Alexandersmap

    Category: Travel

    • Election Day, United States

      Polls open at 7 this morning, but I’m awake at 5 AM ready to go. I run through a list of necessary chores like folding laundry and taking the trash bin to the curb for pick-up. Glancing up I see Venus shining through the leftover clouds to remind the waning gibbous moon that it isn’t the only show in town. Rain overnight and my ankle reminds me to get back to working out soon, if only to lose a few pounds acquired since the last hike.

      The shirt selection was easy this morning. The Mount Gay Rum shirt to honor a voter who can’t be here with us today to do the one thing he wanted to do most: help vote the current President out of office. He was a Navy guy and saw through bullshit as quickly as anybody I know. I saw through it too and my vote is his vote today.

      Election Day in the United States is an ebb and flow event. Some years there’s a slight buzz about the upcoming election and banter between the parties. Other years get a lot of attention, with an urgency to vote to keep the country on track. And then there’s 2020, when the worst candidate this country ever elected is up for re-election. 2020 isn’t a roar, it’s a hurricane raging over an earthquake. This year the election is setting records well before election day, with absentee ballots cast, and pre-voting in states that allow it blowing away previous voting records for entire elections.

      Which brings us to today. I’m skipping the coffee this morning until after I vote, anticipating a long line to pick up my ballot. Heck, I’m expecting a long line just to get a parking spot. So no full bladder this morning, thank you. Today we vote for our representatives for Senate and the House of Representatives, for state and local officials, and we vote for President. But we vote as if nothing else matters this morning. Because in many ways, nothing else does.

      The Founding Fathers gave me (as an educated white male) the right to vote in the Constitution. It took the 15th Amendment to give people of color the right to vote. And it took the 19th Amendment to finally give women the right to vote. And so here we are, finally all united, with our collective right to vote. When enough people choose to participate we get the country we want. When too many skip the election thinking it doesn’t matter we get the country we deserve. The last four years have been a lesson for those who weren’t previously paying attention. Today matters. Vote.

    • Where The Knowing Is

      “The explorer returned to his people, who were eager to know about the Amazon. But how could he ever put into words the feelings that flooded his heart when he saw exotic flowers and heard the night-sounds of the forest; when he sensed the danger of wild beasts or paddled his canoe over treacherous rapids?
      He said, “Go and find out for yourselves.” To guide them he drew a map of the river. They pounced upon the map. They framed it in their town hall. They made copies of it for themselves. And all who had a copy considered themselves experts on the river, for did they not know its every turn and bend, how broad it was and how deep, where the rapids were and where the falls?”
      – Anthony De Mello, The Explorer

      Reading this story three times, my mind flashed back on moments over the last year when I transcended the maps: hiking trails where every rock was a wince, Scottish roads that proved narrower and a spouse who grew more horrified by the non-existent shoulder than the oncoming truck, carefully arranged graduation reservations scrapped by COVID and a banner at the ready should a party someday be a reality. Each an example of what I thought I knew turned on its head. Each a learning experience.

      2020 was the big number on the horizon we all wondered about. Places we’d be, events we’d experience, moments we’d celebrate. Now we’re all living through the actual 2020, in ways that we didn’t anticipate. It’s just like any other map or plan in that way. Each event, each trip, each person and each day won’t be what you expected in some way or another. The maps and guides and itineraries and YouTube videos of those who went before help frame things, but you’ve got to go out and experience life to really know anything at all.

      We all think we know how things are going to turn out. But living through the moment, exploring and testing our limits of understanding and endurance, going and finding out for yourselves, that’s where the knowing is. That’s where we fully realize the feelings that flood our hearts.

    • Visiting Waterfalls in the Rain

      Cleveland has a reputation for being all concrete and manufacturing plants on the edge of the lake. The “mistake by the lake” as some would say. But Cleveland is also ringed with an extensive park system, the “emerald necklace” that offers access to beautiful places nearby. All you’ve got to do is seek it out. I’ve made it a practice to be a seeker of beautiful places wherever I go, and this trip to Cleveland wasn’t going to be an exception.

      I stayed in a hotel in Independence, largely because it was between places I was going to for business meetings. What I learned quickly was it was also in close proximity to the Cuyahoga Valley National Park. There’s a waterfall in this park, Brandywine Falls, that is supposed to be stunning. I didn’t have the time to visit Brandywine on this trip, but will save it for the next one. Instead I looked at smaller falls within 15 minutes or the hotel and found two very close to each other in the Bedford Reservation: Great Falls at Tinker Creek and Bridal Veil Falls. I silently plotted a visit, and when Thursday morning remained open I had my opportunity to see them both.

      Waze told me I was 16 minutes from Great Falls, and I made my way there first. It was pouring out, reminding me of visiting the Isle of Skye exactly a year ago with the constant soaking raw rain. And here I was again, chasing beautiful places in soaking rain. I stopped at a store and bought a $6 umbrella that felt like it would fold in half in the first gust of wind. It turned out to be just enough for me to ignore the rain and focus on the task at hand: finding the falls.

      Waze sent me to the viaduct instead, and after walking on the paths down to the edge of a long drop to the river I realized this wasn’t the place. Getting my bearings using the park maps I figured out where Waze had steered me wrong and saw that I was actually closer to Bridal Veil Falls and went there next. The benefit of the steady rain was I was joyfully socially isolated. No COVID in the park today, thank you. The mask remained in my pocket. The drawback was nobody to offer recommendations, but heck, I’m an explorer at heart. Go explore.

      Bridal Veil Falls was more obvious, with a parking lot and good signage. There’s a boardwalk that helps you navigate the walk down to the falls easily. This makes this site good for all ages. With the stairs it would be challenging for wheelchairs to get all the way to the falls using this path, but there seemed to be an alternative on the other side of the river that might have worked. Bridal Veil Falls was roaring from all the rain, and reminded me of similar falls I’ve visited in Ithaca, New York.

      Bridal Veil Falls, roaring on this wet day
      Deerlick Creek above the falls. Wooden bridge and pathway up to the road.

      Checking my watch I knew I had time to visit the elusive Great Falls, and reviewed the map again. The problem wasn’t Waze, it was the operator who put Viaduct Park in as the destination instead of Great Falls. As is almost always the case, it was user error and I was the user. A quick drive got me where I needed to be and I took my cheap umbrella for another walk.

      If Bridal Veil Falls is deep in the park, Great Falls is on the edge of town. Cleveland Metroparks offers this description of the site: “Great Falls of Tinkers Creek shows the natural beauty and historic relevance to the development of Bedford“. Hint: “historic” and “development”. The falls are beautiful but the site isn’t pristine. There are ruins of an old grist mill on the edge of the falls and graffiti from some misguided soul that ruined a beautiful photo op. Just downstream is a large stone viaduct that used to support trains. These falls had a vibe closer to the Pawtucket Falls in Lowell, Massachusetts. Still beautiful, but more… “industrial revolution“. The rain ensured I had it all to myself, and I was careful with my footing on the wet leaves and mud. Didn’t want to be that tourist who slid into the river with his cheap umbrella and iPhone.

      And with that it was time to drive to the airport, only 30 minutes away, but seemingly much further. That’s the benefit of parks like this; you can be deep into natural beauty in minutes. And as I drove past a sea of concrete and steel and asphalt on my way to the rental car drop-off, I was grateful for the reprieve. You never know what the world offers just around the corner until you go look for it.

      Great Falls of Tinker’s Creek
      Stone Viaduct with the modern railroad bridge just downstream from Great Falls

    • Questions

      “Said the monk, “All these mountains and
      rivers and the earth and stars—where do
      they come from?”
      Said the master, “Where does your
      question come from?”
      – Anthony De Mello, The Question

      One part of the writing process I value is that it fuels better questions. What’s the story behind that monument? How did this mountain I’m hiking get its name? Where do we go from here? What is the author really trying to say here? And of course, spiritual questions about creation and science and the place in the middle where they meet. And this morning, awake much sooner than I ought to be, I dove into another Anthony De Mello book, The Song Of The Bird, in search of better answers… or at least better questions.

      Today I seek a bit of adventure, even as I press on with my business trip in the middle of a pandemic. I found myself silently angrily at a couple of unmasked men getting off an elevator I was waiting for this morning. They’re supposed to be wearing masks as mandated by the Governor, with reminders on signs all over the hotel, but they opted out. My anger wasn’t with them – that was frustration at their disregard for others – but instead at myself for putting myself in a position to be concerned with their unmasked presence in the first place.

      And so I decided I need to get myself outdoors. It’s raining out there. It’s raw. There’s a short window of time I have between where I am and where I have to be later. And yet I’m getting outdoors anyway. I have a few questions that need answering. There’s truth out there in the cold, wet outdoors.

    • Observations While Flying in a Pandemic

      It’s been eight months since I’ve flown anywhere or even been in an airport. A lot has happened in eight months, and the pandemic is relentlessly marching along with no regard for whether we want to flip the switch back to normal again. I’m not sure it ever will be normal again, but whether we get there or not I had obligations that put me on a flight to Cleveland. What was commonplace less than a year ago was now unique, outlier stuff. And I felt compelled to note the changes.

      TSA outnumbers passengers 20:1
      That flight eight months ago coincidently departed from the same gate I was departing from on my flight to Cleveland. But instead of walking into a cue of people trying to bypass the regular TSA line and finding a line of our own, I walked straight to a lonely TSA agent who scanned my passport and asked me to take the mask down to verify my face matched the photo. By my count there were at least twenty TSA agents for every person going through screening.

      Every row, not every seat
      I boarded a plane that was being seated from back to front and found my way to my seat. This plane was small – two seats on either side of the row. Everyone had a window seat except for the couples flying together. From a social distancing perspective I was at least six feet from the person on the opposite window seat. But they were also seating every row, so the person in front of me and the person behind me were only three feet away. But masks were required, right?

      Mask etiquette
      The rule was pretty straightforward: wear your damned mask while you were on the plane. You couldn’t walk into the airport without the mask, let alone get on the plane. Simple right? Yet I was braced for the one flake who would take off their mask and scream about their rights. But thankfully this plane was full of functioning adults without delusions of grandeur. Everyone wore their mask the entire time. Until they didn’t.

      Food and Beverages
      The smell of food on the plane shortly after sitting made me question someone’s mask etiquette. I’m no expert on such things, but eating a chicken sandwich seems challenging while keeping a mask on the entire time. But it demonstrated the challenges of enforcement. Then the crew announced they would be coming through with snacks and beverages. No booze and no hot coffee or tea options, but water and soft drinks. Airline-sanctioned bending of the mask rule. And again I thought to myself, how exactly are we going to be responsible mask-wearing passengers while eating and drinking? I accepted the snack and water and stuffed them into my bag for after the flight. Mask stayed put.

      First in line to take off?!!
      As with the TSA line, there was literally no line of planes awaiting take-off. We taxied to the end of the runway and simply took off. Granted it was an afternoon flight, but for me that was a first at Logan International Airport. As we soared over the islands I spied a lonely sailboat cruising Boston Harbor, and wondered where they were going. They might have been looking up at the plane wondering who in the world is flying in a pandemic. Me, folks. The answer was me.

      Exiting the plane
      The routine in Cleveland was similar to boarding in Boston. Stay seated until the people in front of you stand up and exit. A few rebels stood up to grab bags from the overhead bins, but most of us just played along. Perspective is a beautiful thing. None of us wanted to dance with COVID-19. Walking out into the terminal, it felt different from Logan Airport. More people for sure. Cleveland was much more crowded than terminal C in Boston. Here too masks were required and social distancing applied. And more stores and restaurants open in Cleveland than in Boston. I suppose every place is different, and just as each country handles things differently, so too does every state. But overall people were showing respect for the pandemic here as well.

      Real PPE Hurts
      This flight was about two hours. Wearing a KN-95 mask instead of my cloth mask gave me even more respect for healthcare workers geared up for the pandemic for hours at a time. The elastic bands began to irritate the backs of my ears over time and I found myself pulling the elastics back off my skin for relief. If I were to do a cross-country trip I’d have to rig up a hat with buttons or pull the bands back with string to avoid this. But I wasn’t going to complain, I was wearing a mask to stay healthy and to keep other people healthy should I be infected but asymptomatic. It seemed a fair tradeoff.

      Like Riding a Bicycle
      Despite all the strangeness, travel came right back to me. Walking through airports, renting cars, and checking into hotels are all part of the deal when you travel for work. It took no time at all to feel I was back in the flow of things. Masks, heavy doses of hand sanitizer and soap and water, avoiding touching the face and maintaining social distance made it all clear that the routine was different even as it was the same. Some of these habits will remain with us long after we figure out this virus, and honestly some of these measures are welcome changes to the petri dish traditional travel placed you in. I wondered about the future of travel even as I welcomed a brief return to it.

    • The Flying Tree Dance

      Removing a tree from the yard is always a painful decision. I’ve cut down a few trees over the years, and a part of me is cut out with every one of them. But sometimes they have to go. And I had a clump of them that were ready to go wedged in a tight cluster with trees I wanted to keep. Well above my skill set to cut these down, I delayed for years until now. But it was finally time.

      A giant crane, a bucket truck and a third truck towing a wood chipper arrived and their drivers started positioning them for the tasks they each performed. First in was the bucket truck, limbing up a large oak that would be in the way of the crane. This was opportunistic work, as the neighbor wanted that tree limbed up anyway, and so they negotiated a separate deal to get it done. Capitalism on the fly.

      Next came the big event. The crane was extended, chain saws were readied, men positioned in familiar roles. The most notable was the man who would fly. Clearly the most fun job of all, and the most dangerous. He harnessed up, attached himself to the crane cable, and slowly flew into the air with his chain saw and rappelling gear. He would wrap a strap around the tree trunk of choice, secure his rappel rope and lower himself down to the ground. He then cut the base of the tree as the crane held it up, clear out of the way, and it was time for the tree to sky dance. If I were a tree and it was my last day on earth, I might choose one final pirouette across the sky as this tree took.

      But then the performance was over, the tree laid across the driveway, and the second act began. a second cable was secured halfway up the trunk and the tree was now hanging from two cables. A few branches were trimmed away, and then the machinery took over. I realized what was about to happen and put my fingers into my ears. The cables and men fed the entire tree, trunk first, into the wood chipper. The chipper roared its horrific roar, and the tree flew in chips into the truck bed to live its second life as mulch. A second flight for the tree, not quite as grand as the first.

      This performance continued for the morning and early afternoon and then the machines and men and mulch drove away, leaving empty sky and stories. Some of the felled trees remained, to serve as firewood in a season or two. Then they too will fly as well, as smoke and a pagan tribute to their final day.

    • Hawks and Squirrels, Bears and Goats

      As the leaves fall the big reveal begins. What exactly have the neighbors across the way been doing all summer with all that building and landscaping? We’ll know soon enough. The golden leaves of fall are quickly conceding to fate and weather, dropping in abundance to coat the ground in a blanket of yellows and reds. And suddenly we see what was screened for months.

      I watched a red-tailed hawk flying rapid spirals up and down a white pine tree, wondering for a moment if it was injured, then recognizing the reality of what was happening. The hawk chased a gray squirrel that was scrambling up, down and around the trunk trying to reach the relative safety of the branches above, but found itself stuck in the long exposed trunk. Its only chance was this spiraling scramble. And this is where the hawk proved to be an expert flyer, keeping pace with the squirrel for what seemed like forever. But suddenly it was over, the hawk flying to a nearby branch, exhausted perhaps, but having the food that would keep it alive to fight another day. I picked my jaw up off the ground and left the hawk to its meal.

      The big reveal brought another surprise. I knew the neighbor’s didn’t have a dog, but caught a glimpse of an animal walking back and forth on their patio. A look over the fence confirmed it was a goat pacing back and forth near the patio door. A text to the neighbor to inform them of the visitor and a visit from Animal Control and the goat’s owner revealed the truth of the matter: this goat was a survivor, having run away from a black bear that’s been breaking into animal pens for a week now killing chickens and goats. Dangerous, unusual behavior for the bear. And the State of New Hampshire has taken notice, setting traps to try to move this dangerous character out of the area.

      And so it is that I finally put a wildlife camera out in the woods, beyond the old stone fence that separates land that I pay taxes on from land that is preserved and funded by all taxpayers. After close encounters with deer, coyotes, fox, opossum, skunks, raccoons, groundhogs, bobcats, fisher cats, snapping turtles, assorted rodents, bear and now a domesticated animal I’ve finally taken the hint. That preservation land is an animal highway between the brook on one side and the larger forest on the other. The land that I pay taxes on was once part of that highway, until I put up a fence to keep the dog from meeting this parade of characters marching by. Having shifted the corridor over to the other side of the wall the least I could do is capture images of the travelers. And I wonder what will we find stored on the memory card? There’s still some time left in 2020, what haven’t we seen yet? Unicorn? Centaurs? Griffons? In this year of years nothing surprises me anymore.

    • The Work of Exploration

      “Filling the mind with illusions is not the way to carry out with honor the work of exploration.”
      – Samuel Champlain

      Champlain was a stickler for careful preparation and research. He wasn’t one to half-ass anything he did, especially when it came to sailing across an ocean to uncharted places. He learned from the failures of others, noting failures in leadership, failures in preparation, failures in aligning political alliances to have your back when you were away, and failures in the treatment of the Native American population. And he was disciplined in his resolve to be successful in his own exploration.

      When I think about Samuel Champlain, I think about the guy who famously explored the North American coast and more than anyone helped stake a flag of settlement for France. In New England we live in a culture that rightfully celebrates the arrival of the Pilgrims in America 400 years ago, surely a major turning point for the English settlement of North America, but let’s not forget those who came well before the Pilgrims. If the settlement of Plymouth was a comedy of errors and bad preparation, Champlain’s plan for exploration and settlement was meticulous.

      Champlain found a way to be an invited guest of the Spanish on a trip to their own empire, surveying and documenting the atrocities of the Spanish conquerers with the native population and with African slaves for gold, silver and pearls. He resolved to never duplicate the things he saw, and treated men with respect and honor in his own exploration. And he learned from the brutal religious wars of France between Catholics and Protestants as well, resolving to bring religious tolerance to his own settlement. Champlain wasn’t just ahead of his time, he was helping to pave the way to our time.

      I’ll return to Champlain again in future blogs, but for now I’m lingering on the quote that opens this post. A warning to not half-ass our own exploration. To be prepared and do the work necessary to put yourself in a position to not just survive, but thrive. This is true whether you’re starting a business, changing your career, working to finish a project before a deadline or planning that long hike. Filling the mind with illusions is not the way to carry out with honor the work of exploration. Be prepared, as the Marines would tell you. But don’t just prepare and dream of exploration either. Do the work of exploration too.

    • A Bear in the Night

      Sunday night, while sitting around the fire in conversation, a large wild creature moved through the woods, announcing its presence with the crunch of dried leaves and crack of fallen twigs. Not a deer. Not a raccoon or a skunk. Definitely not a squirrel. I quietly walked into the house for the big flashlight and walked out to the edge of the fence and switched it on. Nothing but leaves glowed back at me, but the crunching and cracking continued on and away from us. The speculation on what had visited stayed with us. But we knew.

      The next day someone up the hill posted that three goats had been killed in her yard, and there was talk of a bear up to 800 pounds being the culprit. Was this our visitor? We wondered at the possibility. I walked deep into the woods in daylight looking for tracks, but quickly realized the folly of my search. I’d guess we had a solid layer of leaves blanketing any possible evidence of bear tracks. I contemplated purchasing a wildlife camera set in the woods to track future visitors. It would be good to know the neighbors a bit better. We’ve seen just about everything in our time at the edge of the woods, but haven’t yet seen a bear. But others in town have. This would be our closest encounter.

      Bear encounters have increased in New Hampshire over the years, and there have been three bear attacks over the last decade, including one this year when a man was attacked from behind while getting an air conditioner out of his car. There are reasons for this. First, the bear population has grown significantly over the years as they outpace efforts to cull them through hunting. Second, some people actively feed bears, making them less fearful of humans. And then we have the drought that New Hampshire is currently in, which forces the bears to wander further into populated areas for food. There’s a fascinating article about the increase in bear encounters in the September issue of NH Magazine.

      Bear populations, like squirrels, apparently increased with the bumper crop of acorns a couple of years ago. Well-fed bears want to stay well-fed. And so they come. I can’t help but compare the increase in bear encounters to the increase in Great White Shark encounters on the beaches of New England. Limit hunting seals and sharks and the population explodes in places we’d gotten used to having the beaches to ourselves. Something similar is happening with bear populations (and every other wild animal for that matter). Fewer hunters, more comfort with humans and drought-fueled hunger means more bears in the suburbs.

      Standing in the woods, looking back towards the house, you get the perspective of the wild things. As much as you could I suppose, given my free access to the comforts of a home just on the other side of the border. I considered my desire to get out in the wild so often, and here I was, standing in bear country, 200 feet from my back door. I looked around one last time for tracks and walked back to the other side, closing the gate behind me. But I’ll be back. I suspect the bear(s) will be too.

    • Walking the Frost Farm

      Sunday restlessness prompted a short road trip up to an apple orchard for some apples and pumpkins. This proved to be too brief, so it seemed a good day to revisit the Robert Frost Farm. Maybe it was his poem October that inspired me, or maybe the beautiful fall day, but either way he whispered to come over and stay awhile.

      The last visit to the Robert Frost Farmhouse was during a different time when you could actually walk about with a group of strangers and not think about the risk associated with doing so. This time we skipped the farmhouse and just walked the property and the adjacent Grinnell Farm conservation land. Walking slowly, reading the poems and biographical information that lined the path on the Robert Frost Farmhouse property, it was still a quick walk even with the extended walk through the conservation land. But still altogether necessary to be outside in the world, and especially in Frost’s former world.

      A lot changes over time. The farm was used after Frost sold it as an auto graveyard for a time, with the top soil scraped away and car parts scattered all through the property. Thankfully all that is gone now, and though the farmland itself isn’t what it once was, it’s grown back into a field that feels largely feel like you’re walking the land that Frost would have known. The land that inspired his writing. The auto parts are gone, but the wildlife, the farmhouse, and especially the stone walls remain largely as they were for Frost during his formative years as a poet. Having visited the farm on several occasions, I manage to draw something new out of the experience each time. I’ve toured the farmhouse and recommend it for a first-time visitor, but for me walking the path is what makes you feel like you’re a part of Robert Frost’s world, if only for a short time.

      Frost lived at the farmhouse from 1900 to 1911, honoring his grandfather’s wish to maintain the farm for at least a decade. It proved formative for him as a writer: “the core of all my writing was probably the free years that I had there.” He would leave this farm and rise to fame and relative fortune (for a poet) in the years that followed. He would read a poem he wrote at John F. Kennedy’s inauguration. And his words would ring in the minds of millions, including mine. And really, it all started here at a little farm in Derry, New Hampshire.