Alexandersmap

    Category: Travel

    • Benchmarks

      “For any GNSS survey campaign, a proper benchmark is essential to preserve measurement location and elevation. Historically, leveling field operations for second and third order geodetic leveling, provided in the topographic instructions of the USGS, distinguished survey benchmarks as either monumented or non-monumented benchmarks. Monumented benchmarks have a tablet consisting of identifying information surrounding a stamped center point. These marks are represented as a standard metal tablet, disk, cap, or steel rod used to describe the elevation. These tablets are commonly set in concrete, stone posts, firm rock outcroppings, masonry structures, and buildings (U.S. Geological Survey, 1966).” – USGS, Methods of Practice and Guidelines for Using Survey-Grade Global Navigation Satellite Systems (GNSS) to Establish Vertical Datum in the United States Geological Survey

      If you get out in the middle of things enough you come across plenty of USGS benchmarks. And lately I’ve been coming across plenty, which is a good sign that I’m getting out there I suppose. Over the last couple of months I’ve come across benchmarks on islands, graveyards (revisiting Thoreau) and on mountain summits. And I’m always thrilled to see them. Benchmarks bear silent witness to facts. You are here, and this is where “here” is. It will remain there, stoic and frozen in time, informing whomever seeks it out.

      Many of the summits of New Hampshire feature USGS benchmarks that inform. These metal disk are stamped with the location name, the date of survey and either a triangle or an arrow. The arrows, as you might expect, point you towards the actual benchmark. The triangle lets you know you’ve arrived. Below are pictures of each from Mount Moriah yesterday.

      Summit benchmark, with triangle, date of survey and location name
      Benchmark used in triangulation. Note two dates of survey and the arrow pointing to summit location

      Survey benchmarks let you know you’ve arrived at a place that coincides with the squiggly lines and numbers on a topographic map. Those lines didn’t just write themselves, someone hiked up the mountain and surveyed that land. In the case of the summit of Mount Moriah, it was surveyed at least twice, in 1878 and again in 1958. Another New Hampshire mountain, Mount Tecumseh, was also surveyed at least twice. Like Pluto it suffered the indignity of being knocked down in status. Tecumseh went from just barely a 4000 footer to not quite a 4000 footer. Pluto went from a planet to not a planet to whatever they’ve settled on now. But I don’t believe either cares what we label them. If only humans would learn not to worry about labels as well.

      Benchmarks are typical in Civil Engineering, but of course the term has permeated other human activity as well. I suppose I could spend a few paragraphs writing about business-speak terms like benchmarking, but why ruin a perfectly good blog post about the outdoors with business-speak? Get out there and find your way, and celebrate the arrival. Thoreau was a surveyor himself, and like those benchmarks his words silently inform forever for those who would go out and find them. Seek adventure.

    • 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.

    • 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.”

    • 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.

    • 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.

    • Upcoming Wonder

      “Stuff your eyes with wonder… live as if you’d drop dead in ten seconds.” – Ray Bradbury

      Something switched inside of me over the last few days, and suddenly I’m methodically filling my calendar with upcoming wonder. “Upcoming” is an important consideration, but “wonder” is the key word. There’s no guarantees in life, of course, but book it and it may be all that you wanted it to be. Such was the case with my train ride from Helsinki to Moscow in 1989, whitewater rafting through the Grand Canyon in 1998, my drive across Scotland in 2019, or any such “big” trip. Winging it can be magical, but booking it locks it in.

      Having paid my dues in sweat equity and a mild case of poison ivy putting a fence up last weekend, I have two hikes on my mind for the next two weekends (if the weather holds out). The first is with friends who hike mountains like most people take a walk around the block. That will be a test of my fitness and mobility, but a worthy adventure in peak-bagging. The second hike is being pushed out by the threat of rain but involves a 4000 footer followed by a smaller, and possibly more exciting mountain that I look forward to writing about. Anticipation is funny that way, I’ve heard enough about the smaller mountain to know what to expect, which makes the eventual hike slightly less discovery and more experience.

      Over the last few days I’ve also booked a weekend in Acadia National Park in Maine, committed to a sailing passage from Massachusetts up the Gulf of Maine to Yarmouth, Maine and booked a weekend in Stowe, Vermont in November. Adventures every one of them, and I’ve plotted drive times and reviewed what will be open and closed while we’re there, viewed YouTube videos of vloggers who have been more immersed in Acadia before me. This all borders dangerously close to the spreadsheet travel posted on this blog about almost exactly a year ago. But having a rough plan in place when youI go somewhere new is helpful. You can then fill in the blanks with discovery. For Acadia, I know what I don’t know and wanted to build some structure. For Stowe, I know the place really well and I’m leaving almost everything to discovery. For hiking, I read the trail descriptions, scanned the maps, and if possible look at street view images of where the car is going to be parked. The rest is one foot in front of the other discovery, as it should be. Similarly for the sailing passage, I’ve sailed the Gulf of Maine and on Fayaway enough to know what to expect. But once I’m past Isles of Shoals its all discovery for me. I’m trusting the Captain on that one.

      Trust is an important consideration with upcoming wonder. I trust that I’ll wake up on the day that I’ve booked a cabin in Acadia. I trust that the weather will cooperate enough to make the long drive north worthwhile or make the hikes hike-able. I trust that COVID-19 doesn’t explode and shut everything down before any or all of these trips. None of us is really sure about what happens in the next ten seconds, let alone the next ten weeks. All you can do is set the table and leave the rest to fate. Ultimately we’re bit players in the game of life, but we are players. So we ought to play.

    • Reflections of the Day

      Merrimack River at Sunset, Haverhill, Massachusetts

      “Water does not act like a perfect mirror. Light objects will appear a little darker and duller in their reflected images and dark objects will appear a touch lighter… A reflection [also] shows you the view from the point on the water’s surface that you are looking at, not the perspective from where you are standing.” – Tristan Gooley, How To Read Water

      I admit, standing on the riverwalk next to the Merrimack River in Haverhill, Massachusetts I didn’t think about whether the reflection was perfect or imperfect. I only thought about the beauty of the reflected light on the dark river water. For why dwell on the science behind the magic? Does knowing the science behind why something happens a certain way make it less magical? I should think not, and neither does Tristan Gooley. If anything it amplifies the beauty. Does knowing the name of the constellations improve or detract from the wonder in the night sky? Clearly it improves the experience. And so it is with water.

      I’ve borrowed How To Read Water from a friend and I chip away at it slowly. In fact, I finished two other books since he handed it to me. It’s not that I don’t want to read it, it’s more that the other books have been whispering to me more persistently. But after witnessing the sunset on the Merrimack River I’m inclined to dive deeper into the book.

      The Merrimack River holds a special place in my heart, flaws and all, because of my time living along its shores, and rowing on its waters, and exploring it from source to sea. Haverhill has never been my home, but I’m drawn to the city for its history and the raw beauty it still displays despite rough treatment by humans for generations. The land and the river both share the same affront from generations of humans, but still the land stoically holds on, scarred but dignified. And the river flows persistently onward, outlasting the generations who abused it. Those generations are eventually buried six feet into the land, becoming a part of it as we all must someday. For all our noisy encroachment, the land and the river silently have the last laugh.

      When you combine the history and the river and sunset, well, you’ve generally got me. And so I lingered along the edge of the river. My old friend and I quietly conspired as the light danced with shadows on her still water, until finally the shadows won out. The day faded and the river transformed into a black ribbon of water that now reflected starlight even as I reflected on another day that quietly slipped into the past.

    • Dazzling Infinity

      “The buying of more books than one can read is nothing less than the soul reaching toward infinity.” –  A. Edward Newton

      I have an ongoing fascination with the infinite.  Maybe it’s because I’m rather finite myself, with only so many days left at the dance with life.  Or maybe its the humility that comes with thinking about things bigger than yourself that attracts me.  Whatever, the attraction is real.  The French have an expression for it: l’éblouissement de l’infinit or “dazzling infinity”.  I think that’s a fitting adjective to tack on to the infinite. For who among us who bothers to look up from their phone isn’t dazzled by the vastness of the universe?

      I try to create infinity bookends in a day by getting up early for sunrises and going out late to look at the stars as one way of putting myself at the edge of forever.  And it might explain the draw of rivers and the ocean and the mountains.  Each dazzles in their own way because they’re both silent witnesses to forever while simultaneously the embodiment of it.

      The Newton quote above hits close to home.  I do collect impossibly large stacks of books that I fear I’ll never get around to.  But rather than reign in my collection I add to it.  Someday maybe I’ll finish the stack, but I know its almost certainly blind optimism talking.  I may never get to all of the books or all of the places I want to go to, but that doesn’t mean I won’t vainly believe deep down that its possible I could.

      Watching the post-sunset show along the shore of Buzzards Bay a couple of nights ago I thought about the long list of experiences I’d like to have before I go gently into the night.  It seemed a rather long and impossible list given the state of the world at the present moment, but I think its rather like the stack of books.  I may not get to everything on the list, but hopefully I’ll get to enough.

      “Watch the stars in their courses and imagine yourself running alongside them. Think constantly on the changes of the elements into each other, for such thoughts wash away the dust of earthly life.” – Marcus Aurelius, Meditations

    • The Four Chronometers of Greenwich

      I confess when I visited Greenwich my mind wasn’t on chronometers, it was on the Prime Meridian and Greenwich Mean Time.  But after the obligatory pictures at 0° along the famous line that dictates so much of our modern lives I spent the duration of my time exploring the Royal Observatory Greenwich, and listened intently as an exceptional guide detailed the story of the four clocks that changed the world.  That all four of the clocks were on display, and three of them were still running was a mind-blowing moment.

      John Harrison invented the first clock, H-1, in an attempt to solve the most perplexing problem of the day – determining longitude while at sea.  It was such a critical issue that Parliament passed The Longitude Act 1714 with a prize of £20,000 for anyone who came up with an accurate way to determine longitude.  Dava Sobel wrote an excellent book that details Harrison’s lifetime pursuit of a final solution.  H-1 was completed in 1735, but Harrison wasn’t completely satisfied with it and went about immediately to work on an improved chronometer.  H-2 never went to trial (tested at sea), H-3 was completed in 1759 but wasn’t trialed right away because of the Seven Years War.  While they waited to trial it Harrison invented the smaller H-4, which was the size of a very large pocket watch, which went on to win the prize money after a lifetime of work and refinement and continuous trouble with The Commissioners of Longitude (some of whom were biased towards an astronomical solution to the longitude riddle).

      Part of me wishes I’d read Sobel’s book before visiting Greenwich and seeing the four chronometers that changed the world.  But there’s another part of me that is grateful for discovering them unexpectedly.  I immediately purchased Longitude when I returned from the UK.  Having seen the four chronometers side-by-side in the museum, with all in working order (H-4 is deliberately kept unwound to preserve it), I felt an immediate affinity for the story when I began reading.  But another hero emerged from the book besides Harrison.  It was Rupert Gould, a Lieutenant-Commander in the British Royal Navy who was given permission to restore the four chronometers that had been sitting in a deteriorating state for almost a century.  Gould spent 13 years restoring the clocks to their original state, and in doing so returned four examples of timeless magic for visitors to the Flamsteed House and the Royal Observatory Greenwich.  He’s a quiet hero in history, and is rightfully remembered as such.  I was spellbound by H-1, H-2 and H-3 as they earnestly marked time 2 1/2 centuries after Harrison built them.  Now that I know their history, I look forward to a return visit someday, and will re-read Longitude and linger for a spell in the presence of history.

      H-2
      H-1

      H-4
      H-3