Men in tracks

Driving north on the Maine Turnpike yesterday, we passed, and repassed, two vehicular units at least three times in the course of 20 miles. Each unit was oddly similar: pickups with Massachusetts plates hauling snowmobile trailers and driven by men in sunglasses. There was no obvious way to account for their inconsistent speeds. We speculated that the men in each cab were listening to the same talk radio show, and as the invective and outrage rose in volume, so did their speed. They would return to normalcy during the ads.

Curiously, we had just been talking about the annoying propensity of men always to be trying to score points, always trying to know it all, always seeking power. No wonder so many women turn away and seek other comforts.

It's also quite embarrassing to see how easily men slide into stereotype, or treat the world as stereotypical objects for their own use (not that women don't, but they at least seem to care that they do). So I couldn't help supposing that here were some guys going north for the weekend to scream around the woods and drink beer. I suppose I should be pleased they're at least getting outside, maybe even into wilderness, and I've always said that humans are becoming dangerously detached from their animal selves, and a small (very small) part of myself might like an hour of speed and deviltry. But I hope it doesn't take alcohol and gas and noise to get me out of selfishness, and the soft music of wind in trees puts Rush Limbaugh to shame, and what you can do on a ski is so much more rewarding than what a Ski-Doo can do on you.

Committee work

Necessary evil? Shoot me now? If I had a nickel....

"A committee is a group that keeps minutes and loses hours." (Milton Berle).

But I was never so glad to do committee work as I was this week. (In this case, it's enjoyable all other times of the year as well, since the cause is so wonderful.) It's the start of a new year, year-end giving was excellent, and the cause - land preservation and conservation - grows ever greater. Not everyone feels this way - we've had several prospective Board and committee members bow out at the idea of more fluorescent lights and bums in chairs. But the work needs to be done, and this recently released prisoner of soft chairs and enforced rest and kid gloves is rejoicing. Work practices and governance procedures and fund-raising ideas are so much more interesting than the state of one's abdomen. The organization may not have needed me all that desperately these last couple of months, but I surely needed it. The good wishes and bonhomie were one thing, but the real need was to get out of oneself, to immerse oneself in a great cause again. Who would have thought that the interior of a conference room could be as inspiring as a walk down to Ash Point?

Innard feelings

This is the first year in many, perhaps since I was about to turn 30 and thought, "My God, it's the 80s - life as we know it is over," that year-end contemplation is the order of the day. Usually, life is a continuum and the marking of an hour or a day or a year or even Y2K doesn't really mean that much (although one increasingly looks forward to 12:00 and lunch). One certainly looks back, in ruing or rejoicing, but the significant events of life seldom correspond to something so manufactured as end of a quarter or birthdays or balls dropping in Times Square.Will I feel older/wiser/safer/gobsmacked at 12:01 am 1/1/14?

No.

But this year, as I say, is a bit different. For the last three weeks I've been quite focused, attuned to the passage of time and other things, waiting for enlightenment.

I would have thought that my ideations would be complex and magnificent. The successful completion of abdominal surgery should have made me think of the fickleness of life, its beauty and promise. Every moment going forward should be precious. With all this time sitting around, lying around, wakeful at 3:00 am, I should be planning great things, novels even, or at least visualize a new year's re-arrangement of the living room furniture.

Not a chance. My head is actually in my belly, in a couple of quarts of guts and organs.

"What's that twinge down there?"
"The catheter's going to pull out, I know it."
"Do I dare to eat a bean?"
"Rumble, rumble, soil and dribble."
"Gotta be  infected by now."
"There's no way those steri-strips are going to hold."
"What if they left a sponge in there?"
"I hope to God the prune juice works."

But this new year there will be a dawning, there will be a change. I'm out of the peristaltic obsessions of the city, its sophisticated robots and outcomes research. I'm in Maine, back to simple cold and surf and snow and long-suffering balsam firs. Time to get my head back to everyday dreaming.

Mountains

I know I'm close to this man's Maine when I first see the Camden Hills - that fleeting view from Route 1 in Warren. They actually look quite tall from that distance.

The pictures below, however, are not from Maine, but from the Adirondacks, where we spent Columbus Day weekend. These mountains are somewhat more real, to coin a phrase, than our coastal mountains, the reasons for which I'll explain shortly.

The picture below shows part of the Great Range - also a golf  fairway of the Ausable Club, where we did not stay, having not been invited, having indeed no inclination for yellow pants and Ray Bans, but having been invited to stay at Putnam Camp across the road, having much inclination for rusticity, and conversation not related to investments or sports, and a history that included being founded by William James, among others, and visits by Freud and Jung. 

Our hosts assured us semi-hikers used to 1500-foot "mountains" that the trails we would take that weekend were relatively easy. They were right on the relatively part. Our first day consumed only 7 miles round trip, but the last 0.7 miles we climbed at what seemed a 45-degree angle, and several times one of us boosted the other by the derriere, and the fallen leaves artfully hid roots and rocks such that coming down was way harder than going up. The result (below - the summit of Round Mountain) was worth it, even though it was only a 3000-footer. But we could see seven of the 46 4000-footers, and marveled again at the fortitude of those members of the Forty Sixers Club who have climbed them all, including some of our weekend party. These Adirondack trails are serious stuff.

The second day after heavy exercise, most of us know, is not the bad one. But we knew what aches were coming, and opted for an easy hike (without the "relatively:) on Sunday. Our hosts graciously accompanied us on the trail along Gill Brook, although perhaps they would have liked something more challenging.

There is nothing quite like a mountain river - every turn produces a new falls, pool, riffle, arrangement of rock.

But then we just had to see Lower Ausable Lake, a fjord-like cleft in the mountains (that too was worth it), and the miles piled up, ending up in a total of 10 for the day. Much of it was gentle, on a road no less, with SUVs occasionally crowding us to the side, but toes and calves still took a beating.

From the little we saw, Adirondack Park is a magnificent place - 6 million acres, a third of which is preserved forever wild. As you can see, the views are tremendous, the air and water is pure, and - once you get away from the masses of cars at the main trail heads (especially on Columbus Day weekend, which coincides with Canadian Thanksgiving, which brings many Quebecois from just a couple hours away) - the quiet serenity of mountains is hypnotic. In spite of this, and please forgive me O Great Wolfjaw and Gothics and Marcy and Giant, I'm happy to return to our little mountains next the sea, for the world divides into mountain people and ocean people, does it not?