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    • Hiking Mount Moriah

      “The goal of life is to make your heartbeat match the beat of the universe, to match your nature with Nature.” – Joseph Campbell

      The last 4000 foot peak on the Appalachian Trail in New Hampshire before entering Maine is 4049 foot Mount Moriah. Hiking it as a single day out and back, it became a 9 mile round trip that felt just a little bit longer because the ankle objected to the angle of descent, which in warmer months means walking down exposed granite slabs with feet flat, toes down and weight distributed as evenly as possible, but slightly back on the heels. With good footwear this serves to spread the load across the sole of the boot or trail running shoe (for those who choose to endure a higher level of pain). This creates enough friction to keep you upright and in a controlled descent. But it also beats the crap out of your knees and ankles.

      But all that complaining doesn’t change the fact that I sat above treeline eating lunch with the White Mountains clearly visible all around me, and feeding Gray Jays who are well-known opportunists on this particular summit. I didn’t mind offering up a bit of my trail mix for the jays – there’s a certain thrill in interacting with wild animals, and a few almonds, peanuts and raisons were a small price to pay. And my heartbeat matched the universe a bit more today than it might have had I stayed home doing yard work. Aches and pains fade over time, but summiting Moriah remains a forever check mark and a step closer to matching my nature to Nature.

      The first half of the hike from the trailhead is very easy, with a gradual incline and minimal erosion compared to what you see in other parts of the White Mountains. Unfortunately the loggers have been busy on the lower hills, clearing much of the forest away. This is what happens when the land isn’t preserved, it becomes a “land of many uses”, including logging everything except a strip of land on either side of the trail. The logging served to preview the views that we’d see later, though it was marred by the clearing.

      The first wow moments come on the granite ledges of Mount Surprise, a 2194 foot gem that lives up to its name. Views of the Presidential Range were glorious, and served as a nice appetizer for the views we’d see later from the summit of Mount Moriah. They say on a clear day you can see forever from the summit, and it seemed we could. If there’s a drawback to the summit its the very small footprint that many people want to enjoy, and in a time of social distancing I was disappointed in the unmasked proximity of several people from a group of twenty-somethings. But lingering on the summit meant you were going to have that kind of company, so we made a point of wrapping up lunch and clearing the way for others.

      Mount Moriah is not a hike to do on a wet day, which is why I hiked it today instead of last week. But its a worthwhile hike to complete on a beautiful day. I look forward to doing it sometime when it has a heavy snow blanket to cushion the unforgiving granite. I’ll be sore tomorrow in the usual places, but it’s the price you pay for dancing in the clouds. Another 4000 footer checked off the list and a few memories worth celebrating.

    • Collapsing the Space Between Us

      “Walkers pass tight lipped, eyes averted
      Only dogs tugging on leashes want to collapse the space between us”
      – Ken Burns, In the Social Distance

      A couple of days ago I had the audacity to post an opinion on Facebook and immediately faced the crush of for and against dialog that’s lasted far longer than the typical family picture flurry of activity. And those were friends, family and acquaintances, not anonymous Twitter trolls. But that’s the world we live in right now – divisive and reactionary. And yet we’re all basically the same people with a few differences of opinion.

      Ken Burns wrote a poem that describes the time we’re living in, and read it on a NY Times podcast. You can find the transcript here. This bit about collapsing the space between us got me thinking about a guy we met hiking on the Carter Dome last weekend. Or rather, we met his year old retriever Emma, who was way ahead of me on the list of 48 4000 footers. I’ve completed 10 since I started re-tracking this year. She’s completed 40! Her owner was an older gentleman, I’d place him at 70, but he was incredibly fit from hiking all the time. He mentioned that his last dog hiked Mount Adams 65 times!

      It occurred to me that I never learned his opinion on politics, nor he mine. Just people talking longer than they might have otherwise because of the dynamo swirling about us. Sure there was hiking in common, but really Emma was the bridge between us. When we parted her exuberance was the part that remained on my mind, apparently still, for there remains a glow of joy when I think about her rolling in the dirt. The world could use more dogs collapsing the space between us, and less media driving us apart.

    • The Seven Daughters of Atlas

      “Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising through the mellow shade,
      Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid.”
      – Lord Tennyson, Locksley Hall

      Orion and Taurus, the hunter and the hunted, have a long-standing adversarial relationship in the skies above us. If the Hyades are the face of Taurus turned towards Orion, the “body” of Taurus is a cluster of stars known as the Pleiades or the less magical M45. Looking up well before the dawn this morning they took my breath away. I carefully ran into a dark house for my binoculars for a closer look. While Mars and Venus and the Waning Gibbous moon setting in the west dominated the sky, the Pleiades drew most of my attention this morning.

      The Pleiades cluster has many names across the globe, but my favorite is the Seven Sisters. The Seven Sisters, all daughters of Atlas, dance in place, forever hunted by Orion (but just out of reach!) as their father holds up the heavens. I have but a sketchy knowledge of Greek mythology and rely heavily on Wikipedia and Google to help me out (the Tennyson above and the Hesiod poem below were both posted originally on Wikipedia). But the cluster was familiar to me, having always been there waiting for me to pay more attention.

      “And if longing seizes you for sailing the stormy seas,
      when the Pleiades flee mighty Orion
      and plunge into the misty deep
      and all the gusty winds are raging,
      then do not keep your ship on the wine-dark sea
      but, as I bid you, remember to work the land.”
      – Hesiod, Works and Days 618–623

      This poem serves as a warning, for in late October and November when Pleiades is seen setting in the western sky it signals that winter is coming, and with it storms. Get your ships off the ocean and work the land instead. It’s September of course, but there have been plenty of storms already in 2020. And more change is in the air as the days grow shorter and we pivot towards Autumn. Our lives are nothing but change, no matter how much we sometimes wish to just dance in place forever like the Seven Sisters. But that’s not our fate.

      Pleiades reminded me that I need to get up earlier more often, for the brilliance of the sky above is wasted on me in my sleeping ignorance. The magic hour between 3 and 4 AM seems to be the time with the most to see, but how rare it is for me to be outside at that hour to witness it! I feel like an overnight passage or a night awake on a summit are required in the near future. Sleep is essential, but the stars silently dance without you while you’re blissfully dozing. Like Orion, those Seven Sisters are just out of reach for me, but I swear they flirt back at a fellow Taurus. And stir my imagination.

    • The Light of Intellect

      “A man who lives an intellectual life is like a man who carries a lantern in front of him to light his way. Such a person will never come to a dark place, because the light of his intellect moves before him.“ – Leo Tolstoy

      I suppose I haven’t reached the intellectual level just yet, as I still stumble into dark places now and then. But on the whole the pursuit of an intellectual life, combined with a pursuit of the active outdoor life, and the family life have kept me above the darkest valleys I know some are struggling in. Feel overwhelmed at times? Tap into the Great Conversation and see what those who came before you thought and did with their own lives. We have it pretty good by comparison. But only if we fight for it.

      Leo Tolstoy was influenced by Henry David Thoreau (and each was an interesting character beyond his writing). He in turn strongly influenced the nonviolent direction that Mahatma Gandhi would take in his own life, and there was a handoff of sorts when the two corresponded for the last year of Tolstoy’s life when he offered insight and direction to Gandhi. Thoreau and Tolstoy and Gandhi in turn influenced Martin Luther King, Jr., who incorporated their wisdom into his own philosophy and referenced them often in his speeches. An intellectual life lights the way for more than just the original carrier of the lantern.

      A daily blog is the slow rising of the lantern. An attempt to light the way for yourself and perhaps for a few others now or someday. A way to balance the stream of consciousness and sound bite world we live in with deeper thought and contemplation. And a catalyst for probing deeper into the world – to travel more, to get outside more, to read more, to learn more, and to write better. The intellectual life is the life of pursuit. Its not a yawn-fest of casual reading in the study but a pursuit of understanding, both the self and the world. It’s a call to action. A call I’ve heard and pursue every day I wake up, which (thankfully) includes this one.

    • A Virtual Visit to Kópakonan

      There’s a statue standing on the rocks at the edge of the tidal range in the remote and sparsely populated town of Mikladalur in the Faroe Islands. It depicts a Kópakonan, or a “seal woman”, who would shed her seal skin to walk amongst the humans on land. When she wanted to return to the sea she would don her seal skin and transform back into a seal once again. A selkie is a shape shifter, which appears over and over again in mythology (Wolfman comes to mind). There’s a mythical ability to transform from animal to human and back again know as therianthropy that runs across cultures, and selkies or Kópakonan are a particularly fascinating form for those of us who feel most alive in the sea (there is a story of Kópakonan that you can find recorded in multiple languages here).

      Mikladalur is on the island of Kalsoy (which features another stunning destination, the Kallur Lighthouse). The Faroe Islands are explorer’s dream, and for those of us who explore wild places near the ocean, this is just about everything you could want in one place. Want to visit Mikladalur but find yourself locked down in a pandemic? This video gives you a lovely 4K view of what you might see. I must admit, watching the video I was ready to book a flight to the Faroe Islands today before I recalled that we aren’t going anywhere for awhile. It does serve to remind me that I’m a creature of the north, and while the tropics are lovely, there is so much to see above 30 degrees latitude.

      The statue was erected in 2014, but already has the green patina of an older statue. Living next to the sea has that effect I suppose. I can feel a patina developing on my own skin when I spend enough time near the sea (and there’s never enough time by the sea). Kópakonan also has the desired effect of being a siren call for those of us who follows whispers in the wind. Sure, Boston is a short drive away and is jammed full of statues, but the Faroe Islands are a destination for other reasons, and Kópakonan is just an attractive object framed by the stunning backdrop of the rugged island Kunoy and the frigid North Atlantic that calls for Kópakonan’s to come home once again. Why be drawn to such an isolated place to see a statue when you can just watch a video? As George Mallory would say, “Because it’s there.”

    • Prominence

      “Make sure you’re not made ‘Emperor,’ avoid that imperial stain. It can happen to you, so keep yourself simple, good, pure, saintly, plain, a friend of justice, god-fearing, gracious, affectionate, and strong for your proper work. Fight to remain the person that philosophy wished to make you. Revere the gods, and look after each other. Life is short—the fruit of this life is a good character and acts for the common good.” – Marcus Aurelius, Meditations

      Lately I’ve been contemplating prominence. It started with Little Haystack Mountain, an impressive 4760 foot summit, relegated to the role of supporting actor due to its prominence of only 79 feet from nearby Mount Lincoln (5089/180). Or consider poor North Carter Mountain, 4531 feet tall but an almost embarrassing 59 feet of prominence from its cousin Middle Carter Mountain, which by comparison is 4610 feet with a prominence of 720 feet. North Carter didn’t even have a cairn or USGS marker designating its summit. I walked right by it until called back by a savvier hiking friend with a GPS tracker.

      If all this seems like a lot of numbers, well, I’m with you. To me a summit – no matter how prominent it may be – is a worthy accomplishment and very much worth celebration. With both Little Haystack and North Carter I lingered with friends to savor the moment before considering the next destination. Prominent or not, both summits took a fair amount of energy to reach and deserved their moment of appreciation. My mind danced as joyfully on Little Haystack as it did on Lincoln. Perhaps more so because in reaching it the world opens up around you. Why negate the accomplishment because of prominence?

      We live in a world where prominence is everything. How many followers do you have? How many likes did you get on your last post? What school did you attend? What was your class rank? How quickly did you reach a C-level position? Who did you marry? Where do you live? What kind of car do you drive? Where do you go on holiday? It seems that no matter how high your personal summit, it doesn’t matter unless you’ve achieved some measure of prominence. Of course its mostly nonsense that churns away in our own brain, perhaps fueled by co-conspirators like a parent or spouse who wants the best for you, if only for bragging rights at the next cocktail party (remember those?). Your prominence is your identity to some others.

      But not all others. Some celebrate your personal summit and ignore your prominence. Those are the people you want in your life, not the posers who skip right past the lesser summits to check in where there’s status. The trick is knowing who to celebrate with, and who to ignore as you focus on your climb. I sometimes shake my head at people who leapfrogged over others to reach VP titles or collect Board of Director positions like some magnets of places they’ve been. Prominence is a game really, and the question is who do you want to play the game with? How much is enough? Who is a true friend and who is an acquaintance who pays lip service and then quickly moves on to the next summit?

      Our worst critics are often ourselves. All those questions above? How many do we ask ourselves as we compare our own prominence to that of others we know? If achievement is associated with height, comparison is associated with prominence. But comparison is a fools game that negates your achievements when stacked up next to others. Skate your lane and stop worrying about what others are achieving. Focus on what matters. Celebrate each day and each accomplishment, no matter how prominent it may be. And by all means keep climbing and stretching your limitations. Be supportive of others as they make their own climb. Give and receive support on this epic slog. Fight to remain the person that philosophy wished to make you.

    • Hiking the Carters

      A bit removed from the crowded trails of the Presidentials in the White Mountains, there are four summits in the Carter-Moriah Range with the name Carter. There’s a story that says the Carters were named for a man who used to hunt in these mountains, and that nearby Mount Hight is named after his hunting partner. Whether that’s actually true seems to be lost to history, but its as good a story as any and it sticks harder to fact with every retelling. Hight is where the views are, but not on this day. With the summit of Hight socked in we stuck with the Carters on a Sunday morning hike that lasted well into the afternoon. Our hike was a 14 mile endurance test for a sore ankle, and generally I was pleased with the results.

      Carter Dome is the southernmost summit and the tallest of the four. Running northeasterly from Carter Dome are South Carter, Middle Carter and North Carter Mountains. Each was deep in cloud cover and gusty wind on our hike, but Carter Dome seemed to be spared from the winds blasting the rest of the range. There are remnants of an old fire tower on Carter Dome, with scattered window glass on the ground right around the base. That glass, the concrete footings and a few rusted steel bolts are all that remain of a steel tower built in 1924. The tower lookout had a hut a mile away that became the AMC hut. The tower itself was replaced by spotter planes after World War II.

      The Carters feature several bald faces along the ridge line that offer beautiful views. But not on this day. Still, there’s something stunningly beautiful about being amongst the wind-whipped firs deep in the clouds. We felt a bit of ice mixed into the mist swirling about us, a clear sign that summer is drawing to a close. This was the first hike of the summer that I used every layer I brought, and it had me thinking about using a bigger pack as we shift towards autumn. The sun eventually came out in the valley below the range on our descent, warming and drying us off.

      One of my hiking partners informed me after the hike that we had over 4300 feet of elevation gain on the 14 mile hike. I believe it, but the challenge for me was the descent down the Imp Trail, which had me thinking about Game of Thrones while I navigated a nasty stretch of boulders, rocks and roots on the descent. Classic New Hampshire trail, this Imp Trail, and it tested the ankle and my new hiking boots synched up tight to support it. Not wanting to be left out, my knees both started complaining about halfway down the descent. This was about 12 miles into the 14 mile day, and they’d had just about enough of my aspirations. But we made it down to Route 16, walked the shoulder back to the cars, and headed to Gorham for some much needed pizza and beer.

      I love a good solo hike as much as anyone, but I was grateful for the company on this day. In fact, were it not for the invitation from my power-hiking friends I probably would have skipped the weekend altogether to give my ankle another week of rest. But sometimes we get a little too soft on ourselves, and the morning after the hike I believe I’m not the worse for wear. Good boots and hiking poles made all the difference for the ankle, and persistent friends made all the difference in my getting back on the trails. Another good lesson on living, with a nod to the couple who prompted me to shelve the excuses and get back out there.

    • Putting Yourself In It

      A question mark lingered over the last few days as the weekend grew closer. To hike or not to hike? The right ankle has been gimpy since the descent down Bridle Path a couple of weeks ago, when I apparently damaged it enough that hiking wasn’t a guarantee. But then my new hiking boots arrived, offering much better ankle support than the previous boots. A mix of ibuprofen and assorted balms would take care of the rest. And so I chose to hike with two jackrabbits who fly up mountains every weekend. This served to challenge both the ankle and the rest of me.

      Waking up at 3 AM for an early start to a hike a 2 1/2 hour drive away was the next challenge, one that I managed with my usual stoic acceptance. The first moment of wonder for me came 45 minutes before arriving at the trailhead, driving through Jefferson, New Hampshire as the brightening sky illuminated distant clouds and mountain tops as I drove east. In that moment I accepted the day at hand, sucky parts as much as the amazing parts. And so it was that I found myself, new boot wrapped tightly around a gimpy ankle and hiking four peaks and 14 miles on my Sunday “rest day”. But I put myself into it willingly.

      Ultimately, life is this short little blip. Highlighting the blip with wonder and a bit of hard work makes that blip seem a bit more relevant. If you don’t put yourself in it, you don’t reap the rewards. Today, despite some reservations, I put myself in it, and sure enough the moments of wonder appeared. In a year filled with challenges, a bit of wonder goes a long way.

    • Discovering The Photographer’s Ephemeris

      Every now and then I discover something that makes my heart flutter a bit in excitement. There is a flutter happening now that goes beyond the first cup of coffee. For I’ve discovered an app called The Photographer’s Ephemeris. And I wonder where has my mind been all these years that I’d completely miss out on something so incredibly useful for those of us who chase the light.

      Followers of this blog know of my relationship with the early morning light – that magical time between nautical start and sunrise known as civil start. On the flip side of the day, this magical time is known as civil end (sounds a lot like 2020). For years I’ve known the wonder in this time, but I didn’t put a name on it. The combined more-than-a-passing recreational interests in astronomy and photography led me to learn more about the three phases of light in the dawn and at twilight. The Photographer’s Ephemeris handily charts out these phases on a timeline at the bottom of the app. But where it becomes really exciting is with the lines indicating where the sunrise will be and where it is now. It also offers a line showing where the moon will rise. And of course you get the same effect on the western side of the satellite image showing where the sunset will be, where it is now and where the moon will set.

      The word ephemeris is derived from ephemeral and the Greek ephēmero, or something that last for a short time. Each phase of the dawn or twilight is brief and fleeting, just as life itself is. An ephemeris is a method of tracking and predicting this ephemeral information that pivots above us. Making sense of the information falls on us. An ephemeris is usually associated with astrology and the position of the planets at the moment you were born. Or with astronomy and knowing the position of the stars now. Its handy information if you want to know where Mars and the moon are in relation to each other (dancing together last night), or if you believe in such things, why you don’t get along with your coworker.

      Ultimately, information offers a measure of predictability and understanding in our lives. I had a general understanding of where the sun might rise or set, and likewise a general idea of where the moon might be on a given night. But there’s something powerful about having the information readily available on a phone app. A thrill of expectation, but also a measure of control about where you might position yourself for that epic sunset or moonrise picture. It also saves me from looking out the window on those mornings by the bay when simply looking at the time of nautical start the night before would give me all the information I needed beforehand.

      I’m sure professional photographers have known about this app for years, but its new to me and perhaps to you too. I see The Photographer’s Ephemeris quickly rising to the top of my most-used apps. For it answers many of the celestial questions I geek out about in one handy place. And isn’t that the point of an app anyway?

    • Where Would You Most Like To Live?

      A couple of months ago I copied the Proust questionnaire after hearing Rolf Potts talk about it on one of his podcasts. Borrowing from a Vanity Fair segment on the topic, “The Proust Questionnaire has its origins in a parlor game popularized (though not devised) by Marcel Proust, the French essayist and novelist, who believed that, in answering these questions, an individual reveals his or her true nature.”

      Since copying it and dumping it into my drafts folder, I’ve largely ignored it. But today I was so repulsed by the news that I sought it out to pull my mind off of the darkness in the world so often spotlighted by those who leverage it for gain. And I settled on one question from the list that made me pause and think more than any other: Where would you most like to live?

      I think a lot about traveling. And lately, despite extensive home renovation projects this year, I’ve thought a bit about where I’d move to should I really get sick of parking myself in this same place. The answer to this question is easy for some people, but a bit more evasive for others. Where would you most like to live? Somewhere tropical or seasonal? At a beach house? In the mountains with a ski-up condo? A penthouse in the city with a view of the park? Deep in the heart of the action or far, far away from the action? On an island far from the madness of the world? In another country? Close to family or far away from family? In a quiet neighborhood full of kids for your kids to play with? The answer will change with time and circumstances.

      Your stage of life dictates the answer to the question. For twenty years the place I lived was the place I wanted to live. Close enough to the ocean and the mountains. Private enough with the forest nudging insistently on the backyard. In a small town across the border with conveniences all around us and a chance for our children to grow up playing with other kids in the neighborhood for hours at a time. Sure the commute was difficult at times, but there were times when I’d come home to New Hampshire from a frenzied day in Boston or New York and walk the dog with only the stars to keep us company on a quiet night and I’d believe that the answer was nowhere else but here.

      But fast-forward a decade and the kids are adults, the dog has passed, and you chafe at the neighbors a bit more than you should. Is it time to downsize? Or to relocate for relocation’s sake? When I was younger I imagined living along the river or a pond where I could slip a rowing shell or kayak into the water and just go. When I got a bit older my taste turned more to salt water and I thought of a deep water dock as the ultimate attachment to a house. Those friends sailing Fayaway would vote for that house with a deep water dock. They answered the question Where would you most like to live? with a sailboat, but are asking themselves the question again, with the answer being maybe a bigger sailboat. A neighbor is answering the question with an RV and a place to park it when they aren’t on the road. Both answered with mobility.

      Where would you most like to live? The answer often depends on the answer to another question, which is how would you most like to live? A quiet walk outside at dawn to see the sunrise from shore or as you quietly paddle to deeper waters. A trail that leads to another trail that draws you upwards to dance with the sky. A place to someday run and play with the grandchildren. A place big enough to invite others over for conversation deep into the night, but small enough that you don’t spend your days constantly maintaining it. A place to think and a place to be active. A close enough place that’s far enough away. A safe place for others to come home to.

      So tell me, where would you most like to live? David Bowie once completed the Proust Questionnaire and answered this question with “Northeast Bali or south Java”. As for me? Somewhere with dark skies and the Northern Lights. With changing seasons and people who challenge me to stretch and grow and be more than I am now. If you’re going to move you might as well make it a big leap.