Part II: The Big Moose Road to Bald Mountain

Insert photo next to liner notes

We awoke to soothing sounds of the creek punctuated by the clanking of pans in the kitchen. Hugh was thinking about breakfast. I put a pot (circa 1920) of coffee on and watched him work while the others gathered their senses about them.

Several pounds of home fries, bacon, Croghan Bologna, biscuits, and eggs later, we headed out on the the Number 4/Stillwater/Big Moose Road--25 miles of partially paved wonderment into the Adirondack State Park. Essentially, the first mile and the last mile are paved, the rest is an unpleasant journey on dirt, rock, and stone.

It was one of those constantly shifting weather days--sometimes rainy, sometimes sunny--so, we decided to climb a relatively easy peak with good views from the top.

After an hour in the wilderness, we parked the earth-coated hybrid (looking a bit like the Adobe from the SNL fauxmercial) at the base of Bald Mountain (also known as Rondaxe Mountain, for some strange reason), between the towns of Inlet and Old Forge.

Hiking the backbone

It was a quick hike up--with the last 1/4 up a slight incline across what was described as a dinosaur's backbone. Hugh kept making Natty Bumppo references, Chris examined every pile of animal feces that we encountered (slightly more disturbing than his crayfish obsession), and Dan made his usual sarcastic comments.

Leatherstocking comparison: who is the real Natty Bumppo?

Bumppo #1

Bumppo #2

At the top of the mountain, there was a fire tower that you could climb and look out at the other peaks and the Fulton Chain Lakes.

After spending an hour or so playing around on the summit, we headed back down to the car and Old Forge for lunch.

Chris, resting at the Peak

Old Forge is a tourist town--with tacky souvenir shops, restaurants, and Enchanted Forest, Water Safari ("where the fun never stops!"). Apparently, there was a big motorcycle rally happening in town (Thunder in The Forge), and all of the bars had bikes parked out front and mean-looking, leather-clad folks inside. We chose the place with the least amount of bikers--"Slickers"--as we realized we looked out of place (3 out of 4 of us were wearing Red Sox hats, and all 4 of us were wearing sarcastic looks) and were magnets for trouble. We had some burgers and beers, listened to a cover band, and left before the "Jagermeister Girls" could force us to drink the stuff (but not before they handed out Jager lais). After browsing souvenirs in town and pausing to let some deer cross the road, we headed back down the Big Moose/Stillwater/Number 4 road...

A well-placed sign.

Back at the cabin, we continued our beer, hot dog and s'more feast from the night before--listening to music through Dan's iPod (I'm sorry, but Radiohead is not campfire music) and watching the clouds periodically block out the stars.

Apparently flames and Calexico attract moths

Part I: A duct-taped hybrid and the “Sammich King”

The Plan:

Dan and I would meet at the supermarket to pick up essential supplies and then head to Chris' place at noon on Friday. While we were shopping, Chris, the only one of us to not be able to take a full day off, was to feverishly finish working in an attempt to cut loose and head out by 12:30 PM. Hugh would depart his house in Manchester, NH, head Southwest to meet us at his brother's house in Sturbridge. We had a 5-6 hour drive ahead of us, and we wanted to get on the road as soon as possible so that we would have enough daylight to unpack, settle in, and start a campfire.

Croghan not pictured

The Execution:

The supply run went as planned and Dan and I arrived at Chris' place at noon with plastic shopping bags filled with beef jerky, spicy nuts & cajun sticks, soda, goldfish, Jim Beam, honey-mustard sourdough pretzle pieces, grapes, Pringles, and duct tape. We loaded up the Honda Civic hybrid (great gas mileage, small trunk), then duct-taped over a large hole in the bumper--the result of a previous fender bender--for purposes of optimum aerodynamics, filled up the tank, and headed West for the first leg of the trip: Cambridge to Sturbridge.

Aerodynamically flawless

Hugh had been a bit angsty in the lead up to the trip. He thrives on details, structure, and planning, and wasn't comfortable with the vaguaries of our departure. He originally wanted to leave promptly at 8 AM and seemed very intent on the details: Did the cabin have running water? Where would we sleep? Would we fish, hike, play poker? What should we buy and what would we eat? Did the cabin have running water [sic]? When Chris' work pushed our planned departure to "…by 12:30, if all goes according to plan," Hugh's irritation was working itself into a frenzy and we needed a quick distraction, so naturally, we proposed that he be put in charge of acquiring sandwiches for the trip. In all of the outings, get-togethers, trips, and activities that Hugh has been involved in, he seems strangely determined that sandwiches play an integral role. Where we get the sandwiches, when we get the sandwiches, and what kind of sandwiches we get, all feature prominently in the schedule. This trip was no exception, Hugh was dubbed the "Sammich King" and quickly became wrapped up in his task.

When we pulled into the driveway of his brother's house in Sturbridge, Hugh was miles away—still on his sandwich run—even though we were running about a half hour late. Eventually, he arrived and excitedly bounded out of his car like a puppy, hefty Italian sandwiches in hand, and asked if he should bring Risk. I wasn't sure if he was joking at first, but the semi-crazed look in his eyes told me he was not. After carefully considering that he would have to ride with it across his lap in the backseat due to the shortage of available trunk space, the plan was, thankfully, scraped. So, we continued West, in a Northerly direction, Risk-less and restless for the weekend ahead.

Thank God for hybrids with small trunks

Our route was pretty simple, we took I-90 (the Mass Pike/the NYS Thruway) through the Berkshires, past Albany, and then left the highway at Little Falls and proceeded North—The Tug Hill Plateau on our left, the Adirondack State Park to our right. For the most part, the drive was long, straight, and dull--passing a landscape of farms, cows, turkey vultures, smallish towns, factories, both pre- and post-roadkill woodchucks (though, mostly the latter). It was mostly sunny, then cloudy; the air smelled like tires, manure, and Springtime. We took turns playing DJ with our iPods to pass the time, listening to funny songs and not-so-funny songs. After a stop in Lowville (as Dan pointed out, the "ow" sounds like in the word "cow") to pick up more supplies (including beer, bacon, water, Croghan Bologna, and 3 different kinds of hot dogs (we each had our preferences but sampling the local fare was important), kielbasa, eggs, cheap coffee , biscuits, butter, and one packet of frozen mixed vegetables (Hugh was concerned by the lack of balance in his diet), we arrived at my family's cabin, outside of Croghan, NY.

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While I puttered around the compound unlocking the outhouse, turning on power, etc., Dan worked on getting the fire started--as the returned Peace Corps volunteer, we figured he was the closest thing to a Boy Scout and the most suited for the job. Hugh and Chris put our beers in a cage wedged between two rocks in the creek (pronounced: "crick") to keep them cold, then proceeded to play in the water—looking for crayfish and brook trout.

The beginning of Chris' bizarre crayfish obsession

Once the fire was roaring, we settled around it for an evening of assorted hot dogs, beer, and s'mores…

A s'more too far

Manly Tales from a Long Weekend in the Outskirts of the Adirondacks (in 3 Parts)

A poolside iguana and a train through Bohemia

This is a life I could get used to: wake up in the late morning, drink my coffee on a balcony overlooking a pool surrounded by palm trees and the ocean just beyond, wander around plantation ruins in the afternoon, sip rum punch in the shade of the sea grape trees on a soft sand beach…

Rum punch under the sea grape trees

I used to think that vacation was about adventure and challenge: figuring out the train schedules in a small, gritty city in Poland; lugging a backpack through a crowded street market to see the 27th most significant church in Central Europe; struggling over a menu offering "fried frog things" and other creatively translated fare, and eventually coming home with a new stamp in my passport and sense of accomplishment.

The East (not the Caribbean)

I've been there, I've seen famous cultural things, I've eaten strange food (and may/may not have gotten sick from it), and learned how to say "may I have a beer, please" in other languages. I'm somehow a better person—more knowledgeable, or worldly even.

Church of some importance

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But, I'm tired and need a vacation.

Lately, this structured wanderlust, while still alive and kicking, has ebbed slightly, allowing me to experience vacation in a different way--the way my wife prefers it: on a beach, looking out at the water, with a rum drink in hand.

Our latest vacation, billed as Honeymoon, Part II, was a late April escape from Boston to St. John, USVI. I had never really been to the Caribbean before—with the exception of a short business trip to San Juan, PR a few years back—and was anxious to experience a new island, in another ocean (Honeymoon, Part I was in Kaua'i). There was a significant period of my life (ages 9-17) when a trip to a tropical island would have been my greatest dream. I used to be oddly fascinated with lizards, fish and other tropical creatures—the result of a childhood raised on too much Jacques Cousteau and too many PBS nature shows, I guess. At that time, the closest I got to living this life was a few vacations to Cape Cod and the North Carolina coast.

A poolside iguana in St. John

Over time, and after the gradual realization that a career in marine biology was not exactly what I thought it was, this interest faded a bit. I discovered Jack Kerouac and Milan Kundera, visited Europe and fell in love with backpacks, trains, and (briefly) hostels. I learned to subsist almost entirely on baguettes, cheese, and cheap wine. As I longed to push further East--colder, darker, bleaker--my interest in becoming Pierre Cousteau and owning a huge pet iguana was repressed. To me, a vacation on a tropical island was like a cruise that didn't go anywhere. Where are the Soviet-style block apartments? What do you mean you can't get there by train? Why is everybody smiling? That blue sky is unnatural!

As I get older, I'm learning to reconcile my leisure life as lizard-loving snorkeler with my inexplicable fascination with Eastern Europe. A trip to Berlin a few years ago helped provide an improbable fusion: at some point after the fall of the Wall, East Berliners, dumped loads of sand along the Spree River and created several beach bars on the banks--complete with deck chairs, thatched roof bars, and reggae music.

Lounging with my feet in the sand and a cold drink in my hand in the heart of gritty Berlin, all was well with the world...

A warm shack (on a frozen river): Part II

Paul, art, Hugh

Saturday AM: We were awakened by Hugh, the human equivalent of a tornado in a trailer park, who arrived early from New Hampshire. After a quick cup of instant coffee and a few moments admiring the extraordinary artwork in Paul’s house, we were out the door for a hearty breakfast at a fine local establishment, where we focused on our egg/cheese/pork nightmares. It was then that Hugh and Paul began 24 hours of communicating entirely in quoted movie dialogue.

Last minute supply run (beer, snacks, subs, etc.), a swing by the Portland Head Light, and then we were finally off to the Cathance...

Hugh, the Ancient Mariner, at Portland Head Light

The River Bend Smelt Camp was a bit further north, in the town of Bowdoinham. After a short drive, the four of us slid and shuffled from the mini-van across the icy parking lot to the main camp house on the bank of the river, where we paid $15 a piece for a package of blood worms and 5 hours in the shanty of our dreams. It was late afternoon as we made our way across the river (again with the sliding and shuffling) to a line of shanties near the opposite bank, the cold Maine sun drooped low in the sky and muffled voices drifted from the row of shanties.

our shantytown

We located #31 (it looks like it was #23 at some point in it's lifetime, and possibly #28, as well), and attempted to situate ourselves in the slightly cramped interior--the four of us in small wooden folding chairs and collapsible canvas camp chair around a wood-burning stove; the beer/food nestled in the snow just outside the door.

knife and PBR tallboys

Essentially, smelting is to fishing, as beer pong is to tennis. There are two long trenches carved out of the ice on either side of the smelt shack and 8 lines with hooks and sinkers hanging from wooden pegs on the wall. Basically, you cut-up the bloodworms into bits, bait the hooks, and drop the lines into the trenches. Apparently, there is a little bit of science involved in all of this--i.e. the depth of your bait, whether you jiggle the lines or let them drift, etc--but, the rest of the sport involves sitting and drinking. And trying not to let pieces of your sandwich fall into your trench.

the abyss/trench

Well, in spite of periodic jiggling and depth adjustment, the smelt mostly ignored us and we ignored the smelt.

jiggling

paul stares at his trench

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While we waited on the smelt, we ate, drank an assortment of beer, told (mostly) bad jokes, quoted movies (Paul & Hugh continued their odd style of communication), and played the name game in attempt to keep the boredom from setting in.

night falls on the shantytown

Note for next time: bring a radio and more beer.

5.5 inches of victory

At last, Dan caught one, which Paul quickly gutted, slapped in cast-iron pan greased with a slab of Crisco, and cooked on our wood stove. When the beast was ready to be consumed, I was in the middle of adding more bait to my hooks (inspired by Dan's luck) and my hands were covered in worm juice. "Go ahead, I'll wait for the next one," I said when offered a chunk of smelt flesh.

taking in the night air (it is colder than it looks)

This turned out to be a bad decision. In spite of my vigorous and inspired smelting efforts, the final tally:

5 hours

4 smelters

1 smelt

I told you it was cold