Alexandersmap

    Category: seasons

    • An Allegiance With Gravity

      Rivers and stones are forever
      in allegiance with gravity
      while we ourselves dream of rising.
      – Mary Oliver, Mysteries, Yes

      How do you explain yourself when someone jokingly asks you the question, “You don’t watch TV, what do you do?” I heard that question yesterday, smiled and said I keep busy. For how do you tell someone who is so deeply focused on one thing that you choose to use your time in other ways?

      In a bit of indulgence this week, I purchased some beautiful new Petzl crampons. This is a nod to supply chain challenges in the world, to the changing seasons and anticipation of winter hiking, but also an acknowledgement that I just can’t get out there to hike right now. For now, anyway, I’m investing my brief, fragile time in other ways.

      I visited the homes of three family members this week (including the television fan’s), each with some work that must be done and nobody to do it. In each case, knowing that if I’m not doing the work it’s going to get punted down the field indefinitely. So instead the hiking gets punted, at least for a little while. Autumn hiking is too crowded anyway… right?

      “What we think or what we know or what we believe is in the end of little consequence. The only thing of consequence is what we do” – John Ruskin

      I dream of rising: Of winter hiking and digging these new crampons into an icy incline. Of traversing beautiful ridge line. Of travel and visits to faraway places. And (sometimes) of finally watching some program I’ve heard so much about from people in the know. But for now there’s work to be done. And at the moment I’m in an allegiance with gravity.

    • Every Setting Sun

      “Let every dawn of morning be to you as the beginning of life, and every setting sun be to you as its close.” – John Ruskin, The Two Paths

      You see the difference in the days now. September brings that perceptible tilt of the earth, shrinking daylight hours and with it a persistent tightening up of that time between sunrise and sunset. Soon the trees will react and the world will turn a kaleidoscope of colors. In the northern hemisphere we’ve turned the corner from the laziness of summer and you can feel the quiet insistence of the harvest season upon us.

      There’s work to do, meaningful work, and it must begin in earnest while there’s time. It’s funny how September does that. Deeply engrained in our souls, this feeling of bringing all your work to a satisfactory conclusion. A harvest. Like the setting sun you can feel when one chapter is ending, with a bold suggestion that something new might begin. But we’re fools to focus on that which isn’t promised to us.

      Sunsets are lovely, but you earn the sunrise. And when you greet the day your thoughts turn naturally to what you might do with it. Life is best lived in the urgency between sunrise and sunset. When the sun sets this evening, what will we have harvested in these brief hours? For the days grow shorter with every setting sun.

    • A Hike to Waterville Cascades

      This hike was meant to be a compromise to myself. No salt water weekend, no longer hikes to knock off another 4000 footer or three. But still spectacular, still a light workout on a beautiful trail, and the real payoff; seven waterfalls in a relatively short span.

      I had my doubts. You walk to the trailhead at Waterville Valley Resort and see right away that this hike is going to start between the road and some of the village condos. But you cross a road and leave most of that behind you. From then on you are hiking a pleasant trail to the first waterfall and not really seeing many people (for me, a Saturday afternoon).

      The Cascade Trail is a 3 mile round trip to the Waterville Cascades. The silence of the forest is notable and welcome. You quickly forget that you’re in close proximity to a ski resort, and instead immerse yourself in hiking relatively pristine second growth forest that wraps itself around you and shuts out the outside world. Before you know it the hike brings you to the first cascade on Cascade Brook, a series of seven plunges that feel bigger and more remote than they really are.

      But there are reminders of the alternative paths to the falls. We met a group we’d seen in the parking lot that opted to ride the chairlift up instead of hiking. We spoke to another couple of guys on mountain bikes who had ridden up to the falls to soak in the swimming holes. Both conversations reminded us that there were other faster ways to reach the cascades than hiking. We saw sad proof of this when we passed a pyramid of empty Bud Lite cans that some fools had stacked alongside the brook. Without a backpack for this short hike I had to leave this mess for someone else to deal with. Not everyone who ventures into the woods leaves them as they found them. This is the price of proximity.

      But the falls themselves were each wonders, and we celebrated the unique beauty of each as we climbed higher and higher up the trail. When you reach the last big cascade there’s a bridge for a mountain bike trail that you can cross to descend the other side and return you to the Cascade Trail and your hike back down.

      I’m interested in how people meet the falls. Some are reverent and respectful, some more nonchalant about the experience. I think it’s relative to how much work you put in towards reaching them, and the path you chose for yourself. But that may seem dismissive and smug when a hiker says it. More specifically, it’s not the work you put into reaching it, it’s how your attitude when you reach it that matters most.

      The work-to-reward ratio of the Waterville Cascades makes it an easy choice. The proximity of that resort comes in handy for lunch or dinner and a restroom afterwards. The entire experience reminds you that finding beautiful in this world isn’t all that hard if you just put yourself out there to meet it.

    • Hurricane Preparations

      The mooring field empties. Only a couple of boats left now, most likely they’ll be gone soon too. Beginning to look like the off-season now. But no, still a few weeks of summer left.

      Summer draws out the furniture, and looking around I know it must be stored safely away today. There’s a calculation that happens in your mind when a storm is coming your way: how much time do we have to do what must be done? Questions around how much traffic will be snaking along to the two choke points off Cape Cod and should I stay or should I go? How high is high enough above the bay should the worst surge occur?

      None of these thoughts are spun up in panic. This isn’t a Category 5 rolling in here, it’s a slow moving Category 1 named Henri with just enough punch to be taken seriously. When you don’t respect nature she’ll eventually teach you a hard lesson. So the boats come out, the neighbors are checked on, the furniture brought in, and the risks assessed. There’s no panic, only calculus and tasks.

      A reverse 911 text alert chirped a warning yesterday. What will today bring? And tomorrow? Tracking west? Less impactful. Maybe. But only Henri knows for sure. The rest of us prepare for the worst and hope for the best. Resilience comes from preparation. And this too shall pass.

    • Slow Down

      “Drink your tea slowly and reverently, as if it is the axis on which the world earth revolves – slowly, evenly, without rushing toward the future.” – Thich Nhat Hanh

      Some of us have a tendency to rush through things. Eat too fast, drink too heartily, blunder through introductions, breeze through chapters and rush from place-to-place, even on vacations. It’s a way to cut to the chase: to get to the result in the shortest amount of time.

      We know this isn’t the way. Our bodies tell us this when we eat or drink too fast, our minds tell us this when we try to remember the salient point of a book we read a year ago, and we kick ourselves when we learn about that special place we missed that was right around the corner from the spot we rushed to where you and everyone else took their Instagram picture.

      Savor the moment. Slow down a beat, and maybe even another beat beyond that. Appreciate the progression of the moment for all the ripe possibility it offers. The change in the light. The gradual temperature change in a cup of tea. The last few sentences that end a chapter and set up the next. Immerse yourself in now.

      There is no rushing to the future. The present is all that matters. Slow down.

    • An Early Morning Walk on South Beach

      “the ocean calls for you
      in waves”
      – Kat Lehmann, Small Stones from the River

      South Beach has a mix of cool, wild & crazy and a hint of desperation at the edges where the homeless sleep in the shadows of pricy real estate. Taking an early morning walk, the ocean was amazingly calm, mirroring the stillness of the city. There were enough people to feel you were on a city beach, but not anywhere near the craziness the rest of the day will bring.

      South Beach is filled with storage sheds for chaise lounges, colorful life guard stands with unique designs and a cast of characters with unique personalities. Sprinkled into this scene are small swathes of sand blocked off with orange tape and stakes that designated places where sea turtle made nests. Walking past these rare undisturbed squares of sand I wondered at the momma turtle’s thoughts on this spot they chose to lay eggs as they navigated the visual feast that is South Beach.

      Walking on soft sand offers its own unique workout, and my calves felt it as I made the turn 35 minutes into the walk. This was meant to be a quick walk after all, and duty called. But what a way to begin a day in Miami. As the sun rose the call of Cuban coffee took over, and sand gave way to classic Cuban-American culture. And so began a memorable morning on South Beach.

      Sunrise on South Beach

    • Rafting Up on Lake Winnipesaukee

      This hasn’t been a great month in New England for some of the traditional activities of summer. Not a lot of beach days, not a lot of dry hiking days, and not a lot of days when you’d want to raft up with other boats and soak up the sun, casually float in the lake and catch up with people you don’t spend a lot of time with. July 24th was one of the exceptions to an otherwise wet month, and it was an opportunity to take advantage of an invitation to raft up for an afternoon.

      There are 258 islands on Lake Winnipesaukee, each unique and full of stories. I found myself rafted up near Little Bear Island in about 18 feet of water, one of six boats and twenty people each with plenty of stories themselves. I don’t usually slow down enough to enjoy this type of activity very often, but when you’re rafted up on other people’s boats for the entire afternoon, it forces you to chill out a bit and enjoy the moment.

      In a raft up, boats tie on to each other, and at least a couple drop anchors to hold the entire floating island together in one place. With all the rain the water in the lake was higher than normal for the third week in July. It had finally warmed up nicely, making it easy to float for hours in the water, warm up in the sun on one of the boats and then take another plunge when the mood struck you.

      If you like big crowds, people watching and a wilder vibe you might choose to raft up in another location on the lake. There’s an abundance of wilder scenes for the party crowd.. For us, anchoring just outside the channel near Little Bear Island was the best of both worlds. Plenty of opportunities to watch boats motor by in a no wake zone, and of course plenty of chances to ignore the rest of the world and look at the beautiful mountain and lake scenery all around us.

      There are plenty of people who are experts on navigating the lake and it’s many islands, coves, eateries and pubs and history. As a visitor, I had a chance to play tourist on someone else’s boat, experience the lake as a relative newbie and marinate in its waters long enough that it soaked deep into me. A weekend on the lake is just enough to help you see what all the fuss is about. And fill you with memories and anticipation to return again someday soon.

    • What’s Next?

      What do you do with the day after a holiday? You clean up, maybe you feel the need to clean yourself up a bit, and then you move on. It’s a reset, if you will, with the lingering glow of celebration slowly fading into memory.

      Americans are waking up to the day after Independence Day. Yards are filled with debris from exploded ordinance, recycling bins are chock full and the wildlife that surrounds the house slowly recovers from the shock of humanity fully expressing themselves. And oh boy, do we express ourselves.

      Americans tend to be hard drivers in the game of life. Work hard, play hard is the favorite expression. You’re either into the madness and frenzy of the moment or you’re not. Those who are not are using the long weekend to get away from the noise and hike or sequester themselves in some quiet cottage somewhere away from it all.

      The day after Independence Day we look up and see that half the year has slipped away and we’ve moved from the earliest days of summer to the height of summer. The days are getting warmer but shorter all at the same time. You aren’t moving towards the sun now, you’re slipping away from it.

      For all the talk of New Year’s Eve and resolutions, the day after Independence Day is the day when I look around at how my year is going, and how my life is going after the frenzied first half and decide how and what I’m going to change in this second half. It’s the midway point of the year, with so much already accomplished or so much potential untapped. But it’s not either/or, is it? More likely a bit of both.

      The day after is the day when you shake off the cobwebs and finally stop for a moment. There’s still so much you can do in the year. Still so much you have to do. The growing season is well underway, but there’s plenty of time before the harvest to do some meaningful work. So it’s a fair time to ask yourself, in the quiet of the morning after the madness, what’s next?

      If July 4th celebrates the Declaration of Independence, what will we declare for ourselves as we look to the future? Shouldn’t we make it just as bold? If that document tells us anything, it’s that an inspired vision that you can get behind can make a big difference in where you go next.

    • Swimming Season

      New Hampshire has a short swimming season. This is the toll we pay up here in the north country. Since I’m not one to pay for a membership at a gym just to swim laps, every year around this time my body gets reacquainted with the aches and pains unique to swimming. Body parts pushing through the friction of water get tested in ways you don’t test them when you’re doing land-based workouts. These are muscles I haven’t used in months and I feel it the next morning. When I do it all over again.

      Full body soreness is a signal. This signal is telling me “congratulations, you’ve done some work. Now keep it going.” And so I get back at it. Lap after lap back and forth in the pool, slowly relearning the joy of swimming for fitness. Out of breath at first, until my lungs figure out the pace and I settle into a rhythm.

      It’s purely coincidence that the Olympic Swimming Trials are being televised at the same time I’m back in the pool. I’m not at the level that these Olympic athletes are at, swimming to realize their dream or see it dashed by the slimmest of margins. I’m awed by these men and women working for years to a peak of physical excellence, but I don’t jump in the pool and swim laps to be like them. They sacrifice far more in their pursuit than I’m willing to sacrifice (the fact that I’m as old as their parents aside). I’m not that delusional anymore.

      We all sacrifice something. I’m not chasing excellence in the pool as I swim alone back and forth like a ping pong ball bouncing off walls. No, I’m not chasing anything at all. Just a return to the joy of swimming for swimming’s sake. No triathlons or swim meets in my future, just more of the same push against the fluid friction of water. The pool mostly, with a few days in salty Buzzards Bay and the dark, silty waters of my favorite New Hampshire pond mixed in before the days grow cold again.

      Early morning swims remind us of the shortness of the season. The air is brisk at 6 AM, steam rises off the pool and dewy surfaces as the sun reaches for them. Laps in a pool are like the cycle of the seasons; ’round and ’round we go, back to where we once were only to turn around when we get there. This might seem repetitive and mundane, but if we pay attention we find we’re not the same person on our return. Something in us changes, one lap at a time. One season at a time.

    • Roses Rise

      and out of the silent dirt
      the blood-red roses rise.
      – Mary Oliver, Both Worlds

      The tea roses bloom in abundance in June, and reward you with blooms in bursts of fragrant joy the rest of the season. This is the time when rose petals pile up like seaweed at the edge of the surf, for the dance is so very brief for each individual flower before it rains down to the dirt to make way for the next budding star.

      I’m considered a tall man, and the tea roses reach up to my height, wanting very much to overtake the neighboring crab apple tree and maybe even the oaks should they be so bold. Tea roses love to dance with the sky, to catch the breeze and perfume the air with their subtle scent. Year-after-year they return, despite the relative neglect they receive compared with the pampered annuals.

      I’ve held this line from Mary Oliver in my mind since winter. I thought then of the blooming tea roses (pink, not red in the garden I’m subservient to). Winter is a time of dormancy and darkness, not at all the explosion of delight that June offers in New Hampshire. Each year the blooms are a miracle, and I gratefully celebrate their return.

      For all my talk of travel and exploring the world, I bask in this short time together with the roses each year around this time. A time when the roses rise to meet me at eye level. As if to ask me, why would you ever want to leave us?

      Tea Rose Time