe Conway, AR)

2011-11-14T19:28:00.000-08:00

Day 15: Jackson, TN to east of Memphis, TN (80.1 miles, 1028.5 total, 30.7 mph max)

The first 10 miles was stuff in Jackson. We found the bike shop and got it together. Flat land today -- a lot of swamps and murky creeks. I'm ready for Arkansas.

We're near Memphis, about 20 miles to the east. We decided we will take 64 all the way to Enid, OK. Then we'll get back with the book, maybe. I like our route better. The cities are more fun than the country and we're certainly getting our dose of that. The roads are better and flatter. We see a million towns either way.

We saw a lot of southern hicks today. It reminded me of old pictures. They had their straw hats and were dirty, sitting on their porches.

I've taken the lead for each of the last 5 days or so. It's better because Chris stays right behind me. When he leads I get behind. I don't mind leading as long as the wind is not blowing. But at least I don't have to look at Chris's ass all day long.

Crossing the (Mississippi) river will be exciting tomorrow. I'll get a picture. We're gonna run out of money.

Day 16: East of Memphis, TN to Morton, AR (95.7 miles, 1124.2 total, 30.2 mph max)

Wow! What a day. We left TN early and Arkansas is like I imagined. Plain. Flat. I thought we'd never find a place to stay. We stopped at a country store in Morton, AR and they're letting us stay in the Flea Market Store in the back (really, a garage that's always set up as a garage sale). Bathrooms and everything.

I was nervous as hell riding into dusk not knowing where we'd sleep tonight. Arkansas is completely different than anything we've seen. Huge farms. Big irrigation systems. Crop dusters. We had dinner in a town called Wynne. It's a small place, but big compared to the other Arkansas towns.

I never rode so many miles flat before. It's not easy. You just never stop pedaling.
Chris wasn't as nervous as I was and got frustrated when I stopped to ask if we could stay here. He doesn't like to ask people things. I think he treats everybody like they're an employer giving an interview. All you have to do is ask. There's no procedure; no delivery.

For the first time since leaving, I feel like I'm far away from home. The terrain is completely different and foreign to me. But, we're in the plains states now and making good progress. I hope we make it to CA quickly. I hate cycling sometimes. It's hard and very hot outside. The fun starts when I step off the bike. That makes it worth it, though.

Conway, AR tomorrow. Camp there. It's like 95 miles. Hope for the best.

Day 17: Morton, AR to an unknown town in Arkansas -- maybe Conway (110.6 miles, 1234.8 total, 28.0 mph max

My God! What a day!

It rained for at least 40 of the miles today, including the last 20. Again, I was scared to death riding up until 7 pm not knowing where we would sleep. And this time it was raining. We stopped at a motel, swallowed our pride, and rented a room.

Rest and relaxation. We actually watched a movie -- some Stephen Segal flick, who knows. But it had a good message about saving the environment.

I don't feel like a wimp because we got a motel room. We maxed out with our distance, but it took a lot of grief. What a day.

It's funny -- once again my memory of this trip is totally different than what I'm reading in my journal. In two cross country trips I've passed through many large cities like DC, Nashville, Memphis, Las Vegas, Portland, Omaha, and a bunch I don't care to recall right now, but my fondest memories are of the towns and spaces in between. When asked about my trips I usually like to exclaim that traveling by bike is the best way to see the country. The pace is just right and America is rooted in the towns. Cities are cosmopolitan, international; it's the small towns where American culture is most pronounced.

My journal doesn't stay where we were after day 17, but on day 16 I said we were going to ride to Conway, so I'm presuming based on the mileage that's roughly where we ended up. I really have little memory of Arkansas other that what I wrote in the journal for day 16 -- Huge farms. Big irrigation systems. Crop dusters.

Friction between Chris and I surfaced again, and this time I immaturely wrote about it in my journal rather than nipping it in the bud before it got out of hand (sorry, Chris!). I wish I'd had his confidence at the time. Seriously, it may have felt like we were in the middle of nowhere but it's not like we were going to starve. This is Arkansas, not Alaska.

And, once again, I've succeeded in crossing an entire state (and TN is long) while bitching about how wonderful the next state is going to be, just to do the same as soon as I crossed the border. As if crossing a state line is going to make much of a difference.

Saving the environment? Who does that? Is that like saving the world?

Transcontinentalitis, Day 14 (Waverly, TN to Jackson, TN) and Photo Archive II

2011-11-08T08:33:00.000-08:00

Day 14: Waverly, TN to Jackson, TN (67.4 miles, 948.4 total, 29.4 mph max)

It's 6 am and I just woke up. It thunderstormed from 1 to 4 last night. It was worse than the 2 previous storms. There are puddles in the tent. My sleeping bag is soaked. I sat here for the duration of the storm. It was so bad that I packed all of the stuff in an emergency bag. I really thought there was a tornado. I was imagining getting out of here by the skin of our teeth and having to go home. I hate Tennessee.

The river rose at least 15 feet overnight. That's no exaggeration. The entire campground moved inland around midnight. We're surrounded by campers now, while we were all alone when we went to bed. What a night. I hope I never have another like it.

The day was hot again. We stopped in Jackson and are camping next to a silver bus behind GG's restaurant. I want a shower so bad. Memphis tomorrow. I hope it stays nice tonight.

I remember that night like it was yesterday. The ground under the tent became so saturated that it was as if we were sleeping on a water bed. This one, however, had plenty of leaks and we were drenched. It was not dark because the bright flicker of lightning was constant through the night. Chris and I were concerned of two things: the river rising up around us, and high winds lifting our tent off the ground. Neither of these seemed implausible and as much as I wanted to look out of the tent to see what was going on I couldn't because I was worried about how much weather would come in with the flap open.

The funny thing about a trip like this, from my own experiences as well as accounts from others, is that they often suffer from an acute case of "greener grass" syndrome. In Virginia, we couldn't wait to be in Tennessee. Now that we were in Tennessee, we hated it and were certain Arkansas would be great. I did another cross-country trip in 1999 (no journal, but I intend to try to piece it together after I'm done with this project) and the team suffered from it then as well. On backpacking trips, road trips, and even river trips, what's around the bend seems to always hold promise. I suppose it's the nature of adventure travel. The destination is not the objective, it's the journey. Continuing to keep moving is the best motivated by the curiosity over what lies ahead.

Here are some more photos:

Chris sticking his head out of our home for two months.

The roadside, the day after the Tennessee River rose over 10 feet overnight.

Chris writes in his journal. It's still missing.

Transcontinentalitis, Days 11 - 13 (Cookeville, TN to west of Waverly, TN)

2011-11-03T18:34:00.000-07:00

Day 11: Cookeville, TN to Nashville (76.0 miles, 790.6 total, 35.9 mph max)

I saw a hawk sitting on a fence on the right side of the road. The land dropped very steeply below the fence. When I came up to him, he hopped up, took two flaps and soared into the valley. It was graceful and really impressed me.

Yesterday we were riding by some meadows and we saw three horses running and playing. The wind was blowing. It was beautiful; straight out of Little House on the Prairie.
We made it to Nashville, country music city, USA. A big tourist trap; fun, though. We're taking tomorrow off.We deserve it.

Some beers tonight, bike shop tomorrow, country music shows, etc. I hope to catch up on some writing tomorrow.

Day 12: Day off in Nashville, TN

I can't believe it, but I had a blast today listening to country music. I think I might even like it. We saw the Opryland Hotel; I know where to go for the perfect date. The conservatory was wonderful. When I get home I want to go to Phipp's (the local conservatory in Pittsburgh) and check it out.

I'm glad we took off and I feel rested. We ought to get far tomorrow.

We met a man named Lowell. Single guy, quit his job and went camping at Nashville. We went to see Vince Cordell and his Dancing Waters (I have no idea what this is, nor do I have any recollection of it. In fact, I'm not sure I'm spelling it correctly because my handwriting is difficult to read) with Lowell. He drove. So, we even got to ride in Lowell's pickup. My stay in the south is complete.

At the Nashville KOA: Dave something, I don't know. A great show with our new friend. We're becoming friends but I'll never see him again in my life. Weird. (I don't actually remember Lowell at all, but for some reason I think he was living at the KOA Campground in Nashville)

Day 13: Nashville to west of Waverly, TN (90.5 miles, 881.0 total, 36.4 mph max)

Whew -- what a day. At least it ended good. Sort of. This is how it went: Woke up and took off about 8. By the time we were through Nashville -- and Nashville is very cool -- I got a foreign object puncture. BOOM! Psssssss. . . There was an inch gap in the sidewall. So, athletic tape and crossed fingers should do the trick. Right! That gets us to Dickson, TN.

Some kid pushing buggies at the Dickson Wal-Mart said to go to the bike shop that turned out to be out of business last year. So, we hope it will make it to the next shop - Jackson: 120 miles.

Just then, I noticed Chris's bike is making noise. We check it out and the tire has a slight bubble and is rubbing on the brake shaft washer. It's already worn a hole through! More athletic tape and get rid of the the washer. Double crossed fingers.

Too more random flats (obvious why).

We made it to Waverly. No bike shop.

I tried a 27-inch Wal-mart tire, but it didn't work and we returned it. (Our bikes, and all road bikes purchased at bike shops come in metric sizes; the parts Wal-mart carries won't work for most parts). Allright. Let's pray like crazy and hope to make it to Jackson, which is now 100 miles away. Dinner at KFC Buffet. Good deal. Now we're looking for a place to camp.

Everything's going bad today. Then, out of the blue, we're at a shopping center parking lot patching our tubes and a strange woman gives us each an ice cold pop (soda). Ok, things may be a little better. Off to find camp.

I say pull over now, Chris says keep going . . and going . . and going. Now we're about to cross the Tennessee River and, Campground! Right on the banks. Everything's ok until morning. But we need to make it to Jackson and tomorrow is Sunday. Monday is Memorial Day.

Things could get sticky again. I'll hope for the best.

This is more like the experience I remember. I don't feel the need to supplement this much because it flows in the way the trip felt: cultural experiences, personal connections, and natural beauty meshed with the intensity and spontaneity of traveling by bicycle.

Then again, "Dinner at KFC buffet. Good deal," isn't the most exciting way to articulate the experience I was having . . . who writes this stuff??

Transcontinentalitis, Days 8 - 10 (Bristol, VA/TN to Cookeville, TN)

2011-10-30T17:20:00.000-07:00

Day 8: Bristol, V/TN to Moorseburg, TN (69.8 miles, 533.4 total, 34.9 mph max, 15.8 mph avg)

Very hot today. We're finally in Tennessee. Two broken spokes on Chris's bike. We'll be in Knoxville tomorrow and will go to a bike shop to get our rear wheels straightened out.

I'm not sure if I'm enjoying myself or not.

We met a man called Mr. Fuzz. He is a DJ for a Rogersville radio station. Very nice to talk to and was interested in our trip.

I think I'm homesick and it's the worst while riding. Then, when we stop or when we're camping, I'm fine. I wish I could call a friend.

We're at the Cherokee Lake Campground and there's an article on the wall of the office about a man who did the same trip, except west - east and stayed here. We're just beginning. He was almost done. I'm glad we're ending in California.

Day 9: Moorseburg, TN to Rockwood, TN (104.5 miles, 637.9 total, 33.6 mph max)

We maxed out for distance today, tra la la. Went through Knoxville. Nice place, except for the Greenlea Bike Shop. (I don't remember why I didn't care for the shop).

We got to Knoxville very quickly and then it was like this (a drawing of a steep ascent). Hills and more hills.

We finally got to the Caney Creek Campground in Rockwood. Hillbillies with porches 2x the size of their campers, a lot of them year-round tenants.

It went up to 90 today, a real scorcher. My knee is a lot better, surprisingly, but that doesn't mean I'm comfortable.

Chris and I got into it in the middle of downtown Knoxville today, but I think we're both a lot better for it. Funny how things work that way.

Tomorrow - the Cumberland Plateau. I keep hearing about it from locals.

Day 10: Rockwood, TN to Cookeville, TN (76.7 miles, 714.6 total, 36.8 mph max)

Today we went up and down the Cumberland Plateau. Going down was fun, but I wrecked today. Chris jammed on his brakes because of a dog and I smashed right into him. We were going around 20 - 25 mph so I hit the gravel shoulder hard but it resulted in a only a few cuts and scrapes.

We ate dinner at the Pizza Hut in Cookeville and the waitress seemed to like us. Free salad bar and other food. I was working on a yard to camp in but figured I'd be pushing it.

Tomorrow we'll make it to Nashville, but it'll take about 90 miles. We can do it.
I eat as much as possible now, and even though I get very full, within an hour I'm hungry again. I can't eat enough. I figure with the way we're going we'll run out of money somewhere in NM or NV. I hope we have some sympathetic parents.

Yesterday we went off the course of the book. We'll rejoin it in Memphis. It looks like we made the right choice because it's about 100 miles shorter and we're seeing beautiful places.

The Cumberland Plateau was great. We're meeting some kind of a variety of people out here -- hillbillies and cityfolk. The accents are becoming easier to understand as we get west and as we close in on the bigger cities. I want to take photographs of things, but decide not to. I'm not sure why.

I'm not sure why people are amazed with our trip, but nobody has really been willing to help us other than the man in the Knoxville Visitor's Center and the waitress tonight. I'm not sure the lady at the pool even wants to. I hope that changes.

We got to change our clocks today.

By week two we'd gotten into the zone. Virginia was behind us and the miles were flying past much easier because of our conditioning as well as the diminishing gradient. However, countering the relative comfort, the heat kicked in. Because of this the word Tennessee still sounds dreadfully hot to me, even more so than Florida or Mexico or Swaziland. (Is Swaziland even hot?)

I don't even remember crashing, so apparently it wasn't all that bad. When I was in front of Chris we'd stay together; he was faster than me and would get away if in front. But when I was in the back I had to draft in order to keep up. That means I was following very closely, increasing the risk factor.

Fortunately I don't recall being homesick while on the trip, but apparently I was. I had a girlfriend, who was probably not worth missing at the time, but more so I was head over heels with the job I typically had each summer at a summer camp. Now that I look back on it, I was on a life-changing journey, and I should have realized it at the time. Ironically, the maturity that I needed to fully appreciate the trip was one of the greatest rewards that I'd ultimately gain because of it. They say that hindsight is 20/20.

I also have since forgotten about the stress in knowing that Chris would be running out of money at some point. We'd both contributed equal shares into a bank account and were using a debit card as we traveled. I don't remember how much, but I believe it was around $1000 each. So, we were both anticipating hitting up parents for loans. Two things contributed to the expense: the amount of food we were eating and using campgrounds instead of poaching. Unfortunately poaching isn't easy when you're restricted to paved roads.

"We got to change our clocks today?" Seriously? Who gives a shit? Who's writing this crap?

Transcontinentalitis, Photos Archive I

2011-10-29T17:33:00.000-07:00

Some shots from the Southeastern US.

The trip was initially delayed because when we started mounting the racks to Chris's bike we noticed a crack in the frame. In one of the most loyal moves in a 25+ year friendship, my friend Jeremy drove a new frame from Kraynick's world famous bike shop in Pittsburgh all the way to DC. If I remember correctly, it only set us back 50 bucks (one of the reasons it's world famous). We quickly swapped frames and it only delayed our start by a couple of days.

Didn't everybody have purple Umbros in 1995? Well, only mine were bleached.

At the VA/TN border, in Bristol. Week one completed.

This is a great shot of what the ride was like. We spent nearly the entire trip on two-lane country roads, and stocked up at places like this general store. For the most part, our only exposure to locals was at places like this, which provides a very interesting perspective.

Chris's bike is shown fully loaded down in the foreground, mine is in the shadow under the porch. I have no idea where this was taken, but my guess is somewhere in VA or TN. On the entire trip, we had only one issue with somebody going through our stuff, and it was in California. I don't believe they stole anything.

One of the more interesting campsites.

Transcontinentalitis, Days 5 - 7 (Catawba, VA to Bristol, VA)

2011-10-16T11:27:00.000-07:00

Day 5: Catawba, VA to Max Meadows, VA (87.5 miles, 398.3 total, 37.5 mph max)

Without a doubt the most challenging day in years. I thought I was going to fall over at times. The hills were unbearable and I felt sick all day.We stopped a few times and I was asleep within a few minutes. We made it to the Groves' (my brother-in-law's relatives) eventually. Thank God for the Groves. I never thought I'd be so happy to see total strangers. We're taking tomorrow off; it's necessary.
I can't wait to get out of VA. I hate mountains.

Day 6: Day off in Max Meadows, VA

Stayed at the Groves; very nice people and interesting conversation. Mr. Grove has a great accent and is fun to listen to.

Bike maintenance today; we ought to be okay for a while.
I needed to rest. I slept twelve hours last night and took a two-and-a-half hour nap around 1 o'clock.
Great homemade food. I enjoyed myself and the Groves made us able to continue. If not for them, I think we would have burned out.

Day 7: Max Meadows, VA to Bristol, VA (75.3 miles, 463.6 total, 36.4 mph max)

Today was really no sweat. We're finally out of Virginia!
We're about ten miles from the Tennessee border, a half mile North of Bristol, VA at the Sugar Hollow Campground. Shower. Dinner at Prime Sirloin. Buffet extraordinaire.
One week is over. It doesn't seem like that long, perhaps because the hills were tame today. Then again, I drafted most of the day.
I broke and repaired my second spoke, and we came across about a dozen dogs. Fortunately, they're still afraid of me. Unfortunately, my rear wheel is very untrue and so I have a bumpy ride.
I feel much better after leaving the Groves.
Everybody here loves race car driving. There are pictures everywhere and t-shirts galore.

Reading this now, I can't believe what a lousy journal I kept. Seriously, I know that this trip was more than a matter of looking around while miserably pushing through the hills.

However, I am certain that crossing the state of VA represents some of the toughest bicycling I've done in my entire life. It literally brought me to my knees and I can remember on day 5 passing out at least once in the grass along the roadside. The promise of shelter and some home cooked food was enough motivation to get up and continue each time, and Chris was critical in getting me to my feet. When we got to the Groves' I was running a fever and after eating I passed out before the sun went down. I didn't stir until the next morning.

We took that day off in Max Meadows, VA. It would one of the few full days off we took on the entire trip.

More to come.

Transcontinentalitis, Days 2 - 4 (West of Chancelorsville, VA to Catawba, VA)

2011-10-06T19:59:00.000-07:00

Day 2: West of Chancelorsville, VA to Waysnesboro, VA (103.5 miles, 40.8 mph max)

At breakfast at some general store, I asked the guy if he had a hose we could use. He replied, "Do you wish to hang yourself with it?" Southern humor, I guess.

We're at the Colonial Michie Tavern. Chris and I had a beer. Some guy told us to "be careful of Mizoura." I think he meant Missouri, but we didn't say anything.

Good lord the hills. The two miles to Rockfish Gap took an hour. Steep! We had already gone 96 so it wasn't a picnic.

We didn't realize that the route we're following took a side trip to Monticello, so we went all the way into Charolettesville for no reason. Tonight we get showers at a KOA campground -- Classy.

I hope we don't do so many miles tomorrow.

Lesson of the day: If you need to adjust your panniers, don't do it while you're riding. I have a swollen hand and four chewed up knuckles that recommend stopping.

Day 3: Waysnesboro, VA to Natural Bridge, VA (71.1 miles, 39.2 mph max)

Today let us know what we are in for. UpDownUpDown. We missed the campground and went 3 miles too far like this (drawing of a steep descent). So we had to go back like this (drawing of a steep ascent).

My knees hurt bad. We're at the Natural Bridge KOA campground. We only planned on 45 miles but ended up doing 71. We may take off tomorrow; we're 104 miles ahead of our planned course.

Lexington, VA is really neat.

I picked up a turtle and helped it across the road. After what happened on Monday I had to (note: I have no idea what this is referring to). I think I'm going to run out of money.

Quote of the day, from the cashier at a Willco gas station in Waynesboro, VA: "Either you done squashed some hard bugs, or you been throwin' your helmet around." Camping on this trip is fun; climbing hills while at wits end is not.

Day 4: Natural Bridge, VA to Catawba, VA (51.7 miles, 38.7 mph max)

Wow. The hills suck. We stopped in Fincastle for lunch while there were thunderstorms. High winds and hard rain; branches blown off trees.

Tonight we're in Catawba, VA at a place called "Home." All you can eat. The Appalachain Trail crosses here and we're hanging out with some hikers for the night. Good conversation and a good change from just the two of us.

I'm on the porch of "Home" and feel like I'm in Vermont. The food just keeps coming at "Home." I think Chris and I ate more than a typical family of four. This place is incredible. They even let us camp out on their lawn

The hikers we met were called Gypsy Bones, Dances with Snakes, and Chico. Each hiker gets a nickname; it's traditional.

Funny, I like the part when we're not riding the best. It's more fun. It is, however, worth the riding it takes to get there.

Met more hikers; more conversation. They've been out for weeks. I feel like an amateur. I'll get the hang of it.

"Home" is the best part yet.

Reading this now it sounds like I was having a miserable time. I wasn't. I was having the time of my life. Fortunately, that's how I remember it now. I recall beautiful countryside that slowly increased in gradient from rolling to low gear grinders. I don't remember knee pain or exhaustion, though I remember the scent of overexertion (kind of ammonia-esque). I remember the people who welcomed us when they saw us pedaling ridiculously loaded bikes.

Riding through Virgina would prove to be the toughest part of the trip for two reasons. First, we had just started the trip and so we were not used to the mileage on the heavy bikes. In addition, we found that the hills are steeper in the Appalachians than they are in the Rockies. Rather than long ascents, the hills are shorter, steeper and come more frequently. It was unexpected, but perhaps it shouldn't have been; by the time roads were being built in the Rockies engineers were designing them better and explosives were blasting them through. The long gradual hills of the Rockies awaited us as we pushed through the steep ups and downs of the Appalachians. Rt. 250 into Waynesboro was memorably challenging.

I can vividly remember the place I called "Home" in my journal. It's the Homeplace Restaurant in Catawba, VA, a popular stopping point for Appalachain Trail (AT) thru-hikers. They serve course after course of comfort food for one price, and Chris and I had cycled our metabolisms into high gear. I'm sure that the restaurant took a loss on us that night. It was on the lawn of the Homeplace where I met my first AT hikers and have since become fascinated with the vibrant trail culture, perhaps enhanced by cool trail nicknames. What I thought was funny was that they were impressed by our trip though it would take them longer to cross Virginia that it would take us to cross the entire country.

Our routine was becoming solidified. In the morning, after breaking camp and loading bikes, Chris and I would ride to a general or convenience store. Sometimes it was the first store, other times we'd put in a few miles first. We'd tear through at least one box of cereal and a quart of milk and wolf down any additional calories we were craving. Making sure we were stocked up on lunch food we'd then push through to midday. We'd stop literally anywhere for lunch (a town park, a cemetery, a curb, the shoulder of the road, ) and eat 3 or 4 peanut butter and granola sandwiches each. Then, we'd ride into the afternoon and stop wherever we decided would be a good place to camp. If we could find a cheap one-price all-you-can-eat establishment, that was dinner. Pizza Huts became reliable back up plans for their salad bars.

Camping was often done in a proper campground, but at other times it was just in a wooded roadside area, or in the yard or parking lot of somebody's home or business. The latter campsites were the most interesting. Off the top of my head right now I'm remembering camping next to a silver school bus in some storage lot in Tennessee, in somebody's garage in Arkansas that was used for a flea market, in a dusty and desolate sun-baked field on a Reservation in Arizona, and of course on the manicured lawn of the "Home" in Catawba. I'm sure I'll come across more as I continue into the journal.

Based on the max speeds in these segments, it's clear that we were in the mountains. Descending a mountain pass at 40 mph on a 85 pound bike is a rush. Turning and stopping become slow-motion actions that are best left undone. Now that I'm 15 years older I'm sure I'd be on the brakes the entire time.

Git r dun.

Transcontinentalitis, Day 1 (DC to Chancelorsville, VA)

2011-10-04T08:30:00.000-07:00

In the fall of 1994 I was a Junior in college and came up with a grand plan. After dwelling on the plan for a few days, I attempted to self-advocate some freedom: I told my father that I intended to take the spring semester off so that I could ride my bicycle across the US. Rather than telling me I was nuts, he was supportive of the plan but persuaded me to do it the following summer instead. For the next six months, I spent every free moment planning and dreaming of the great ride I would be taking. This obsessive condition is known among those who have done similar trips as Transcontinentalitis.

After finishing the spring semester, on May 15, 1995 I climbed onto my road bike at the foot of the Washington Monument in Washington, DC. My friend Chris was the only one willing (crazy enough) to join me for the journey, and as we spun away from the National Mall I felt an anxious freedom that I would never forget. Chris and I would spend the next six weeks in a constant state of experience. As we took in the cultural, geographical, and physical experiences of extended travel by country road on a bicycle, we grew closer. So close, in fact, that we fought like brothers at least once. At the end we had gained far more than we had ever imagined.

This is the tale of my first journey across the US. I was happy to find the journal I took on the trip this morning buried among old photos in a plastic bin in the basement. Every few days I will transcribe a day or two of my entries from 1995 here and then reflect on the experience.

Day 1: Washington, DC to west of Chancelorsville, VA (84.5 miles, 35 mph max)

Whoa! We're on our way. I'm here at Chancelorsville, VA, about 50 yards in from Rt. 3. Today went well; we're getting started. We are still experimenting with our bikes and will hopefully find comfort soon.

I can't believe Chris -- he's exhausted and had a rough ride today. I feel good but am worried about getting in trouble for camping here. Road kill is nasty up close. Today -- turtle, birds, squirrels, and something unrecognizable. I think dog; Chris thinks pig.

I'm very sticky and would like a shower.

13 of the 85 miles today consisted of a loop when I realized I dropped my sleeping bag. We had to ride 6.5 miles back on the trail before we found it.

It's morning now and cold as hell.

Of course the first day will always remain a vivid memory. We rode the Mt. Vernon Trail from downtown DC through Alexandria, and then took Rt. 1 south through the suburbs. I remember it being miserable; lights, traffic, not much of a shoulder. Chris and I both had a rough day (contrary to my claim to have felt "good."), which is not surprising due to the fact that neither of us had previously ridden more than 50 miles in a day, We had to get outside the expansive suburbs so that we could find a roadside camping spot we'd feel comfortable with (after all, it's generally illegal to camp in the woods on the side of the road anywhere).

I was surprised that I weathered better than Chis on the first day; he was in better shape than I was and much more tolerant of discomfort or pain (I knew this because we were on the rowing team together and he could row circles around me).

Our bikes had front and rear panniers (aka, saddle bags) and handlebar bags, and they were all stuffed full. Tent poles were strapped to my bike frame and the tent and sleeping bags secured to our rear racks. The routine of securing all of our gear to our bikes was important, and losing my sleeping bag would have been a major mistake. Then, once my bike was loaded, it was very cumbersome and riding in traffic and braking or turning while descending proved to be difficult tasks. In addition to the difficult riding, we were on bikes ill-equipped for the weight. For the next six weeks dozens of spokes would break on each of our bikes.

Photos forthcoming.

Git r dun.

A moment of childlessness

2011-09-12T18:23:00.000-07:00

All in about 27 hours.

I've come to the conclusion that, in contrast to the difficult and regimented lifestyle of a household with two toddlers, time away from the kids is blissful no matter what. As long as it's not more than a day and a half. And as long as we can call a few times to see how they're doing. To be entirely truthful, after about 30 minutes we start to miss the kids. No matter, we trudge on and can enjoy nearly any activity in any conditions, as long as we're confident we'll return safely.

We've got it covered

When we leave the kids to get out, we should probably relax. But we don't, and it seems that instead we try to pack in as much as possible. Thus, over a period of 36 hours this past weekend, Molly and I embarked on four short adventures in celebration of our 3rd wedding anniversary. It went like this: (1) Grumman the Cassleman River from Rockwood, Pa to Markleton, PA, (2) hike for a few hours on an out-and-back round trip on the Laurel Highlands Trail from Ohiopyle, PA, (3) bushwhack through the woods from Trap Run Road for half a day into the Upper Yough, and (4) hike all over the Bear Run Nature Preserve in an attempt to take a short 1/2 mile stroll to a vista that we'd seen marked on the worst trail map I've ever used. Between the second and third we bunked at our favorite Inn in the area, the place we stayed in June 2008 on the eve of our engagement.

Perhaps the best part of any adventure that includes an aluminum canoe is the opportunity to use the word Grumman as a verb. (We Grummanned the shit out the Casselman.)

Again? Really?

The triumphs of each segment were countered with travesties. The water level on the Casselman was perfect and the skies cleared up for us, but the sign at the put-in warned us of combined sewage overflow (an issue that seems to plague me wherever I go). We aced all the whitewater, some of which had us gripped, then we spilled and both swam after smacking a small boulder when our guard was down in the riffles. I watched my paddle float away after the spill but gave my best war whoop when we found it downstream, swirling in a big eddy at the take out. And that was just segment (1).

By the end of our adventure, we had added about 200 miles to the odometer, a dozen or more miles to our boots, and we'd Grummanned 7.5 miles of scenic river. We ate lunch in a downpour while standing under a canoe. I ate too much organic homemade food. We hitched a shuttle ride in an old, beat up van. Then, as the weekend drew to a close, I watched the mountains in my rear view and zoned out driving. Reflecting on the paddling, the hiking, and bushwhacking, we realized that it was the chance to actually talk to each other, uninterrupted by child care duties, that made the weekend what it was.


Custom! Matching! Cute!

Really, we spent the weekend talking. We talked about life and work, about the future and the past. We talked about old friends missed. We talked about Differential Equations (no kidding). We decided that there's no better way to get chest deep into a conversation than by getting chest deep into the weeds on a forgotten logging road meandering through the forest.

As we got closer to home, we talked about how much we missed the kids, and how we can't wait for them to be able to join us on adventures, and then we chatted about what our next adventure would be.

Git r dun.

The MooShoo Canoe Crew

2011-07-12T13:53:00.000-07:00

Deep in the remote woods of Maryland's Green Ridge State Forest, a campfire conversation got out of hand last weekend. It went something like this.

"Jeremy's turning 37. That's prime. And, I'm prime, too."

"Really? Does that happen often? Will you ever both be prime at the same time again?"


Sunset on the Po

   "Well, there are an infinite number of twin primes, or prime numbers that are two apart. But we're eight years apart; I don't know how many primes are eight apart."

   "Let's see. The primes are 2, 3, 5, 7, 11, 13, 17, 19, 23, 29, 37. So, Beth is the 11th prime and Jeremy is the 13th."

   "OH MY GOD 11 and 13 are twin primes!"

Miles from civilization on a finger-shaped landmass created by a sharp bend in the Potomac River, our group, affectionately dubbed the MooShoo Canoe Crew (hereafter, the Crew), chatted over a crackling fire. The conversations weren't always as riveting as the one above, but this one took place early on Friday evening; we were just getting warmed up.

A Happy Moment

The Crew graciously agreed to spend both nights of their canoe camping trip at the midpoint of their river route, which added a layer of logistics but in the end was a good thing for everybody. Also because of this, Molly and I were able to camp for two nights with the Crew, and our first attempt of 2011 at camping with Indie (2.5 years old) and Otis (turned 1 last Wednesday) was a successful one. Looking back on it, we agree that the highs outnumbered the lows, and so it averaged out to a good trip.

I never could have imagined the amount of stuff that a couple of minimalists would pack to drive 3 hours from home to stay two nights in a tent. We were in charge of exactly one-half of one meal for the group of 12 adults, 2 kids, and 2 dogs, so we didn't have to pack a lot of food. Still, we somehow looked like the caterers and outfitters all in one vehicle. Two pak n play portable cribs, sleeping mats, a handful of blankets, a tent large enough to hold those pak n plays and Molly and me, a cooler, bikes, a kid trailer, a portable DVD player, a stroller, a baby chair, a weekend's worth of clothes and diaper changing gear, snacks and dry food, camp chairs, and a 7 gallon jug of Wilkinsburg-Penn Joint's finest somehow fit inside, on top, and behind the car (on my redneck trailer-hitch cargo rack, uh-huh). The Griswald's would have been proud. I even was able to see out the back window, though most of the time I had the rear view mirror tilted to I could see the kids in the back seat.


One-handed campsite cooking

Camping with kids is hard and arguably not worth it. To pull it off, we had to have lots of options for activities. At any given time we needed to be able to choose from one of several viable, simple options. We went on a bike ride (1/2 hour of it spent crying) and swam in the Potomac at the boat ramp (no crying). We jogged on a nearby trail (separately, alone). We looked for turtles. We collected sticks. We collected rocks. We cooked and we ate.We followed an owl. We changed a ton of diapers. We spent every moment in a state of prevention. We prevented falls, drowning, sunburn, exposure, and choking. Then, we prevented kids from getting hit by a truck, eye pokes, and dehydration. We prevented milk from spoiling and tried to prevent the kids from being spoiled.


The MooShoo Men

At the end of the day, our friends arrived after spending six hours slowly floating down the Potomac. They complained that they were exhausted. We laughed with jealousy. Then, our exhausted friends volunteered to hang out with our kids while Molly and I swam at dusk. The sky mellowed to a pale pink, the still water reflected it and the forest around it, and Molly uttered more than one time, "This is Heaven."

The next morning, in a valiant attempt to keep our average in the positive zone, we ate, packed and hit the road.

Git r dun

* Note: For one thing, 31 was neglected in our list of primes. But also, I found out later that Beth is 29, not 31. Either way, the conversation doesn't change much (does it?)

via Ferrata

2011-07-04T12:28:00.000-07:00

Gripping

I know the 1-inch diameter rung of stainless steel I grip is bolted 6 inches deep, and that combined with the safety cable the system in place could hold more than 20 times my body weight, but I'm still paralyzed with fear. In fact, I'm shaking from it, even though I've been here at least 3 times before, gripping the same rung bolted to the same rock, hooked into the same cable. Looking around, I can see that nothing has changed about this place since the last time I was here. So, why in the world am I so scared that I must consciously focus on slowing my breathing in order to just go on?

(breeeeeeathe in). . . (breeeeeeath out) . . .

After taking some time to get my wits about me, I force myself to marvel at what's around me. I'm lashed to a rock fin 20 feet wide and hundreds of vertical feet into the West Virginia sky. It's breathtaking (indeed; it's taken mine). Just then, a small bird floats along, takes a little rest on a narrow rock ledge, toddles around a bit, and then swoops away. "Little bastard," I think, because that bird has wings and can just hop off this rock and soar away. No fear whatsoever; the little sonofabitch has no idea what I'm going through!

Molly and Me

It's because we don't have wings that the via Ferrata, a non-climbing way to experience rock climbing, (and the sport of rock climbing itself) exists in the first place, and has attracted me, Molly, and four of our friends on a whirlwind mountain tour.

The idea started in our living room after a group dinner we hosted (steak, if I remember correctly). Molly and I were talking about the "old times," which were oddly only a few years ago, before kids came along, and all the adventures we used to take. Boating, backpacking, camping, and skiing took us to beautiful places on a weekly basis. It was then that we came up with the idea: let's see what we can squeeze into 36 hours while the kiddos do a slumber party with their grandparents. We'd rise to the challenge and the kids won't even have the time to miss us!

Months later, we sat at the the Front Porch restaurant in Seneca Rocks, WV, relaxing with the satisfaction of pulling it off. All we had left was the drive home. Our climbing guide for the day, Beau (dacious), pointed out climbing routes on the famous crag, stealing some of our pizza while we gazed across the North Fork valley.

The Front Porch is this way

It wasn't all relaxation. Nelson Rock's via Ferrata scared two members of our party into temporarily calling it quits. In both cases, however, a Hulk Hogan-esque resurgence from near submission to a successful climb of the entire course followed their breakdowns. The 4-hour trip through the course dished out emotional anguish equally as exhausting as the physical demand. The sun beat down on us, quickly draining us as we scampered up the rock, one rung at a time. We emerged at the top dehydrated, famished, sunburned, and grinning.

Our reward for the climb: a West Virginia Bath in the creek at the base of Nelson Rocks. In roughly 36 hours we packed it all into a 350 mile round trip.

Dinner: Riverside Hotel in Friendsville, MD
Camping: Seneca Shadows in Seneca Rocks, WV (with gruel!)
Climbing: Nelson Rocks' via Ferrata in Circleville, WV
Swimming: North Fork of the South Branch of the Potomac in Seneca Rocks, WV
Dinner: Front Porch Restaurant in Seneca Rocks, WV

Git r dun!

North Fork Mountain Trail (part II)

2011-06-22T11:38:00.000-07:00

The Guide that inspired

I wasn't the only one to consider that the North Fork Mountain Trail in Grant and Pendleton Counties, WV would make for a truly epic mountain bike ride. For one thing, it's been touted as an "epic" trail by the International Mountain Biking Association. Perhaps because of the popularity of the list of IMBA epics, the NFMT has become famous among mountain bike clubs, many of which take annual trips to ride the NFMT, often driving across several states to get there. I'd been aware of the trail for nearly a decade, and finally got to ride it this past Monday.

I first stumbled upon a description for the NFMT in 2003 in the Monongahela National Forest Hiking Guide while sitting fireside at the Cheat Mountain Club. Four years later I found a good weekend to hike the trail and spent two days with a group of backpackers walking along the North Fork Mountain ridge as the fall colors blew us away. I wrote about that trip in an archive here. While hiking the NFMT that October, our group encountered several groups of mountain bikers, who were all traveling the trail South to North. That's when I decided that I'd have to try the trail on my mountain bike as an epic someday.

The 2007 group ponders yet another vista

The trail is generally considered a hiking path, but there are no regulations in place prohibiting bikes on the NFMT. That scenario was in jeopardy last year when the mountain area where it lies was included in a federal bill for designation as wilderness, presumably to prevent the possibility of the ridge becoming a wind farm. The trail instantly gained increase notoriety among mountain bikers because restrictions on wilderness areas also prohibit mountain bikes. Even though a few groups formed to lobby against the bill, I figured that I might not have much time left.

When I got the chance to ride the NFMT this past Monday, I joined a few old friends and a few new ones (climbing guides at nearby Nelson Rocks Outdoor Center who were on their day off) for a go at the fabled path. It was epic indeed.

Laurels in bloom

For most of its 23 mile length, the NFMT is a high-elevation ridge ride. The length may seem short but because of the difficulty of the terrain, it's a full day excursion. In addition, the trail's linear route requires a 90 minute shuttle. Once the trail climbs for a few miles out of Judy Gap, a repeating pattern emerges. Rocky ascents into the sky are followed by a ride along a narrow knoll with steep cliffs and hillsides providing distant views to both the east and west. Then, gnarly descents into the mountain's saddles start the cycle over. Twice in this cycle, the trail loses substantial elevation and that spells two big climbs, and the rocks really never let up.

Being at the top of a mountain, the rocks on the NFMT fractured relatively recently and so they haven't eroded much. Rather, they are naturally more jagged than the round rocks found below. Those

One of many off-camber sections

jagged rocks make for difficult and technical slow going sections. The effort is easily trumped by the senses, though. Blossoming mountain laurels create dense tunnels of white and purple, and ripe blueberries interrupt the ride by attracting the taste buds. The views come one after another. Then, just when the difficult riding has seeped in and manifested itself as dizzying fatigue, the trail drops out of the sky. The final 3+ miles are exclusively downhill, and aside from a short technical section at the top, those miles are tight, fast, and a total freaking blast down to the northern trailhead at Smokehole Road.

As with any long ride, the ups and downs of the ride on Monday were paralleled naturally by lowlights and highlights. The tight, twisty road leading up to the trailhead caused at least one member of the team to lose his breakfast before we even began. Mechanical issues were ongoing

Blueberries!

as one drivetrain failed to cooperate and a crankarm refused to stay in place. The slippery, jagged rocks sent more than half of us over handlebars at least once each and caused two flats. Walking up the steep and technical ascents was the norm, especially late in the day. Despite all of this, the collective grin of the group was very wide throughout the 7 hour long excursion (yes, it took that long, and I wouldn't expect much less from other groups). And, it was well worth the 7+ hours spent driving as well.

Mountain Bikers: Ride the North Fork.

Climbing into the sky

Git r dun.

276

2011-05-27T18:50:00.000-07:00

276 lives in the woods between the highway and the creek

Tucked between a small urban stream and one of Pittsburgh's busiest highways is a cowboy hat-shaped swath of land that for decades received very few visitors and no attention. At the bottom is a 12-foot embankment dropping into a swampy marsh and at the top is a fence bordering the highway. The land is roughly 3/4 of a mile long and has a maximum width of about 100 yards. In places there's only 30 feet between the highway and the creek.

In the spring of 2009, I discovered a roughly cut mountain bike trail there and rode it for the first time. It was in the early stages of being transformed into a mountain bike playground, and for over two years rogue trail builders have spent countless hours digging and building on wet days, and then riding it on dry days. Those of us who now ride the trail call it 276.

To ride 276, one must first cross a waterway known to be polluted with urban runoff. Portions of the trail travel inches away from a chain-link fence installed to prevent animals from meandering onto the highway. The noise of the highway can be deafening and the air can be dirty with smog, especially on hot summer days. Old broken concrete, manhole covers, and lumber discarded from highway and public works projects litter the land alongside broken glass and plastic bags.

Because of the undesirability of this area, it is terribly overgrown with invasive species and thick shrubs. Fallen trees and their stumps sit to rot away and vines canvas the woods. However, it turns out that it is the perfect site for a mountain bike trail in a city park, partially because nobody else wants to go there. Hikers and dog walkers are in a perpetual struggle with bikes in other parts of the park, but they never meet on 276. And, after a big rain, when mountain bikers ought not ride and rut the soggy trails, the creek is too swollen to cross and so nobody can ride it, anyway.

And so it went mostly unnoticed for at least two years, and it just keeps getting better.

276 is a distinctive mountain bike trail with lots of obstacles. These obstacles will excite most cyclists, though some may provoke some anxiety. Single speed riders will probably grumble over the initial climb and perhaps one other short ascent, but by the time they splash across the creek at the trail's exit, they'll be grinning. 276 is a playground.

Personally, I rarely rode 276 for a long time after one day in 2009 when I completed the circuit -- creek crossing to creek crossing -- with no "dabs." Mountain bikers use this term for a foot touch to the ground, and a typical run of this trail includes many dabs. Crashes were plentiful and after one memorable incident when a tree branch rammed a hole through my helmet, grazing the back of my skull after I fell off a big log, I never rode that obstacle again. Gashed shins and elbows and poked eyes accompanied taco'ed wheels, broken derailleurs, and lots of flat tires. The trail was just not ridden frequently enough to prevent overgrowth and the path collected debris after each windy day.

Now that 276 has been packed down by higher traffic and the obstacles have been "sanitized," I make it part of my regular park loop.

Polluted, yet beautiful. Singletrack is hidden on the right.

Here's a blow-by-blow of 276 in its current layout. The trail builders seem to be working continuously on the trail, and so this may be outdated within a week.

The creek crossing: Riders can cross the creek in several different places. Once they are across, their handlebars turn upstream and they pedal the singletrack along the bank. This section is somewhat underdeveloped, probably because the trail builders are unwilling to maintain a stretch that is in full view of park employees and everyday users.

The big climb: After a switchback away from the creek, a long climb steadily ascends the entirety of the hillside, terminating at a second switchback at the top. A few small logpiles make it tougher, but in general most riders on geared bikes should be able to make this climb in dry conditions.

The fence ride: After the climb, 276 tightly follows the highway fence, about 30 feet above the highway. It's noisy, but riders may not notice because they are focused on winding between the small trees and the fence.

The Optional Loop's only obstacle

The optional loop: A turn to the right adds some mileage to 276 and keeps riders against the fence. One A-frame between two trees comes just before this loops rejoins the main path in the same place it left.

The Split

The playground: After diverging from the fence, 276's features come one after another though a winding, bermed section. Riders first spin across half of a 12 foot hollow log (the groove). Then, the trail goes right between two big tree trunks growing from the same point (the split). Immediately following, there is a dog-legged dirt ramp up and over a dead tree and a tunnel built between the root balls of two huge trees that fell in opposing directions. Trail builders cleverly capped the natural chasm with a roof of branches, and "paved" the ground with a rock garden. After the tunnel, an option to the right goes over 276's signature obstacle: a 45 foot long tree bridge (the logride). This 3 foot diameter tree is lying on its side and has lumber fixed to it, creating a bridge-like ride over thick brush. The left branch, or "chicken" line, boasts a simple bridge over a log jam and then launches the rider off several jumps before going over a high-speed skinny bridge that rattles as you fly over it. The playground is over, but there are more features ahead.

45 feet of lumbered log

276's infamous tunnel

A simple bridge

The cradles: Now at the bottom of the hillside, riders are pedaling along the edge of the embankment above the marsh. After a switchback to the right, two of 276's most unique obstacles, the rock cradles, take riders over two "roads" of big river rocks with "curbs" of thick branches.

LOGPILE!

The off-ramp: Climbing to the top of the hillside again, 276 rides along the highway fence once again. After 276's summit is achieved, the ground drops out for a fast descent that ends with a second option. A trail sign suggests that the right option is expert, and the left intermediate. Indeed, the right branch swings within a few feet of the highway, follows a steep fall-line, and then rides over a humungous log pile. The left branch is gentler, with a few humps and small log piles.

The flats: When the off-ramp branches converge, a small ford across a drainage ravine puts riders into the second half of 276. This section is reserved, perhaps awaiting the builders' attention, but it's fast and it flows. After the playground, cradles, and off-ramp, it's a nice breather.

Crossing the creek at the end, you're a quarter mile of flat, wide walking path from the beginning. Fire it up again, or hit the adjacent trailhead for the next section of rogue trail, about 20 yards to the right. This park's never been better for mountain biking!

Ford!

Git r dun

** Credits: You may have seen the name of a very talented local photographer and mountain biker in the corners of some of the photos I used here. He has thousands and thousand more photos of Pittsburgh and its adjacent natural places. They can be found at http://www.jonpratt.com/

** Outtakes from the early days on 276, sometime after discovering it (around April, 2009).

Smokehole

2011-05-20T17:45:00.000-07:00

The "falls" in Pop's sea kayak (Cl. 2)

Somewhere in the span of ridges and valleys between US 220 and State Route 55 lies a deep and remote canyon through which the South Branch of the Potomac slowly drains some of the most beautiful parts of West Virginia's Grant and Pendleton Counties. They call this canyon Smokehole.

Looking ahead to his 40th birthday, my brother-in-law, Sam, decided that he wanted to celebrate the way he remembered celebrating as a kid: on the water. As he tells me, some mid-May weekend was always reserved as a weekend for an overnight canoe camping trip. And, he also tells me that it had been at least a decade since the most recent one. The responsibility was mine: find a river for us to paddle down. No wives, no kids, and no cell phones.

Camping Robinson Crusoe style

That was months ago, and since then Sam and I scoured print and online river guides to find what we hoped would be the perfect weekend trip. Several options had to be arranged, because there's no telling what the water levels would be like. Sometimes in mid-May the rivers are swollen torrents. In that case we'd paddle something high up in the watershed, a tight and narrow creek. In other years the spring rain is lighter and in that case we'd be looking for a larger stream down the valley. As it turned out, the weekend we picked provided us with options somewhere in the middle, and Smokehole Canyon stood out as the best thing going. I'd have never expected it to be what it was.

Running the "falls"

I try not to be a river snob, but for some reason I was under the illusion prior to this trip that in order to find scenery in the Eastern mountains like that of Smokehole Canyon, you need to be on heavy whitewater. It made sense to me -- the steeper rivers and creeks are in less inhabitable canyons and so people tend to not live there. But, Smokehole broke the mold. The steep canyon walls surrounding us as we paddled by were a thousand feet tall. Rocky crags punched through and terminated high in the sky with sharp, knuckled outcroppings. Eagles and Osprey circled and swooped. Tiny tributaries ended with tall cascading showers onto pebbled beaches. And, wildflowers in the thousands surrounded us on our flood-plain campsite. Shangri-la comes to mind, but isn't quite effective. Plus, Smokehole sounds way cooler.


A happy 40-year old

A damn good campsite

Where we put in, at Big Bend Campground, required a 10+ mile drive down a road that ends there and goes no further. Beyond that, Smokehole canyon has no roads. It has no hiking paths and only a few forgotten, broken cottages. One former lodge penetrates the serenity, a hulking log cabin with dozens of windows overlooking the South Branch, but it's empty and no longer kept up. Word has it that the drive into Smokehole Lodge was over an hour on rough roads, perhaps the reason it never turned a profit. Below the 10 miles of the deepest part of the canyon, the walls recede and civilization creeps back. First, some goats in a field run away from human strangers. Then, a small church. Finally, a road and some homes that look to be in current use. A decommissioned cable car hangs over the river, reminding those who pass under of the way things used to be.

The Royal Glen Dam (cl. 2)

In total, two class 2 rapids spice things up, but the class 1 rapids and fast flatwater come very continuously for over 20 miles. There are very few flat pools, and none of them are more than a few hundred yards long. Campsites are everywhere. We couldn't have asked for more.

Bailing after a near capsize

Pop's red jacket

Git r dun

Growing Pains

2011-04-29T19:49:00.000-07:00

Carl Schneider, Mark Hanna, and Don Smith.

These names were in the past 6 months added to an unfortunate list that includes John Nickolas, Scott Hasson, Whitney Shields, Jeff Mayfield, Tim Gavin, and perhaps many others. It's our own regional list, and each mountainous region undoubtedly has its own list to which names are added at varying frequencies. However, to add three names to our local list of Highly Skilled Whitewater Kayakers Who Drowned on a River They Knew Well in such a short amount of time will cause those of us who run the same rivers they paddled regularly to have a deep and reflective look at our priorities.

I have written quite a lot lately about how I now feel while paddling and how my paddling has changed since Carl's demise on Tucker County, WV's Blackwater River (the same river as Tim Gavin, but at a different rapid). Many of our friends have responded similarly and have seen little water time. Since then Don Smith drowned on a solo run of the Blackwater's North Fork, a stretch of whitewater one ridge away that perhaps nobody knew better. When each accident happens, an obsession takes over and I read everything written -- fact or opinion -- about the event. It's my attempt to control the uncontrollable and I'm not the only one. Regional online forums were abuzz for days about Don's accident, just as they had been after Carl and Mark died 9 days apart last October (Mark drowned on the Gauley River, a few hours south).

I think that Don's situation feels the ugliest, though. He was a really freaking good boater and he paddled the North Fork all the freaking time. It's been suggested that Don had more runs on the North Fork than anybody else, anywhere. He was the guy who notified the boating community about shifts in rocks, about down trees blocking passage, about the water level, and about shuttle road conditions. He posted information about his backyard run only a few days before it claimed his life, saying on the online forum BoaterTalk that the "north-fork went to highest level in last 4-5 years today and its likely that there may be some changes, so be heads up on your next run. a number of other northern wv streams also went extremely high and there's likely to be rocks in different places and new wood." He signed the post simply, "d."

I heard more than one boater exclaim, "If I ever decide to run the North Fork, I'd have Don Smith lead me down." Apparently this was the position Tim Gavin held when he drowned on the Upper Blackwater in March,1998, and the gravity of it all feels awful. Others have been affected and wrote about it.

Allow me to amplify this. That Tim Gavin -- who by 1998 knew the Upper Blackwater better than anyone, and who had even designated the slot in which he was to drown "Matter of Time" -- and Don Smith, who virtually lived at the North Fork put-in and who was acutely aware of the new wood danger this week . . . that these two men constituted the first two fatalities on their respective home rivers speaks very strongly about the risks inherent even for the best-informed, most highly skilled among us. - Alden Bird, author of Let It Rain, a whitewater guidebook to the Northeastern US and Eastern Canada.

And this.

"it's miserable to keep losing friends, peers, to what is essentially play. Some people paddle for fun occasionally, some people paddle a lot for the experience and the joy. Some people paddle so much that it's a major, if not THE major component of who they are. . . . is [the coincidence of their fatality] only because they have a higher exposure." - JB Seay, blogger at Creek West Virginia.

Recently, well-known expedition kayaker and author Doug Ammons suggested that 'he died doing what he loved' is a cliche that needs to be retired. As it is certain that none of these guys loved being stuck underwater in a compromised situation, holding their breath and spending every ounce of energy they had trying, unsuccessfully, to free themselves, it is a reasonable proposal. That Don was solo also leaves open the possibility that he was breathing with his head out of water for a long time while he struggled, eventually succumbing to fatigue or hypothermia.

I know that what feels to me like an epidemic of dead boaters is not, and that nobody is out to get us. But, as I process these events, I sometimes think in probabilistic terms. The fact that Don paddled the North Fork as many times as he did may have increased the likelihood that he'd have a fatal accident there. But didn't it also make him better at reacting to accidents when they came? The mind swirls.


They call it Ten-Foot Falls, but it is more like Eight. Laurel Creek, WV

It would be enough to stop boating altogether, but there's just too much in it for me. I've never found an activity to provoke such intense focus as paddling whitewater. The consequences of not initiating the right sequence of precise moves within the setting of roaring whitewater in the bottom of a remote canyon bring on that focus. The world and its responsibilities are, for a moment, not there. In fact, they never were there and never will be. It's living in the present with no past and no future, just doing what I am doing, Zen-style.

When that focus is incomplete, runs are spoiled with swims and nasty inconveniences. I have never been witness to a river fatality and so those inconveniences have at worst been pinned kayaks, broken ankles, bruised elbows, and broken boats or paddles. But, what can possibly replace the intensely profound place I find myself when I'm queued up to run, and then running, a big drop on a steep creek? Somewhere between quitting altogether and arrogantly ignoring the risks there must exist something. Something that can invoke the intensity of an all-day creeking expedition on a snowy February day or the controlled chaos of a big-water river run after a summer downpour.

Each year, just before the annual Cheat River downriver race, my approach to boating undergoes a temporary change. I may pass up a trip down a juicy creek for a flatwater workout. Or, better yet, I might paddle upstream through some gentle, class 1 whitewater. With a few of these training runs under my belt, I usually feel ready enough to race. Even though this spring has been the best creeking season in more than five years, I still passed up my pick of any local intense runs for gentle streams twice this week in the name of training. The Cheat Race is next Friday and I wanted to get in some extended workouts. I feel that I got the training I needed, but I also have been discovering something else. The focus may be there, too.

Attaining is good for you

Going downstream on class 4 or 5 water and going upstream ("attaining") in class 1 or 2 water have more in common that I remembered. A requisite sequence of precise moves. Complete boat control. Intense focus. A beautiful canyon. And, to spice things up, I paddled creeks I'd never been on before. So, the exploratory nature was there (kind of). The more I attained this week, the more I realized that there are only a few things that the two styles do not have in common. The roar is subdued and the power of the water diminished, but the risk -- THE RISK -- is reduced dramatically. I'd do it alone without even thinking twice, and there's no need for a shuttle!

Attaining is a more intense workout than paddling downstream, and the consequences of a missed line are obvious. I simply drift back and try again. Ultimately it's not going to replace river running or creeking, but it just might get me what I need on the water while I contemplate the risks of paddling the way I used to.

Git r dun.

***Note: There's a longer and more unfortunate list that includes many more names, including the recent deaths of Isaac Ludwig and Ed Gaker. These guys happened to pay the ultimate price on a stream they didn't know well, but were elite boaters nonetheless and were not attempting the impossible.

***A little self-promotion: In 2008 I wrote an article titled The Upstream Afterthought for the American Whitewater Journal after I'd competed in my first attainment race.

IV

2011-04-06T11:22:00.000-07:00

As if it was some kind of strange sarcastic twist on our personalities, Molly and I met in a McDonald's.

Molly and Me in the Tulip Tree, no idea of what lie ahead

The context of that chance meeting makes the scenario more relevant to who we are. A friend had organized a night hike trip up Old Rag Mountain in Virginia's Shenandoah National Park. Our lodging for the weekend was a rustic hike-in cabin called the Tulip Tree and so our large group needed to meet someplace. With a large lot, bathrooms, and hot food, McDonald's in New Market, VA was the best rendezvous we could come up with.

In a completely un-romantic scene, I walked out of the McDonald's men's room shaking my hands dry and was introduced to the woman I would eventually marry. It was Friday, April 6, 2007.

Four cruises around the sun and now we're in a wildly different scenario.

Yesterday I was able to pull off an evening not unlike something I'd be doing four years ago. As if I had all the time in the world and nobody waiting for me at home, I rushed off to go paddling right after teaching a 3:30 lecture. It was just me, and when I got to the take-out of Fike Run just north of the WV border, I met up with essential strangers. I'd communicated with two of my partners for the day via email/facebook, nothing more. After quick salutations we loaded boats to a single vehicle and off we went. "Fikes" is a very tight but gentle stream with a handful of steep rapids worthy of a class 4 rating. It's particularly beautiful, lined with rhododendron and evergreens; a lush, green corridor within the morose brown-black woods of the PA winter. A short time after putting on the creek, we were hit with a short, powerful snowstorm, and within an hour of that, the sun was out, brightly reflecting off the riffles and blinding us. The contrasts remarkably gave me a taste of many of the finer moments that paddling secluded stretches of whitewater can provide, and more so than I'd expected in a single river trip.

It wasn't perfect, though. The incredible place where I'd found myself on Fike Run yesterday evening would not have been possible without scores of strategically more difficult river trips over several years, as well as thousands of dollars in gear and the logistical planning of several other similarly equipped boaters. I even had to carry my heavy boat a half-mile through the woods. But, in a complicated mess of emotions, responsibilities, and conflicts, it just wasn't perfect. I though of Otis and Indie asleep in their cribs at home. I reminisced about Sugar Creek, the class 1 stream I paddled with Molly a few weeks ago, and considered this coming weekend's canoeing opportunities. I remembered Carl, my friend who drowned six months ago while paddling a different remote stream. Because of Carl's incident, I admired the water,

Hiking into Fikes

boulders and trees for their entrapment potential, and then had to remind myself to admire them for their perfect natural coexistence. I ran the creek twice, got off the river just as visibility was fading for the evening, and was changed into my street clothes before anybody else had even unzipped their drysuits.

I remember boating with people like me, when I was more like them. I told myself that my priorities would never change, that exploring the natural world and the human capacity within that world would always remain at the top of my list. What I didn't know, however, was that a few years of maturity and experiences doing the exploring with a partner would change the definition. Now I have three partners. The priority is still there. It just happens differently now. And, I won't stop paddling whitewater, it's just that my style has changed.

When addressing the Old Rag hiking group four years ago, our organizer for the weekend had

Mid-hike transfer, Red Creek/Rorbaugh Plains, Dolly Sods, 2009

referred to me as "Moses" since I was going to be leading the group of young Jews on the night hike.


There is no bad weather: Pulling Indie in her sled.

The only trace of my existence Molly had been made aware of before that meeting was through two emails that I'd sent to the entire group. In one of those emails, I mentioned that "There is no bad weather; only bad clothing," a line that has stuck with us.

Despite being imperfect, my day on Fike Run was instead perfectly timed. It was a gentle reminder of what life was like "living the dream," a bachelor's life in the whitewater Mecca of Morgantown, WV, exploring the rivers and mountains nearly every day of the week. This time I drove home to my family, and that beats the pants off my lonely loft apartment in Morgantown.

This morning, I presented Molly with her anniversary gift. It is the anniversary of a wonderful coincidental meeting that changed both of our lives forever. It wasn't a date we picked because it was best for a wedding venue or for guests' schedules; it was chance. The gift was a canoe paddle that she'll use on Sunday and on every other canoe trip we take and embossed on the blade, next to her initials, is the leaf of the Tulip Tree.

Git r dun

Sugar, baby!

2011-03-23T18:11:00.000-07:00

With the sun beating down on our faces and twinkling in the waves, I thought about what a perfect name it was -- Sugar Creek. How sweet it was.

Molly and I were probing the usually easy but sometimes complicated class 1 creek in our canoe while Pop and our friend Wade trailed. It was still mid-March, so 65 degrees is unseasonable, and to have a bankfull of water on Sugar was even lower in probability. But, when we pulled up to the Rt. 427 bridge on Friday with gear and boats at the ready, we saw that we had gotten lucky. Sugar Creek had water.

It was a short ride, about 5 miles or so, to the confluence with French Creek, and the twisting bends of the creek made for a few exciting moments. In mid-March in Northwest PA, the water's cold. Ice cold. But, the canoe race the four of us intend to enter is next week, and so we need to train and Sugar Creek was the only viable gym.

Sugar Creek is a great prototype for class 1 canoeing. Wave trains didn't get too high to threaten a swamp, but without a good line the threat of a tip was there. Islands channelize the creek, providing several options to choose. Every bend in the creek has the possibility of a strainer (we saw many), but the shallow water and low flow are unintimidating. The strainer shown here caused a canoe to spill, but the paddlers were quick to retrieve their gear and didn't even get all that wet.

If Sugar Creek is running, then French Creek is high. Spilling on French in March would be a serious situation, and so when we decided to take the "hero" line through a section of big waves (maybe 3 feet), we went totally overboard on safety. Deep, cold, fast water was enough of a threat and so we set a rope and outlined a plan should a capsize occur, Pop and Wade went first. No problem.

There is no gauge for Sugar Creek, but when we paddled it this past Friday, French was up at about 7 ft at Utica and falling very slightly. We put-in on the river left side of the creek where 427 crosses it near the Sleepy Hollow Golf Course, though it can probably be run from a point much higher, in Cooperstown I believe. The first possible take out is in the town of Sugar Creek, where two bridges cross the creek about 20 feet apart. The second possible take out is on the left bank of French Creek, just after the confluence. Or, if you're in for a longer haul, you can paddle French Creek to the Allegheny and take out at Franklin's Wiegel Bros Marina. If you do that, be sure to let them know in advance, and give them some business. Their paddle shop is well worth keeping around.

Happy New Year, 2011

2011-01-04T18:13:00.000-08:00

Of all things, two double ear infections, two cases of conjunctivitis, snowpack enhanced rainfall, and very supportive in-laws turned my 2011 New Year celebration into a paddlefest.

It started with a trip to the pediatrician's office on Dec. 29, where we found that the antibiotics we'd been giving our daughter, Indie, for a week were not working. So, her single ear infection had turned into a double, and both eyes had followed suit as a result by contracting pink eye. Her baby brother, Otis, had naturally picked up her infestation and had a double ear infection as well. So, with no ethical way to actually see any of our friends or relatives for the next couple of days, we packed up the car and headed to my wife's family's cottage on French Creek near Utica, PA. And to make it a real holiday, we planned and shopped for a stellar feast for New Year's Eve.

Holing up in the cottage wasn't an issue because we'd be able to keep the kids occupied in the small space or outside when it wasn't too cold. There wasn't enough snow to ski, but rain in the forecast made an impression on me and so I strapped the creek boat to the roof and tossed in my helmet and life jacket. I was skeptical, but as it turned out I found myself in the right place at the right time for about four days in a row.

12.31.2010 -- From the cottage, it is my regular routine to paddle a rickety old wildwater boat (a fast and light, but extremely tippy whitewater racing kayak) upstream from the cottage. French Creek would probably be considered class B flatwater (the classes are A, B, and C; A is a lake and C would be small riffles) in the vicinity of the cottage, but it's wide and shallow so paddling upstream requires some work. I had to use an alternate launch because my typical put-in eddy was blanketed with thick ice. Staying close to the shore because that is where the current is weakest also affords me the best chances of sneaking up on wildlife. On this day it worked, and the highlights were a bald eagle within 50 feet, a muskrat swimming right up to my boat at my turn around point (near sleepy Carlton, PA), and evidence of a hard-working beaver near the Custaloga Town BSA camp (though no beaver, unfortunately). I was feeling risky for some reason, and on the way back I tried a few small channels around islands that had the potential of being choked with ice. I went 1 for 2, and had to gorilla walk across a 40-foot slab of eddy ice in order to get out the bottom of one of those channels.

The scenery was as remarkable. A very cold December meant there was ice everywhere. I was able to see that the creek had cycled through freezing over followed by the water level dropping several times because of the ice rings around the trees lining the shore. Big slabs of ice floated down the creek looking for the next place to be lodged. Large eddies were like skating rinks, and the geese had left footprints, feathers and droppings on them. The cottages I passed were dark and empty.

I got back to the cottage after only about 90 minutes and told Molly it was the best paddling experience I'd ever had while based at the cottage. Then it started raining.

The New Years Eve feast then commenced. A big, fat marinated roast went on the grill and scallops on the fryer. After dinner and once the kids were asleep, Molly and I spent the evening watching the fireplace from a cozy spot on the cottage floor covered in blankets listening to the rain. I cannot think of a better way to ring in a new year (and we slept right through midnight).

01.01.2011 -- The rain continued all night and by morning there were large, dead trees floating past the cottage in French Creek. On a whim I drove down the road with Indie to check out a tributary of French called Mill Creek (my new creek-finding partner joined me on three scouting missions in the four days). I found ts headwaters in a big marsh at the top of the canyon and followed it on a local map as it drops a couple hundred feet over a few miles through a nice little gorge that terminates at Utica. I expected it to be mild whitewater with a lot of portages over dead trees, hand-built footbridges, pipes, and power lines. Indie and I drove back to the cottage and I figured that if I could squeeze it in later that day, then great. If not, I'd still have a blast attaining the torrent that French Creek had become.

I found time to paddle it, and I was wrong about Mill Creek. Six pretty simple portages around strainers was not much, and the whitewater was fabulous. I put in off a county road called Foster Road just below bridge with insufficient clearance to paddle under. I was between farm fields in thickly vegetated marsh a hundred yards wide. It was hard to figure out where to go, and at times I became concerned I'd never find the actual current that becomes Mill Creek. In many places barbed wire lined the wash I was paddling (fortunately it never crossed, but this is not unheard of). I had to push through the thick brush, protecting my face from being scratched, and I even bounced down an enormous beaver lodge. As the current picked up, the marsh became a more well-defined waterway and a few rudimentary footbridges (presumably built by hunters accessing the adjacent gamelands) got me out of my boat. Then, just when it appeared that the creek was about to go under some impassible brush, it made a sharp right turn under a huge down tree. I dragged my boat across, and things went dark.

All of a sudden, I was on a rushing creek in a gorge that the sun could not reach. The fog steaming up from the water was thick, and there were rapids. Rapids! Not big ones. Not difficult ones. But, for a place that for several years had seemed devoid of the one thing that I have sought out more than anything else in this world, finding whitewater here was cause for jubilation. As the rapids steadily increased in intensity to class 3 (on a scale of 5), the portages diminished in frequency and I was smack in the middle of my own little slice of whitewater creeking heaven. With visibility still at a minimum, I came to a sharp bend in the creek only to discover a buck standing in the water, staring up at me. The water was only about 6 inches deep at the shoal he was standing upon. The buck's body length took up the middle half of the creek's width. His shoulders were broad and his antlers mixed with the branches behind him, camouflaging them in a way. As I floated toward him he did not budge, and so I shouted, "Yah! Yah!" kind of like how they do when they're rustling cattle in the movies. Either it worked or he decided that he didn't want me colliding into him, and so he splashed off, out of the gorge, when I was about 10 feet away. It was one of the more profound paddling moments I've ever had.

I'd seen enough at this point to be completely ecstatic about Mill Creek, but it kept getting better. After going under a bridge, the gradient of the creek increased even further and I was now in continuous whitewater. For over a mile it went on. Fortunately there were eddies to paddle into, because it was so dark and foggy in the gorge that I needed to use them to control my speed in case I came up on a low bridge or dead tree (which happened several more times).

The Mill Creek Gorge -- Foster Rd to Grant St

Arriving in Utica, I didn't want the fun to end. I briefly contemplated just jumping in my car and running it again, but decided against it when I thought of the responsibilities awaiting me at the cottage.

01.02.2011 -- After the adventure on New Years Day, I was feeling like I wanted to keep things intense. The small creeks had run out of water, and so I got a ride to Cochranton, PA and paddled my wildwater boat 16 miles to Franklin on a severely swollen French Creek. After more than two hours of paddling in heavy swells at a balmy 25 degrees Fahrenheit, I'd gotten my fill. Ice coated the deck of the boat, my jacket, and my mittens. I could smell the faint aroma of ammonia that comes with long, continuous effort. Then I became cold. Freezing cold. On the ride home, my father-in-law gave me the best chocolate donut I've ever eaten, from the Shop n' Save in Franklin.

01.03.2011 -- With every intention of keeping things at minimal exertion as a means of recovering from the previous day's long trip, I found the icing on the cake by paddling the 6.5-mile stretch of French Creek above the cottage with my father-in-law. This was the coldest day, and there was a lot of ice floating around us, looking like somebody had dumped a huge amount of snow-cones in the creek around us. I was especially nervous about a swim in the 32 degree water, so I paddled my most stable boat and brought lots of extra gear.

Just putting on the creek at near-flood stage was tricky because the contrast of the heavy current with calm eddies at the put-in created a tenuous situation. If my partner for the day would flip in his kayak, he would be swimming a flooding creek, surrounded by floating ice, and the air temperature was in the 20s. Fortunately, after looking around a bit, we found a little spot under a bridge where it wouldn't be too hard to sneak out the bottom of the eddy, making the transition much milder.

Since safety was a primary concern, we stayed close to the shore and planned the safest route way in advance whenever it was ambiguous. But we couldn't stay too close to the shore -- thousands of trees stuck out of slackwater as half-submerged benches and patio furniture threatened to be swept away. The clearance under each bridge was half what we know it to be. Where islands typically split the creek into channels we saw only branches sticking out of the water marking their location.

Pop at the put-in -- Cochranton, PA

I was able to relax after a short time, confident that nobody was going for a swim, and fully enjoy the time on the water. My father-in-law complained of cold hands, then of numb hands, and then he stopped complaining because even though his hands weren't working, it was the first time he was able to get on the water for months. We both arrived back at the cottage smiling, ear to ear, ready to start thawing out.

Git r dun!

Urban Creeking!

2010-11-30T16:56:00.000-08:00

Newsflash -- the post below caught the attention of a Post-Gazette employee, and it resulted in a feature article in the paper's GETout magazine. Here's a link to that story!

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I'd been eyeing up Nine Mile Run (9MR) for some time. Actually, it had been about three decades.

I grew up just at the top of the hill from 9MR, but we called it Shit Creek because of the inevitable outflow of a combined storm runoff and sewage system. The stream's "source" is an approximately 20-ft diameter pipe behind the old Foodland, and the water that flows out comes from runoff of the roads and residential areas of Pittsburgh's East End municipalities of Wilkinsburg, Edgewood, and Swissvale.

When I first decided to take up whitewater paddling I had no idea of the outer limits of the sport. Creeking, for one, attracted me because of its exploratory and adventurous nature. Essentially, creekers go out after a big rain to find small, tight streams to paddle down. However, we typically do it in the mountains, where the creeks are steep and the water is (mostly) clean. Waterfalls are a plus, as are steep, narrow slots. Some inherent dangers are down trees blocking passage ("strainers"), tight squeezes between rocks through which boats or bodies cannot fit ("sieves"), or sticky hydraulics that tend to recirculate buoyant objects like kayaks ("holes").

After spending a few years building up the skills to confidently seek out and paddle some of the steep creeks in the nearby mountains I was then lucky enough to then spend a few years paddling those creeks.

But, the mountains aren't the only place where creeks run high with rain.

Don't get in the water is pretty much what this sign says

Urban creeking comes with its own set of thrills and hazards, and 9MR is the perfect prototype for urban creeking. The thrills and hazards of the urban creeks are not necessarily the same as they are where the gradient is steep. The holes on urban creeks here are generally not very retentive but we really have to prepare ourselves for things like E.coli and side-stream culverts gushing into pools of swirling water. And you have to watch for blunt objects shooting out of those culverts (like plastic kids' toys, for example). Strainers are possible, and are sometimes created by a discarded shopping cart or 60's vintage Buick. There is a lot of plastic floating about, and a bottle containing a mysterious pale yellow liquid gets me as nervous as a pinning rock. Then, some urban creeks go subterranean. That's especially disconcerting, and when the pipe that the creek disappears into will fit a boat, we tend to get squirrely. On the bright side, at least we don't have to contend with rafts.

Shit Creek gets its name from what the Nine Mile Run Watershed Association describes as "The Problem":

Why urban creeking can be hazardous for your health

"Most of the City of Pittsburgh uses a combined sewer system, meaning that both sewage and stormwater flow through the same pipes. . . This means that each time we have a rain that the pipes cannot contain, sewage spews from these overflow sites directly in Nine Mile Run. . . If you are around one of these sites during a heavy rain, you might see a "fecal fountain", or combined sewer overflow, pouring directly into the stream."

That's sufficiently gross, and so urban creeking isn't advised when the water is too high. Rather, we're looking for that sweet spot where the runoff is as high as possible without mixing with the sewage.

This is extreme kayaking; not for the faint of heart. While it may be class 2 whitewater, the funk factor kicks it up to class 3, maybe even 4.


The view from an eddy formed by a cage full of rocks in Thompson Run.

A year ago, my friend Matte and I ran something called Thompson Run in Penn Hills, PA. The put-in is behind the dumpsters of the Kidz Corner day care, and after passing the Home Depot truck docks and going under at least three roads, the take out is just upstream of an impound lot in Turtle Creek.

Today, 9MR was at that perfect level. I was lucky enough to have some time just as it got there. The two-or-so miles to the Monongahela River in Duck Hollow was surprisingly scenic. How often does one get to paddle under the skeletal girders of old bridges built to carry slag from the steel mills? And to do it at the foot of mountains of the slag is icing on the cake. The paddling was just exciting enough; each of the approximately 12 drops were simple pour-overs or short slides with a rock bounce or two.

When I got to the Mon, I ditched my boat to be retrieved later and jogged home, straight into the shower. The entire excursion took under an hour. Typically, people would be suspicious of a solo descent of a creek not paddled before when there is no photographic evidence or witness account. In this case, I have a feeling the kayaking community will just take my word for it.

Git r dun!

(disclaimer: I don't actually think I'm the first to run 9MR, but I believe I may be the first to admit it!)

Carl W. Schneider -- 1975 - 2010

2010-10-07T08:06:00.000-07:00

A guy 6 feet 5 inches tall pulls up on a Vespa scooter wearing rooster pants and the mustache of Salvador Dali. He walks into a school, speaking Italian. Sometime later, the same guy dons a full-face protective helmet, seals himself into dry gear and a plastic kayak, and launches into the most remote and beautiful whitewater he can find. In a snowstorm. Later still, he is found discussing fine wine and gourmet ingredients while serving some of the most sophisticated foodies in Pittsburgh at one of the city’s leading restaurants. If we define age to be the accumulation of experience rather than the number of years since birth, Carl Schneider outlived most of us.

Talking to many friends about Carl in the past few days, it’s become clear to me that he was as unique a friend to everybody else as he was to me. Who doesn’t want to be part of this guy’s life? Carl was dripping wet with experience, culture, and passion and as his friend I was lucky to be close enough to get splashed from time to time. I think everybody here got splashed a little. Even people who didn’t know Carl got splashed, like the lucky patrons of the quiet neighborhood coffee shop where I used to meet him to catch up every week or so. Carl couldn’t contain his larger than life emotions: sobbing with pride when he described his students’ accomplishments and then bellowing with laughter while telling rafting stories. After some time we had to change our meeting place.

For whitewater boaters, Carl was more than an activity partner just as he was more than a teacher to the kids at St. Bede’s School. Carl did not come first for Carl, a fact I found out countless times during my friendship with him. One particular day on a small, secluded stream called Fike Run, I found myself pinned against a rock in my kayak. Within milliseconds of my desperate situation, Carl had released himself from his boat and dove into the icy water so quickly to help me that his boat and paddle were immediately swept away downstream. Of course it’s no surprise that Carl would help me when I needed him to, but doing so in this situation compromised his own security. Without his boat and paddle, he would have been marooned in the forest, soaking wet, in the middle of winter. Fortunately we found his gear shortly afterward on the side of the creek.

A few months ago, Carl and I led a group down a section of whitewater on the Youghiogheny River in Swallow Falls State Park in Maryland. Toward the end of the run, Carl and I decided that we’d continue and paddle the flat, shallow stretch below our intended take out and continue into the next section of whitewater, which was about 5 miles below. For one reason or another, nobody in our group wanted to join us. But, Carl and I were both feeling good and decided to continue anyway, just the two of us. Soon the river flattened and became shallow. We got stuck in places and had to get out of our kayaks and walk in the inches deep river. When we did, we would let the boats float aimlessly around us, stopping each time they’d hit bottom and then freeing themselves after spinning. As we talked our conversation mirrored the action of the boats, circling and swirling between relationships, love, our pasts, and our futures. Of all of the exciting whitewater we paddled that day, the part where there was no thrill at all ended up being the part that we agreed was best. Was it because human interaction, which is stifled by the intensity of roaring whitewater, is a more potent experience than any river can provide? Deep human interaction was something that Carl somehow cultivated with everybody he came across, and that’s obvious by the reaction we’ve seen in the past 5 days.

Before my wife, Molly, and I moved into the house we had recently bought in Carl’s neighborhood, we showed it to him on a summer afternoon. As Carl ducked under the doorframes of our second floor, we heard shouts of “Signore Schneider!” Downstairs we found a crew of children. They were in our living room, too excited at seeing their beloved teacher in the middle of summer to wait for us at the front door. They were our new neighbors, who live on our street, and they had seen him walk in with us. The kids were as excited to be with Carl as I always was on the river. He made his students and colleagues, his friends on the river, and his friends and customers at Legume all part of his family.

I sat down with a third grader who is a neighbor of mine a few days ago. She has been a student in Carl’s class at St. Bede’s since Kindergarten. She started the conversation by telling me how sad she was and that she knows that she’ll never forget Signore Schneider. She described to me with enthusiasm the finger puppets he created and the stories he read to his class. She told me that Carl’s class was “way much more funner” than any of her other classes. By the end of the conversation I was jealous. I wanted to be in Carl’s Italian class. It made me realize that although Carl didn’t have the opportunity to have any of his own children, he left a school full of them who will never forget him. At the end of our conversation, she revealed to me that she wasn’t ready for Signore Schneider to die because she had a Christmas present for him. But, she said, she knows how much he loves his friends at the restaurant up the street, so she may give the present to them instead.

I’m so proud to have been your friend, Signore Schneider.

Carl, somewhere in between the Top and Upper Yough

Beach 2010

2010-08-10T21:20:00.000-07:00

I'm not a beach guy. In fact, there aren't many things that would drive me to agree to schlepping umpteen hours to a beach for two weeks. The criteria for doing so this year, naturally at the request of my wife, were very convincing. Our newborn, Otis, would be 4 weeks old and probably very fussy (he was). And so, there would be lots of family support in the form of grandmothers and aunts (there was). Additionally, someone brilliantly suggested that my in-laws rent the same house that my family rented for the week following their rental (they did). So, it was a no-brainer. All of our family support would be at the beach anyway, so we might as well go where they could be useful (we did, and they were).

Our extremely long drive to our home for two weeks took a total of 27 hours, door-to-door. Granted, it included a hotel midway, but it also included stop-and-go traffic bad enough to trigger PTSD-esque flashbacks to the seven years I spent stopping and going while living in the DC area. The drive home was strategically much more palatable thanks to some coffee-and-chewing-gum fueled early morning and late night driving.

I'm calling it a success. In fact, I'm adamant about it; it was a huge success. Family dynamics were thick, but so was the menu. I paddled a kayak in the surf more in 14 days than I had in the past 14 months. I was even able to get a few evening surf sessions in big 6 foot waves that, on more than a few occasions, flipped me to end over ejection provoking end. And, collecting a kayak and paddle among big waves with a strong riptide and no flotation spells a struggle. It was exhausting, and incredibly fun.

Despite my initial proclamation (not a beach guy), being at the shore with Indie, Otis, and their cousins brought about wonderful beach memories from my own childhood. Parents smeared on sunscreen and started happy hour early and the kids dug in the sand, played in the surf, and went to bed exhausted. Then, at the end, Molly and I had a romantic sunset stroll on the final evening.

But there was one particular evening that really made it worthwhile.

My father-in-law is a cancer fighter. That is, he's not a survivor as of yet because it has been less than two years since his last chemo treatment. But he's cancer-free with under 6 months to go. In two years I've watched him waste away to less than 130 pounds while spending the majority of some days doubled over in pain. An active man for decades, at his worst he couldn't muster the energy to walk a block. But I have not heard him complain, aside from one day, when he told me, "I'm sick of this old man shit; I want to have some fun."

He paddled his recently purchased sea kayak exactly four times in the week he was at the beach, and all but one of those rides ended in a capsize. Each capsize was followed by me and others swimming out to him to help drag his heavy boat ashore, a seriously difficult task. Yet every time I could see that he was more excited than he'd been before to keep trying.

When he paddled off the beach for his last attempt, we (his spotters) watched anxiously as he did everything right (when a wave is coming at you, lean back and paddle as hard as you can) and finally made it to a point out beyond the crashing waves. He was completely out of our reach, and capsizing at that point would have required long, hard work to retrieve the boat. Both I and his son began swimming out, anticipating the worst. I could hardly see him as I dove under each oncoming wave, but watched as he carefully turned himself around among the deep swells. Then, as if the physics of wave surfing all of a sudden made sense to him, I watched my cancer fighter father-in-law ride a huge swell 50 yards from sea to the beach. All of a sudden, I was swimming back to shore as he zipped past me, just forward of the crashing crest, squealing like a kid on a carousel. I think that we all closed our eyes for a second and tried to let the memory burn into our heads a little.

All choked up, I acknowledged that the wave he rode was the single most positive moment I've witnessed in the 3 years I've known him; even more inspiring than all the clean PET scans.

Git r dun!

Foursome

2010-06-30T07:17:00.000-07:00

It's 9 am on the day after our little Otis was born at 1:38 in the afternoon. Soon he'll be 24 hours old, and two days ago was Indie's 17-month birthday. Two cribs, two car seats, and lots of diapers of two different sizes will now occupy our home, cars and life in general.

Otis and Molly are peacefully sleeping right now and I'm sitting quietly tapping on my laptop while listening to Delta Spirit. Family and friends have been coming and going as much as doctors and nurses. It's a beautiful sunny day outside our hospital room window and so, of course, we're all hoping to go home today. They say we probably will, after dinner sometime.

I took this photo of Indie stuffed into my hiking boot when she was less than a week old. The boot maker, Alico, operates out of the Italian Alps and I purchased the pricey clod-hoppers at a serious discount about 7 years ago. I have used them for miles and miles of hiking and backpacking and was wearing them when I met Molly. The characterizations of our family in this photo, and the story behind it, are numerous. Our family is now complete, and we're ready to start getting to it.

Otis came quickly. He was a week early (not very -- Indie was two), but after Molly took a long labor-inducing morning walk yesterday, the time lapsed from the first contraction to delivery was about three hours. Most likely this says nothing about who he will be, but optimistically and perhaps naively I will assume until proven otherwise that Otis will be just as impatient and quick-to-act as his Daddy. These qualities are not necessarily good ones, but at least we'll be at the same pace when packing the car to escape the city.

So, what's going through my head when I think about Molly, me, Indie, and Otis? Canoes packed with lots of camping gear segue into oar-rig rafts and baby backpacks into little hiking boots and hand-widdled hiking sticks. I ponder the geometric arrangement of pak n plays along with the tent and sleeping bags in the back of our Subaru. Then, I think that we may need to get a trailer. Being only 17 months apart, I fantasize about Indie and Otis, ages 5 and 4 respectively, best friends 'splorin the woods together while Molly and I set up camp at some newly-discovered swimmin' hole. I see lots of our friends and family members joining us there, and Indie and Otis trampin' about with their cousins.They come back to camp, like I did with my brothers, sister, and friends, with some slimy bug or neat-looking leaf to show all the grown-ups. I hope that Molly's fear of snakes and my fear of heights are not genetic.

What will I do when Indie and Otis ask about Disneyland, or even Kennywood? This is why we keep Uncle Jeremy around.

Gittin' r dun.

Father's Day 2010

2010-06-22T20:08:00.000-07:00

It had been several years since Molly and I had been able to get Jeremy to accompany us on an adventure. The last one, a point-to-point hike along Big Sandy Creek in Preston County, WV, was an overnight and because there is no worn trail along our route, a bushwhack. Things have changed, and there are approximately 1.95 new crew members who will always be joining us on future adventures.

My first Father's Day, in 2009, had been a great one. I convinced most of my family to join Molly, Indie, and me on a hike along Meadow Run in Ohiopyle, PA to a spot called the Cascades. With the fantastic Cucumber Falls, the Meadow Run Natural Waterslides, and the Youghiogheny River itself all within a few hundred yards of each other in Ohiopyle, the Cascades don't see many visitors. If this 40+ foot cascading waterfall wasn't located so close to other attractions, it would be its own attraction. However, it's in Ohiopyle, and only the beautiful spots that one can easily walk to are visited by the masses. That's what I love about the Cascades.

After some tips from a friend and some Internet sleuthing, I settled on a spot about 1.5 hours from home on some backroads. It was a gamble, but so is any adventure to parts unknown. I vaguely knew the area from a day of paddling a while back, but for the most part we were heading into some PA State Gamelands we'd never been to before. I pieced together rough directions from geo-caching and climbing websites to a swim hole on a creek that not many boaters have on their radar in a forest not many people venture into. Getting there early to beat the sleeping rednecks is my usual policy, and we were on the road by 8:45 am.

We only made three wrong turns, but two of them were off the dirt road and put us at spots where the road terminated right away. It is all part of the process, and in this case the payoff was tremendous. In fact, it's remarkable that the first place where we pulled into the weeds to park was the right spot; a trail led us a couple hundred feet into the woods right to the hole. At first glance, I knew we were looking at a gem.

The walk reminded me of that last adventure with Jeremy, in particular in the crossing of Big Sandy Creek. Moving to rock to rock without going into the freezing water required choreography, and descending the last bit of trail to the swim hole with a very pregnant woman and a cute little redhead was no different. And, it was a team effort once again. I had Indie strapped to my back, so I was occupied in keeping my own stability while Jeremy sherpa'ed Molly down the steep, rocky trail. The extra weight of a pregnant woman isn't really the issue; it's the forward shift from her regular center of mass. Preventing her from falling forward was key, and there's nobody else I'd trust more than Jeremy for that.

The hole was about 40 feet across, but the deep section at the foot of the falls was only about 15 feet across. Still, that was plenty of room to take the plunge. It was an easy scamper to the top of the falls, a precarious stutter to the edge, and a bum ride down the slick slab of rock into a freefall. It took my breath away the first time, but if it hadn't, the cold water would have.

Indie was incredible. I never expected a 17-month-old to require such focus, but I was completely occupied with making sure that she was never on her own accord near the water. As soon as we picked a spot for Molly to hunker down (amazing, isn't she?), Indie was on the trail. She digs dirt, scratches bark, and climbs rock while she squeaks, yakety-yaks, and claps. I find a strange mixture of pride while being unnerved at how her capabilities exceed her judgment. It's a dangerous combination, but with some diligence it fortunately only amounts to minor bumps and scrapes.

Just like Indie, but with a bit more grown-up sensibility, Jeremy and I climbed around on the waterfall and took the slide-plunge a few more times. The sun began to rise to an overhead position, warming us up enough to keep playing. It was a fantastic day in the mountains. I can't wait to go back with our little boy and when Molly can enjoy it, too.

Git r dun!