Having turned my arms into wet noodles through the judicious use of kayak paddles and an inability to understand which way the tides pull, but having failed to do any permanent damage to my physical being, I decided to step it up a notch (no pun intended) for the my last week of freedom and do a day hike in Franconia Notch. Now, just to clarify, I wouldn't consider myself a hiker. I bought hiking boots last year, because my honeymoon contained a "hike around this volcano, and don't fall in" component, and I was told hiking boots are kind of important in accomplishing that goal. Aside from that, though, my last real hike was up Mt. Washington, and I was 18 at the time. I also remember being very depressed when we got to the top then, drenched in sweat, ready to collapse, only to see a parking lot full of people getting out of their cars and running around to stretch their legs after that grueling (for their cars) climb up the mountain. Totally anti-climactic.

As a firm believer in "using my whole ass" (in other words not half-assing it), I picked a trail that was labeled a strenuous hike, between 8 and 10 miles long, with an elevation change of roughly 3,600ft. There's a hut maintained by the Appalachian Mountain Club about 4 miles in, then you can hike for another mile, turn around at the top of the peak you get to and hike back down (total 10 miles). The hut even has running water and the neo-hippies are said to be friendly in the summer months, unlike bears, who, I am told, are never friendly.

It being a weekday, the trail was mostly empty, but we did manage to meet some very interesting (and immensely friendly) people along the way. A guy and his dog Yoda (panting heavily and cursing all his fur, but nevertheless very happy), gave us valuable advice about scenic overlooks. We were wowed by the woman, looking to be in her fifties, who ran past us up the mountain. The AMC members at the hut even offered us leftover breakfast items gratis, for which I thank them, though I doubt they will ever see this (not exactly an internet hotspot, that hut).

Due to a missed left turn, we ended up hiking down about 1/8 of a mile before we realized that the trail that continued on for a mile was in the other direction. Refusing to hike back up, we decided that 8 miles was enough for our first real hike this summer and hiked down to the car. A familiar feeling enveloped me when we got there. Exhausted, with leg muscles I didn't even know I had cramping up, we noticed a sign we hadn't seen on the way up. This sign informed us that the hut we just hiked to and back was 3 miles away, not 4. Just like that, we were robbed of 2 miles of distance. Choosing not to dwell on it, we congratulated ourselves on the successful completion of the hike and headed for the car.

Never before have I looked at the clutch pedal in any car with as much disdain as I did just then.

Posted by Leon at 9:12 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I type this while a great blue heron sits fifteen feet away from me, curiously but cautiously watching the weird guy in the bright red shirt, overgrown beard and U.S. Attorney's Office of N.H. hat attempts to type on his laptop without making a sound. I think I am as foreign to the bird as he is to me. Soon, something will spook him and he will take off for the relative safety of the island across the creek. For now, however, we find ourselves in the envious position of having nothing better to do than sitting here, enjoying the sunshine and each other's company.

The same college buddy who I referred to in an earlier posting was kind enough to coordinate the birth of his first child (and boy does that make me feel old) with the last week of my internship. I suppose that makes us even, I mention him in my world-famous Admissions blog (tm) and he somehow convinces his wife that it is time to give birth. The timing allowed my wife and I to go down to NYC to see the new addition without feeling rushed to get back for work-purposes, and to extend this visit by spending the rest of the week at her grandmother's house. Which is where I find myself in the staring contest with the magnificent bird.

While there are many worthy topics to write about, such as: the Red Sox putting everyone and their mother on the disabled list lately, the end of the Patriots' training camp, the start of classes in less than two weeks, the curious decision in Nevada where a gym was disallowed from charging different membership fees based on sex, but allowed to have areas of the gym designated as female-only, and so on... I am on vacation, and my new friend seems anxious for me to put away the laptop and go back to my previous activity: napping. And so I shall oblige.

One last note, actually more of a warning: those who do not regularly visit a gymnasium have no business thinking they can kayak like they could when they did visit such an establishment on a regular basis.

Posted by Leon at 5:39 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Some people think that the Olympic Games started with the U.S. Women's soccer team losing its opening game. These are probably the same people that think the Olympics are being held in China this year. Ha! For the record, the Olympics started last night with an event that can be best described as drunken volley-soccer, in Brighton, Massachusetts. Actually, with the time difference and all, it was this morning at approximately 1:45AM, that your faithful scribe was awakened by the sound of a ball being awkwardly dribbled, thrown, kicked and otherwise smacked around on the access road of Commonwealth Avenue.

Now, I do not condone drunk driving in any way, shape or form, but I do admit that a part of me thought it would be just peachy to combine the gentleman (the term is being used loosely) who got arrested in Gloucester the other day for his 14th DUI with the impromptu sporting event happening outside my windows, for it would have been a reasonably quick solution to the problem of being awakened roughly 4 hours before I had to get up to go to work.

That option being unavailable, however, I decided that I would, in a rather annoyed and loud baritone, explain to the would-be Olympians that they had two options: the first was to lose the ball and go home, and the second was for me to make a phone call to the local constabulary.

An incredible thing happened next: my new, more-than-slightly inebriated friends chose the first option. I am not sure whether I should attribute this to their inexperience (it is August, after all, not March -- they haven't been at this all year yet), or to the fact that I have started to sound more authoritative with age, but I was much amused that instead of being told to perform and act that I am not flexible enough to accomplish (and subsequently having to call for reinforcements), I was instead treated to a "Sorry, dude." and a hasty retreat. Based on this rather sorry performance, I do not think we should be counting on Team USA to receive any medals in drunken volley-soccer.

Incidentally, the last time I was awakened in the middle of the night, it was because one of my neighbors decided to loudly serenade someone with "You're Beautiful" by James Blunt. That was obnoxious enough to require a call to the police without a warning. It also took about 45 minutes to resolve, with the song being cycled on repeat the entire time. I was not a big fan of Mr. Blunt before this event, afterwards, I am about as excited about this song as my brother is about Sweet Caroline being played at the end of Sox games (which is to say, not too excited at all).

The point, for those who think I must have one: when choosing your housing, be extremely careful where you decide to live. Boston is a city of neighborhoods, and one block can be vastly different from the next. Almost seven years ago, I chose to live in a "student" area, because it is never boring. And as long as you don't mind being awakened in the middle of the night with a friendly game of volley-soccer every once in a while, I cannot think of a more fun place to live. However, those that prefer a more controlled environment should probably seek refuge in a different section of town. Ask your realtor, ask your friends, or ask complete strangers. If you have doubts (and time) -- tour the place on a Saturday or Sunday morning when the evidence of late-night debauchery is still fresh on the sidewalk.

And if all else fails -- maintain perspective. I would much rather have an impromptu Olympic event break out at 2AM than be faced with real problems.

Posted by Leon at 12:03 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)