Cookbook Memories

Last night we had Indonesian Chicken Curry for dinner, made to a recipe from an old and faithful cookbook I was given in the mid 1970's. 

Port Moresby, PNG circa 1974

In 1974 I was working as a lecturer at the Administrative College of Papua New Guinea in Port Moresby. I'd been there about three years since my discharge from the Army.  It was a great job but part of me longed for a return to life in Australia. 

One of my colleagues,  Malcolm Davidson had left the college to take up a job in Adelaide Australia with the newly formed Training and Development Branch of the Department of Further Education.  This was during the so called “Dunstan Decade” when flamboyant politician Don Dunstan was the Premier of South Australia, introducing numerous social reforms and rapidly expanding the size and the role of the state Public Service.  

Adelaide, South Australia

Malcolm needed more staff for his center and approached me about joining his team.  I flew down for an interview and a month later moved to Adelaide with Doone and Keiron. It was an awesome opportunity to be on the leading edge of change and the pay was pretty good as well. 

   

One of Dunstan’s pet projects was reforming the bureaucracy and introducing worker participation and “industrial democracy” programs.  The Traning and Development Branch became involved in running programs that were geared towards personal growth and team building in the hope of changing the culture of public service and private sector organizations in the state. This was a "soft" approach - using process oriented work. 

Adelaide aerial view

Dunstan had also established the Unit for Industrial Democracy, set up inside the Premier's Department. Their approach was structural  - following up with new initiatives to establish “worker committees” mandated by proposed legislation and giving political support to changed structures.

Our branch and the unit, while in agreement in some of the principles we worked towards, differed greatly in terms of approach.  In the eyes of the old guard they were seen as bullies and we were seen as suspect educators - both kind of sketchy - but in some ways we were the lesser of two evils when it came to getting a foot in the door.  

So it was decided that we should try to learn from each other.  I was "seconded" to work in the Unit for Industrial Democracy and one of their staff came to our center.  

During this time, along with other members of the Unit, I often dined with the Premier, Don Dunstan and his senior aides.  Most often these after work dinners were held at a restaurant known as Cedars of Lebanon as well as other popular ethnic restaurants.  Don loved food and loved to cook and published his own cookbook  - his Indonesian Chicken curry being one of my favorites.  

Around this time I became involved in politics and was drawn to the newly formed Australia Democrats - a third party at the center of the political spectrum that wanted positive change in society - particularly around social issues and the environment - but disagreed with the approach being taken by the leftist "big government" Dunstan Labor Party.  

In 1977 I resigned from my job with the Unit to stand for election as a third party candidate for the Australian Democrats.  To my colleagues supporting Dunstan’s ruling Labor Party this was seen as bordeline heresy.  Despite our differences around how social reforms should be implemented, I admired Dunstan for his ideas and oratory and learned much from my time working in his Department. I just didn't vibe with some of the people he had hired and their approach.

The state election of 1977 was an exciting time and with a lot of help from my mate Wally (my campaign manager) I managed to secure some 14% of the vote (a record for a relative unknown third party candidate) in the electorate of Davenport held by the conservative LCP Coalition.  Dunstan was re-elected to government but it was the beginning of the end for his government as the economy began to worsen and he lost support for his continued expansion of the bureaucracy.  

After the election I was re-hired in my old job with the Training and Development Center and remained there until 1981 when (ironically as a result of government downsizing) I received an academic appointment to to the Adelaide Hills College of Further Education.  

REMEMBERING MOM

It’s been many years now since she passed but I still miss my Mom.  Here am I a senior citizen myself and I still experience that feeling of wishing I could see my Mom and give her a hug.

“I’ll be OK, Mike!”  Those were the last words I heard her say as I bid her farewell just before she boarded her flight at LAX to head home to Australia.   It was in the days before tightened airport security when you could accompany others right to the gate.  I recall being annoyed that the gate agent wouldn’t let me walk up the jetway and even onto the aircraft to help her with her carry-on bags.   She had grabbed them from my hand, turned and waved, and that was the last time I saw her alive.  She passed suddenly a few months later in the garden of her home on a hot summer’s day. 

Mom with Chris 1976 

After Dad had passed in 1991 I’d faced a dilemma.   As an only child with few very close living relatives, who would take care of my aging Mom?   I had left Australia to make my home in the US some eight years before that.  Returning to Australia was an option Lori and I had considered but it was not really in our best interests with our businesses just starting to flourish and our children settled in to their schools.  I decided to talk it over with Mom.  We had always had the kind of relationship where we could talk about anything. 

 

 “What about coming to live in over here?”  I had asked her.  I knew before she answered that it wasn’t really a choice she’d make.  She was comfortable where she was and had her routine and her friends.  There were also the differences in culture and climate.  In the times that she had come to visit she was often misunderstood in stores and even among our friends.  Her accent and Aussie slang although cute, often had people looking at each other with the “What did she just say?” look on their face.  No one really cared and she was loved and accepted by all but she knew it wasn’t the same.  I remember her laughing at the snow as she stood on the back deck during the first winter that she had visited.  By February, after getting showered by a passing snow plow while going to the mailbox, she’d had enough.  “How do you live in this place year after year when it gets this damn cold?” I remember her asking.

“No, I’ll still come and visit but I want to stay put,” she’d said.  “And you need to stay where you are too,” she counseled.  “Just come and visit me whenever you get a chance and I’ll be alright.” 

With tears in my eyes and a feeling of deep love in my heart I made a commitment to her in that very moment.  “Look, here’s what I’ll do!  Anytime you are feeling lonely or afraid or need someone to be with you, I want you to promise to call and let me know.  It may take me a week to organize my life but I will, and I will come and visit anytime you need me.  Is that a deal?” 

I saw a tear in her eye too as she gave me a big hug and said “You are good to me, Mike.  You know that?”  

Mom with Me 1948

 

 During the following years I think she only called twice to ask me to come and both times I dropped everything and headed off on the 30 plus hour journey to see her. Frequent flyer miles I has accumulated during my business travel were put to good use.  There were also the times when she didn’t ask but I could sense she was lonely.  In all,  I made the journey south some fifteen times in the space of eleven years.   She had also visited a couple of times as well making her last trip for Chris and Adele’s wedding.  

After she passed it felt good to know that I’d made a commitment to her and had kept it.    In her letters she often remarked how happy she felt knowing that although we were separated by the largest ocean on the planet, she rarely felt alone and knew I would come if she needed me. 

My one regret though was that I didn’t call her more often than the two or three times a month that I did.   I don’t really know why now that I think of it.  In those days I was on the road a lot and busy building a business and taking care of a young family – but that’s no excuse.  It’s strange that I should have such a regret given the keeping of my major commitment.  But if I could pick up the phone right now and call her I surely would. 

I Was Only 19!

In 1965 I had my 19th birthday and like all Australians turning 19 that year had to register for National Service.  Our country was at war in Vietnam and our Australian Prime Minister had pledged to go "all the way with LBJ" in the conflict.  Conscription (or the "draft")., was reintroduced.  By international standards Australia had a small army and to send troops off to a foreign war meant getting more troops.  The government set up a system in which all 19 year olds would register and through a "birthday lottery" a number of them would be selected for national service - 2 years in the army.  Although I'd never won much in any other lottery my birthday was one of those selected.  I was being "called up".  

Luckily I was a young teacher just out of college and so was given a "deferment' for a couple of years so instead of going in with the first intake of 1967 I didn't go until January of 1969.   Newly married on the 4th of January of that year I had time for a two week honeymoon and then had to say good bye to new wife and family and board a bus for Brisbane where at Enoggera Army Barracks we were assembled and read our "rights and obligations".  Basically, it meant we were now soldiers subject to military law and required by that law to obey all lawful commands from that moment forward.  The next day we were shepherded to Brisbane airport, held in a makeshift "cattle pen" while waiting to board planes for Newcastle and then buses to Singleton's 3rd Training Batttalion.  I remember the anti-war protesters as we waited in that cattle pen.  I wasn't sure if they were angry at us for giving in to being conscripted or at those who had conscripted us.  It was pretty confusing as we were supposedly going to "serve our country" and people seemed mad about it.  If anyone deserved to be mad it was us!

Recruit training at Singleton was not far removed from hell on earth.  "Bastardization" ran rife and you could expect to be degraded, humiliated, physically tortured, and basically treated like scum - and frequently reminded that you were indeed just that - scum.  Apparently it was all designed to break down our ego so we would comply and become "good diggers".  And it worked in it's own way.  A few broke down mentally or sustained some major physical injury and got out as a result.  Sometimes we thought they were the lucky ones.  For most of my mates and myself the ordeal didn't end with the 6 weeks of recruit training.  After that we went to Infantry Corps Training - the army's version of finishing school to become in one Sergeants words "trained killers".  For most, after this training, it was off to Jungle Warfare Training at Canungra before being shipped out to Vietnam.  Luckily for me I was selected for the Education Corps and so would be heading to Papua New Guinea to play a more peaceful role.  

Most of my mates in my intake did end up in Vietnam.  Some of them didn't make it back and some who did ended up maimed or injured and most were deeply affected.   The Viet Cong (our enemy) recruited young and didn't discriminate between the sexes.  One of my mates, while on a jungle patrol, ran face to face with one of the enemy emerging from a swamp.  He fired first, almost at point blank range.  On examining the body he discovered he had just killed a young teenage girl.  He was never the same again. There were many stories like that.  I think this video clip tells a little of what it was like for those young Australians in Vietnam.  

Cookin' Dinnah Upta Camp

One of my favorite spots at camp is on the deck looking out over South Twin Lake.  I find the view more than inspiring and relish every changing moment of all that lies before me.  Clouds, wind, light, temperature... all forever changing and offering something to appreciate.  So it's also where I like to cook when I'm upta camp.

The grill is strategically located on the deck so I can cook and look at the view at the same time.  I love to grill and that is what I do almost every evening.  I've pretty much got it down to a simple routine that makes meal preparation (and so life at camp) easy.  The meal usually involves some kind of meat - chicken, sirloin tips, ribs, chops, and sometimes salmon or tuna.  This I like to pre-prepare with some kind of dry run or marinade.  I have my favorites and shun most of the conventional ones as too heavy on the salt.  I prefer lemon pepper rubs, or fruity glazes.

My favorite veggie combo is peppers, onion, and summer squash with oil and balsamic and cooked on the side of the grill on a small hole foil grill cover.  A pot of cooked rice or a salad rounds out the meal.  We usually eat on the deck too, about an hour before sunset so that there is time to sit and linger and enjoy the last rays of sunlight as the sun drops below the horizon at the far end of the lake.  Every sunset is different and most often able to capture my full attention to the moment.  It's great to take the time to cook, eat, and watch and enjoy each as a part of a time expansive ritual.

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Remembering Jesus Sanchez on 9/11

Sometime in 2001 I was on a United flight to Los Angeles.  My 86 year old Mom had been visiting with us in Massachusetts and I was "escorting" her to LA to place her on her flight back to Australia.  Mom was a pretty good traveller but I wanted to make sure she got through the connections OK and didn't have to worry.  We were enjoying the luxury of first class. I had used my miles to upgrade us and give Mom a more comfortable ride.

My Mom was was a very sociable being.  She made friends with people everywhere she went and also spoke with great respect to people who served her. She had come from a working class background and always remembered herself what it was like to be in service to others. Before long Mom was chatting away with one of our flight attendants. They talked about Australia and he wahappy to indulge with her in conversation as he brought our meal and drinks.  He was a very likeble guy and my Mom was fascinated by his name - Jesus Sanchez.

Jesus did his very best to make our flight even better.  He joked around with Mom as he went out of his way to find out what exactly what she liked and bring it to her.

We said our goodbyes as we disembarked and Jesus had an open invitation to visit my Mom in Australia if he ever went there.  That night I put my Mom on a flight from LA to Sydney and that was the last time I saw her alive.  She died about six months later in her garden at her home on a hot Australian summer day.

On September 11th, 2001 I was in Singapore and witnessed the tragedy on evening and late night TV in my hotel room.

After returning home a few weeks later I read in a newspaper a partial list of the victims of that tragic day.  There under "United Airlines Flight 175" I read the name "Jesus Sanchez".

Today on the 11th anniversary of that event that rattled our world, I remember Jesus and his family and am grateful that our paths crossed in his short lifetime.  I will particularly remember him for making one old lady very happy.  

Off the Ground

I smiled as I glanced at the ferris wheel silhouetted by the fading evening sky and could imagine the smiles on the faces of its riders both old and young.  Who doesn’t want to get off the ground, to break the surly bonds of earth and fly.  I could almost hear the laughter of the kids enjoying the ride as I pulled back the power on my Piper Archer to set up for landing to the west at the picturesque little airport in Sandusky, Ohio. 

Situated right on the lake shore Sandusky’s airport is within a stones throw of  the amusement park.   On many of my cross country flying trips I’d often chosen it as a fuel stop.  With the amusement park right there and Lake Erie to the side, it just seemed like a fun place to arrive.  Each time I landed there it gave me reason to pause and give thanks.  Thanks for being able to fly. 

 
This photo of Sandusky is courtesy of TripAdvisor

The first hint of my passion for flight was rushing home from school in Australia where I lived, in the days before television.  I would immediately tune in the radio for the next exciting episode of “The Air Adventures of Hop Harrigan” – my favorite radio show.  Hop was a World War 2 fighter pilot and a real ace.   I would lie on  floor and listen to the sounds of air battles and the voice of  Hop and his cohorts, my imagination totally captured by the sounds coming through the speakers of our old HMV radio. 

 At the age of ten I had my first airplane ride in on a scheduled Queensland Air Lines flight – a DC3 taking us from Maryborough to Brisbane.  My attention was riveted to every detail for the forty-five minute flight and my first words when we disembarked were “Mom, can we do that again?”

The practicalities of life intervened.  After high school I took a scholarship to study to become a teacher – a job that in those days was most highly prized and respected.  It was fairly easy to push the passion to fly to the back burner for a while but every time I saw a plane there would be a stirring from somewhere deep inside me and a smile on my face.

Not long after graduating, like many young teachers down under, I found myself assigned to a school in the outback.   It just so happened that a group of local aviation enthusiasts had a formed a gliding club.  I was invited to join and soon found myself spending every spare moment of the weekend out at the 2 mile long dirt strip on the outskirts of town.  It was worth every hour of work on the ground to get those ten minutes in the air soaring like an eagle, picking up the air currents and experiencing the freedom of pure flight.  The club didn’t have the funds for a tow-plane so we would launch the glider by towing it along the dirt strip with cable attached to an old stripped down Ford V8.  When she hit around 80 miles an hour the glider would be almost right above and the pilot could release the cable.  That part was fun too. 

One of the club members was a guy named  Hutch who from his stories had been a real “Hop Harrigan” himself in World War 2 with the British RAF.  Hutch liked to push the envelope.  I guess he figured that if he survived the war he would probably survive anything.  Unfortunately for the other members of the club, Hutch one day managed to park the glider in the tree tops at the end of the strip.  He climbed down unscathed but had ripped both wings off the new Blanik.  That put an end to the gliding club and to my aviation pursuits for a while. 

Years later I had settled in the USA but was summoned back to Australia when my Dad passed away.   We had a great relationship, although in his later years, I was mostly somewhere else and we didn’t see a lot of each other.  When we did, we had some great conversations,  and he clearly wanted to pass on some of what he had learned in life.  On one such occasion, I recall him telling me, “Don’t leave it too late to do what is important to you in life”. 

Now here I was standing by his grave as his remains were being lowered into it and recalling those words.  At that moment a small bird caught my eye as it flew over the gravesite.  It was as though I was being sent a message from my Dad and it was very clear.  It was even clearer when my Mom gave me an envelope just before my departure for home and said, “Your Dad wanted you to have this and use it for something important.”    It was a stash of cash.  I begged my Mom to keep it but she refused.  “Your Dad wanted you to have it” she said,  as she pushed my hand away.

Within two weeks of returning home I was taking flying lessons.  Within three months I had my private pilot’s license.  Soon I followed up with an instrument rating and a then a down payment on my own set of wings – the Piper Archer that I’ve now owned for over half of its 30 something year life.   Later came a commercial rating and then an instrument instructor ticket.

The Archer has taken me from the East Coast to Alaska and back, to the Bahamas several times,  to northern Quebec and Nova Scotia, to the islands off Cape Cod and numerous other places in my 2,400 hours of flight time.  She enables me make the 300 nautical mile commute from home in Western Massachusetts to my “camp” in Maine on a regular basis. There was also a trip around Australia with my wife and two of our sons in a Piper Arrow we rented there.  The memories are too numerous to recall but I know when I’m up there, anywhere, I’m usually wearing a smile.  The freedom to fly has given me much to be grateful for.

Thanks, Dad, for the reminder to follow my passion, and thanks to places like Sandusky and the ferris wheel at Cedar Point in the evening light for the reminder to give thanks for all that aviation offers.   It has opened up a whole new world to me and to my family as well as creating some really great memories.

Busted

The following story was published in "The Best of Scrawl: 2006" after winning best non-fiction story submitted that year.

The last thing I wanted to do this Sunday morning was get out of bed and drive to the nearby ski mountain.  But I had a date with the manager and  my 14 year old son. 

Yesterday I dropped him and Neighbor Kid off to ski for the day.  It was cold and windy but they were excited.  “Not too many New York kids will be here today – too cold” said Neighbor Kid gleefully.   They hate the crowded weekends at the mountain.  The ticket prices go from $15 to $50 and the crowd goes from one lane of parked cars to a parking lot full to overflowing.

“How do you know who is a New York kid and who is not?” asks curious Dad.  Uproarious laughter from both juvenile passengers before My Kid explains. 

“Well, Dad, that’s easy.  They have ALL the gear.  You know … the real expensive stuff.  And they can’t ski for shit!” 

“Mmmm,” I notice myself wondering, “should I deliver my ‘don’t stereotype’ lecture or just laugh?”   I laugh. 

I ask Neighbor Kid who is two years younger than my boy if he’s all set for the day.  

“Yep… I have plenty of money for my pass and lunch” he says. 

 So I drop them off, shove the truck into four wheel and gun it across the mostly empty parking lot  slippin’ and slidin’ on the snow covered ground. Nice to let out a bit of the juvenile that has rubbed off on me during the ride to the mountain. 

In the evening I’m sitting at my computer when My Kid comes home.  I overhear conversation in the kitchen with Mother.  Something about ‘trouble at the mountain’.  I strain to listen but give up, deciding I need to hear the whole story later.  I don’t have to wait long as Mother comes right in to tell me. 

Seems as though the prices for tickets were more than Neighbor Kid had allowed for.  He didn’t have enough for a ticket.  I knew I should have waited.  Here I am doing wheelies in the parking lot while Neighbor Kid is in distress.  Better not tell Mother about that. 

My Kid, being the creative genius he is, decides on a plan.  He will go to the office and tell them he forgot his season pass.  They will give him a ticket for the day which he will pass on to Neighbor Kid and they will then both be off and skiing.   He puts his plan to action, it works like a charm and away they go.

Mistake happens when Neighbor Kid gets a little cold and wants to buy a face mask with the money he no longer needed for a ticket.  He finds that if he has a season pass he can get a 50% discount.  Ever eager to help out, my son gives him his pass.  Smart sales clerk checks pass with photo ID and says… “you don’t look like him”.   BUSTED! 

Management summons both kids to office for truth to be revealed.   Decision - show up here tomorrow with a parent or your season pass will be revoked for the rest of the year.

So here I am, with wife along too, as she thinks this is serious enough to need a combined front and as always, she’s right.  This is a big one in the evolution of this young human we call our son.

Manager meets and greets and brings us to his office.  He asks son to tell story again which he does with great humility, honesty, and eye contact. (Seems he took my coaching on the way very well – I’m impressed – a glance from wife says “don’t be!” -  I hide it.)  Manager explains seriousness of the crime.  Theft.  Charges could be pressed.  He could be banned from the property – forever.   He then tells son to wait outside while he talks to the parents. 

Immediately his demeanor changes from serious to light.  He empathizes with us.  Tells us about the crazy stuff he did as a kid to help us feel better.  Then asks what might be the best fix.  We could just pay the money for the pass but would that be a good idea?  I don’t think so.  Last thing I want is to buy my kid out of trouble unless he’s on death row or something equally serious.  And I don’t want him to get away with this.  Previous night, wife had an idea.  How about we ask them if he can work it off.   I like it.  We ask.  Manager likes the idea too.  He phones the lodge and talks to boss lady.  She agrees.  He can work bussing tables in the lodge.  How about next weekend, Saturday and Sunday.   Sounds like a plan, I say.  I make mental note of the benefit of small town life and the community we are fortunate to live it.  No hassles … lets just find something that will work for everyone and be in the best interests of the kid as well. 

 He calls son back in.

Demeanor changes back to serious.  He tells son of decision.  If Boss Lady says you do a good job you can come back but no skiing all this week.  OK?   Son nods and then says “Thanks”.  

We leave and drive home mostly in silence.  I think how lucky son is to get busted.  When I was that age, I didn’t.  I got better and better with getting away with sneaky, relatively inconsequential, seemingly trivial stuff  until much older when I eventually got busted too – but that’s another story.  If only I had been lucky enough to get busted earlier.

POSTSCRIPT:  Son worked the following two weekends in the cafeteria and  Boss Lady was so impressed with his efforts that she offered him a job.  A year later, Manager at ski mountain hired him as a ski and snowboard instructor. And as far as we know he now channels his creativity into less devious pursuits.

Simply Economical

While there has been much emphasis of late on the ideas of recycling, restoring, and re-using a lot of our "stuff" in the name of sustainability, sometimes it just happens naturally.   Especially here in the North Woods of Maine since the mill closures forced a lot of people in the area to use their creativity to sustain a livlihood.

Eight years ago when I bought my "camp" on South Twin Lake I discovered a need for few essential maintenance tools and pieces of equipment including a lawn mower.  The new friends I had made area pointed me in the direction of the supermarket bulletin boards and a couple of local guys who liked to fix stuff like mowers.  With very little effort I soon found and purchased a rather old mower in good running order for the sum of fifteen dollars cash.  I had half expected it to fail on the first or second use but to my surprise it performed well for the whole first summer I used it.  At the end of the season I put it away in one of my sheds and forgot about it until the following spring when the lawn needed to be cut.  Again, I had my doubts about the mower ever starting again, and again I was surprised when it burst into life on the first pull.  This cycle continued for another seven years so this year when for the first time it failed to start I was a little surprised.  I had come to depend on it's unfailing reliability.  

I pondered my small dilemma - should I pay to have a fifteen dollar mower fixed or just take it to the dump and get a new one.  It owed me nothing and paying $160 for a new one after seven years did not seem too bad an idea.  But then.... maybe I should give it one last chance before casting it off the the junk metal heap.  By now I had my list of "go to guys" for just about everything.  I had my plummer, my construction guy, my garage mechanic, and the guy who fixed my boat, all of whom could be depended upon to do whatever it took to get something working again when it failed.   My "boat guy" had really surprised me when the transom on my old 1985 Crestliner cracked and began to come adrift from the rest of the boat.  I was ready to call it quits with the boat but thought I'd take it to Lou anyway to take a look at it but feeling pretty sure he would tell me that it was beyond repair.  He didn't.  Instead he said he could fix it for about four hundred bucks which would include a reinforcing the transom with steel plates and caulking all the cracks.  I invested in his belief and today the boat is still running serving it's purpose.

So I threw the lawn mower in the back of my truck and took it in to town for Lou to see what he thought.  Lou has the reputation of being able to fix just about anything that has an engine, that floats, or that travels on snow.   And sure enough, Lou said he could fix the mower.  "Just leave it here and come back tomorrow" was about all he had to say.  So I did.  He cleaned out the carburettor and rebuilt it and put in a new filter and the old mower was back to starting on first pull again.  The cost - forty bucks.  As I drove home with the mower I couldn't help but smile knowing that I'd clearly done my part to keep equipment working instead of trashing it.  The fact is that people around here do it for one simple reason - it makes a lot of economic sense.  Not only that it serves the local economy.  People like Lou have a purpose and an income.  People like me save money and get stuff working again.  Its simply economical.

Fly, Fish, Feast!

Why would you fly for four hours, drive for three, hike for another three, just to fish for one hour?   For me this past weekend,  the answer is clear - a good catch of native brook trout.

First though, lets clear up some misconceptions.  Native brook trout found in northern Maine are not "trout" like you think of trout.  In fact they are a salmonoid with reddish colored flesh, a legacy of the last ice age.  They are closely related to arctic char but are much much smaller, sweeter, and ever more succulent.  The first time you taste one you will immediately recognize the difference.  These fish will only survive in pristine waters.  Pollution will kill them.  And no, in the ponds we fish, they are not stocked.  These fish spawn and engage their life cycle right there in the clear cold mountain pond fed by natural springs and snow melt. 

Heading to our secret pond last weekend (a lot of Mainers don't even tell their best friends where they fish), we hiked in to find the single campsite there occupied and the canoe that goes with it, spoken for by the campers.  After we chatted a while around their breakfast campfire, they generously offered us the use of the canoe until we got our bag limit.  From past experience that could take anything from  an hour to a full day but our campers assured us it would not take long today.

They were right.  We paddled to the middle of the pond and let the canoe drift down towards the end while we fished.  In Maine a pond is usually big enough to be called a lake in most other parts of the world, and this pond is like that.  It took us about an hour to drift from one end to the other and in that time we had nine fish.  Several small ones were released as it was clear from the outset that this was going to be a good day and fish of 10 to 12 inches (large for native brook trout in this area), were in abundance and easy to catch.   We paddled back a little to get one more fish and have our bag limit of 5 fish each.

We returned the canoe, hiked out to our truck, and got back to camp (aka "house on the lake") just after lunch.  This gave us the afternoon to relax, clean our catch, and prepare for our traditional evening feast of pan fried whole brook trout, fiddleheads, and potatoes accompanied by a bottle of Oyster Bay (NZ) Sauvignon Blanc.  Once more we had achieved what we had come for and toasted our success - fishing, friendship, and feasting on one of the most edible species of fish I've ever tasted.  Priceless!

A Most Memorable Meal

It was back in the early eighties. I was between jobs and had taken a year off from all work. One connection led to another and I found myself living on the Greek island of Lesvos in the village of Molivos.

 In those days, well before the Euro, it was a very inexpensive place to live and the lifestyle was just what I needed at the time. From early spring until late into the summer the climate was idyllic. It rarely rained, the wind rarely increased too much above a soft breeze, and the sun on the blue water of the Aegean Sea contrasting the many white buildings perched on the village hillside, made for a very relaxed and sensuous vibe. At night, at one of the three tavernas in the village, there was always good food and wine.

Dining out every night of the week didn’t seem to strain the budget in any way at all and was the main event of the day. I’d also leaned to speak and understand enough Greek to get by and enjoyed conversing with my new found Greek friends as well as the dozen or so long-term expats mostly from northern Europe. There were very few short term visitors in those days and the village life was as intriguing as the backdrop was appealing.

My daily routine was pretty simple. I would sleep until I was awakened by the smell of fresh pastries coming from the village bakery just below the window of my little two story Turkish style house. After a pastry or cheese pie from the bakery with a glass of water and a couple of cups of Greek coffee it would be time to head for one of the nearby beaches. My favorite was Eftalou about 4 kilometers away, and with the whole day at my disposal, it was a pleasant walk. If anyone passed in a vehicle on the narrow one lane dirt road they would always offer a ride.

On one such day at Eftalou I found myself in conversation John and Arianna. John came from England and although he’d lived in the village for several years spoke very little Greek. His friend Arianna came from Athens and probably because of her education and wealth had more in common with the foreigners than the local Greeks and was of great help to John as an interpreter and mouthpiece. A little later we were joined by Heinz who was a house painter from Munich who came to Molivos between jobs and had a residence there. He was a master of simple living and could often be found walking among the rocks with a hand spear looking for an octopus for dinner. Eating was important to Heinz and he was often a great resource in that department.

“Hey, you all want to join me for lunch?” he asked.
It was already past noon, none of us had brought food with us, and we were thinking of heading back to the village.
“Where?” asked John.
“Have you been to the little outdoor taverna down towards Skala Skimania out on the point?” asked Heinz.
None of us had.
“How do we get there, Heinz?” asked Arianna.
“We can walk along the beach and there is a road near the beach further along. It’s probably 4 or 5 kilometers.”
“Sounds too far for my legs” said John.
With a little urging John soon gave way and we were all strolling down the beach. An hour later we were sitting at one of two outdoor tables next to a small shack that served as a kitchen next to an outdoor fire pit that made up the complete taverna. Janni, the owner,  greeted us as profusely. A jug of cold local retsina was placed on the table as we sat and admired the view.

We were surrounded by the sea on three sides and across a small bay could see a small fishing village. The coast of Turkey was clearly visible some twelve kilometers across to the East. Two umbrellas in the blue and white colors of the Greek flag shaded the long table and much of our bodies from the strong rays of the early afternoon sun. A small ginger cat fed on the scraps in a large fry pan beside the fire pit.

Janni asked if we were hungry. As each of us responded in some way he took mental notes of how much food he might need to prepare. There was no menu. Janni and his wife would decide what to bring to the table, when to bring it, and in what quantity. This was not new to me and was a custom practiced in several of the smaller tavernas on the island. Heinz who had been here before asked Janni if he had any “marides” to start with. A smile and a head gesture from Janni told us he had some. “Marides” are small fish something similar to what many of us might know as smelts although they taste so much better. The Greeks roll them in flour and fry them whole in virgin olive oil.

Janni’s wife came out the fire pit, shooed away the cat, picked up the large frying pan and banged it twice on a nearby rock before placing it over the grate on the fire pit and pouring oil into it. I looked at John who also noticed what was happening and who despite his three years on the island seemed to hold on to many of his English ways. He squirmed a little but then shrugged and chugged down half a glass of his retsina. Heinz and Arianna also noticed but were obviously unaffected. I looked at the cat, now in the distance. It appeared to be in good health and free of any lethal diseases so I raised my glass shouting “Iassos!” and downed some retsina too.

I’m not sure if it was the sun, the seascape, the company, or the retsina, but those marides were the best I’d ever tasted. And that was just the beginning of a most memorable meal.  A day I will remember as the one when I didn't really care that a cat had cleaned the frying pan before it was used to cook my meal.

Dreamers and Doers

I think it was Goethe that said something like "whatever you can dream,  you can do".   I generally  believe that but with a few "ands" attached.  Intention is powerful and is the spark that will light many fires.   I would not have come from Australia to the USA and started Phoenix Rising back in the 1980's if I did not first "dream" of moving in that direction.  I certainly couldn't have dreamed all the details but the direction I went was certainly a  big dream. 

Some of the qualifiers about fulfilling dreams though are along the lines of what needs to happen to turn dreams into reality.  For me, I needed support and found it from my partner Lori.  I needed a backdrop that was the right place to locate the dream and found it in America.  I must digress here a little.  It's interesting that Apple Computer, Microsoft, and Facebook all started in our great country and not that long ago.  Before that was Ford, Boeing, Lockheed, and GE.  No matter how bad people think of the USA these days, it still seems to be the place where most world changing inventions, creations,and products are born.  This was important to me.  In my home country Australia (which I love dearly - don't get me wrong), there is not the same climate for budding entrepreneurs or mavericks.  Tall poppies tend to get cut down in Australia and they don't have to be very tall.  You get the feeling it's not really OK to succeed with something new.  Not only that, there is not much incentive.  The government takes care of stuff from the cradle to the grave - (well it used to anyway).  Sorry to say there just isn't the same work ethic either.  Oh... and did I mention that it many places "profit" is a dirty word.  Hopefully it will never become so in the USA but I have some concerns it might be heading that way.

The other big "and" to make a dream a reality is obvious - "and you have to do the work it takes to make it happen".  For me in growing Phoenix Rising, that meant going on the road up to 200 days a year in the early 90's to promote the work and give workshops.  The final "and" for me is "and you have to be seen".  This kind of goes along with the whole idea of getting your act together and getting out there with it.  These days it's easier if you know how to use the tools available like social networking.  But just social networking won't do i t either.  According to Lori, and she's proved herself right many times, you have to get out into the marketplace where people meet and talk. 

Where did all this come from?  Yesterday as we drove back from Vermont, Lori and I had a great conversation about what it takes to become a "self-starter" - how to engender "self reliance".   Interestingly we both love Vermont, and Burlington in particular.  Although Vermonters have a strong social ethic (they tend to take care of each other very well) they also have a whole lot of self-reliance.  We see much the same in Maine.  Both places also have people with a lot of down to earth "smarts".  "Take care of stuff so it doesn't break and if it ain't broke don't try to fix it" kind of thinking. The question we pondered was how to keep the kind of thinking alive that makes for success - not just in business but in life. 

Happy New Year 2012

As the first day of the new year dawns I realize that I haven't written much lately.  Also recalling that yesterday was son Josh's birthday.  Some time ago at his request I committed to sharing more of my life with family and friends via my blog.  So here we go. 

For the second year in a row we've come to Burlington, VT for First Night on New Year's Eve.  We love it here.  Using our Hilton points we stay at their hotel right on the waterfront with a room from which we get a full frontal view of the fireworks at midnight.  We also wander the streets for Burlington beforehand taking in some of the great First Night entertainment.  This year we enjoyed a taste of Vermont humor, some French inspired folk music, Circus Smirkus, and some great comedy.  The best of all though was the Celtic Rock band Prydein an hour before midnight.  We joined a packed house and Lori and Shannon and I danced out 2011 to a fantastic rhythm combining bagpipes and rock n' roll.  I loved it, and so did Shannon and Lori.  Shannon danced until she sweated and loved every minute.  Then back to the hotel for the great fireworks. 

As well as a great First Night, Burlington is also one of my favorite cities.  It would be very easy to live here.  It probably has the best selection of restaurants in any small city.  There a lots of places and lots of variety.   It's very easy to get a very good meal here at any number of establishments, and almost impossible to get a bad one.  Among our favorites are The Skinny Pancake for breakfast and Trattoria Delea.  This year we also went for the first time to A Single Pebble - an awesome Chinese restaurant.  If you know me, you know I really don't like Chinese food.  That's because I've been to Hong Kong and Taipei and know what good Chinese food tastes like and have never been able to find the "real deal" in the USA until now. 

I also love the brew pubs and bars in Burlington.  There are many and they all have good beer.  Someone once said that "good people drink good beer".  I'm not sure if it follows that "bad people drink bad beer" but in Burlington I don't often see any bad people and I get to drink a lot of good beer. 

Heading home today with a lightness in spirit and love in our hearts and looking forward to 2012.  

What Was That Bang?

Lori was in the front with me and Shannon in the back as we climbed out of Great Barrington in our Piper Archer on our flight to Millinocket. It was a beautiful late summer afternoon with just a few scattered clouds and should have been a fairly routine flight. A cold front was pushing through from the Northwest and when I did my flight planning I was surprised to find that if we flew at a low altitude we would have a slight headwind but would pick up a slight tailwind if we went to eleven thousand feet.

This has happened a few times and as it's only a two hour flight I don't mind going to eleven thousand to get there a little quicker and using less fuel. Some pilots don't like being that high without oxygen but after years of yoga and breathing practice I've never noticed much difference in my body at that altitude. Sometimes my passengers will take a snooze but I stay awake and alert and enjoy the usually smooth air that goes with that altitude.

We were creeping up towards ten thousand in our climb when all of a sudden there was load sound - a pop like bang - from somewhere in the rear of the plane. I'd had a bird strike before and it sounded like that could have been what it was. The aircraft was still handling well with no apparent damage so I continued the climb. Lori and Shannon were both a little frightened by it and didn't seem to like the fact that I didn't really know what it was. I was just in the process of reassuring them and when all of a sudden came two more bangs, one right after the other, from about the same location - maybe inside or maybe outside the back section of the airplane.

That was enough to put my two passengers over the edge. Shannon began to cry and Lori ordered me to land. It felt like the plane was flying just the same and I couldn't see or feel any damage but nonetheless thought it might be prudent to land anyway. It would hopefully give Lori and Shannon a chance to calm themselves and I could take a look at the outside of the airplane although I was now pretty certain it was not bird strikes that had been the issue.

I talked to the Boston Center controller on the radio and said we were going to be making a precautionary landing. He suggested the Turner's Falls Airport which was about 10 miles away and gave us a heading and clearance to begin our descent. We had some serious altitude to lose on the way to the runway so I decided weave some big S turns back and forth as we approached. We landed without incident and all got out to see what might have been the cause of the noises.

I checked out the fuselage and found no signs of damage. Lori pulled bags out of the baggage compartment to check in there.

Just as I was coming around beside her to take a look she said to me "Did you pack potato chips bags that were already open?"

She pulled three open bags out of the carry bag. "Oh my God!" I exclaimed. "That was it! Those bags exploded from the altitude."

"That can happen?" asked Lori.

"Oh yeah! It can and it DID!"

We all had a good laugh, especially Shannon. We got back into the plane to resume our flight comforted by the fact that there were no more bags of chips left to explode as we gained altitude.

Euchre!

Last night Josh, Jack, and I played cut-throat euchre. Euchre has always been my favorite card game.

My Dad taught me after I spent many hours watching him and his brothers and sisters play after Sunday night dinner each week at my Aunt Eils house (the old family home) at 3 Patterson Street in Toowoomba.

After I learned I would play sometimes with the grown ups which was always fun. After I got married we would often play a foursome with my friend Ronnie Sturdee and his wife. Ron was little short guy - a well known jockey in Queensland - and we became friends when he was a regular at the bar I used to work at in the Southern Hotel which back then was on the outskirts of town.

When I was called up into the Army during the Vietnam War and was in basic training in Singleton, NSW, I used to go with a few friends on some of our leave nights to play Euchre at the local RSL club. They had a tournament every Sunday night and we used to play for lottery tickets. A friend and I won $500 in the lottery on one of our winning tickets.

One of my favorite things to do at night in the summer up at camp in Maine is to play euchre with my boys and Shannon is learning too.

Needless to say I won last night. Mostly because I made it hearts on a just 9 and 10 of hearts backed up by the Ace of Clubs and Ace of Diamonds and took all 5 tricks. It's a great game that combines strategy and luck as well as how you then play the hand. With cutthroat its a lot about knowing when to make it and when to pass. I'm so pleased we played last night. It was during the game that Josh and Jack asked me to start writing my life story and this is the first little piece of that. They are going to ask me questions that I'll answer here and tell more of my story. I look forward to it.

Ice Out!

At last. Sometime overnight most of the ice on South Twin Lake disappeared. I suspect it was in the early hours of the morning when the wind shifted to the north-west. It rained a lot over the last few days and with temps in the sixties it was a warm rain. It was amazing to wake up this morning and see the large body of water again, almost completely free of ice. Compare today's photo (April 23rd) to the one in the previous post on April 20th.

Farewell Winter

Winter dies a slow death here in the North Woods of Maine. It’s April 19, and the lake in front of our camp is still frozen. There were signs of a thaw yesterday with water showing through in a few spots near the shore, but this morning even they had refrozen with the overnight temperature in the low twenties. It will probably be at least another week before we see any large area of clear water.
Last year the ice didn’t leave until May 5th, which according to locals is kind of late but given the huge amount of snow that year, not surprising. The year before though, the ice was gone by April 8th. Al Gore would have been pleased as this was considered early, and global warming was on the lips of many of the locals, even the non-believers.
My youngest son Jack celebrated the event by jumping in to the lake on April 9th that year, and set a record for the first swim of the year which we record in our camp log. He’s confident his record will stand for many years and will be a testament to the fact that the early thaw that year was just a freak of nature and not a trend. He’ll also remember for many years lying on the floor of our camp in front of the propane heater wrapped in blankets while trying to get warm after his chilly plunge.
Regardless of when the ice leaves, it’s always a beautiful site looking out across the lake from our camp. We have a clear view of Katahdin in all its majesty, and several of the other 40 peaks in Baxter State Park. Katahdin holds on to her cloak of snow for a long time too. The park opens each year on May 15th but not all trails open right away, particularly the trails to the summit of “the greatest mountain” (the meaning of “Katahdin” in the Abanaki language and the reason we don’t say “Mount Katahdin” as “mount” would be redundant).
Most years, well in to June there are a bunch of anxious southbound Appalaichan Trail hikers waiting in town for the trails to open so they can get to the summit. Katahdin is the northern terminus of the AT and the start or the finish of the 2000 plus mile journey made each year by the four hundred or so hikers who actually make it all the way. It’s sometimes not until July that most traces of snow on the mountain are gone and in some years by late September she has a new coating. Perhaps there is some truth to the saying that this part of Maine has only two seasons - summer and the Fourth of July.

Spring is Here

Is it really? Yesterday I flew up to Burlington VT for the day to visit Josh and it was snowing on and off and the cold wind made it feel like 15 degrees. But not to worry. Next week my friend Dave the plumber is turning on the water at our camp in Maine. This means that it is spring for sure! He can't turn the water on until it is. If the line from the well to the camp is still frozen - no water.

Did I say I get very excited about getting the camp open each year? Well I do! It means grilling on the deck, boating on the lake, fishing for brookies, hiking, hanging out with friends at the Scootic, catching up with other friends and neighbors, and generally just enjoying life the way it was meant to be, as they say in Maine. I love it! And next week we'll be there to open up for another great summer of fun and adventure.

My Other Blog

Over the last few months I've been working on a blog to connect with my book "Turn Stress into Bliss". Below is a copy of my most recent post to that blog. Managing stress is something I work at personally in my life and like to share what I've learned over the years. The URL for my "Turn Stress into Bliss" blog is:
http://turn-stress-into-bliss.com

Christmas Eve Family Celebration

Send Us a Sign

I wrote the following short piece when I heard of the tragedy.

CAN YOU SEND US A SIGN?

I didn’t know you all that well, Matthew. I met you at the airport one day when I flew in and you were there with your Dad. Just about every time I saw you, you were with him. The last time was at the Canoe Festival and you were helping him with the float plane rides he was giving. You and he were the main attraction that day and you were busy getting people on board and talking to the folks waiting for the next ride. I remember thinking how great it was for you to be there helping your Dad. He must have felt proud of you and I’m sure he was also grateful for your help.

It’s hard for us on this side of life to accept you going so early to the other side. We try to find a reason, but at the end of the day, we know there really isn’t one, no matter how hard we search. It might help though, if you can send us a sign occasionally. Maybe a rainbow on a cloudy day, or an eagle circling above the lake, or the bright sunlight reflecting off the snow on the mountain, just to remind us of the good memories we have of you and that you are safe there in the hands of the great spirit.

The day after the election

I was very impressed with both McCain and Obama's speeches last night. I thought both were very gracious in defeat and in victory.

Democracy works and the people have spoken and my feeling at the end of the night was one of hope. I both hope and pray that Obama can meet the challenges he faces and lead our great country in a direction that will be better for all of us. He will need the support not only of his followers but also those of us who did not choose to vote for him and last night he said the right things to start that. I particularly liked that he addressed those who might want to do us harm by saying "We will defeat you."

On the world stage we now have a great opportunity. Regardless of why that is so doesn't really matter. The fact is, we do. We can once again be seen for the great democracy we are regardless of who is the President. I hope he can captialize on that and build even more goodwill without sacrificing our security.

So now the talking is over and in two short months the rubber will hit the road. I look forward with an open mind and heart to seeing how that manifests.

A MOUNTAIN OF MY OWN

When I signed the trail register at the beginning of the Sentinel Mountain Trail at Kidney Pond, I noticed I was the only person so far signing out of that trail today. I wondered if it would stay that way.

It did. For the next four hours, the trail and the mountain were mine. I had hiked Sentinel several years ago and before I’d ever hiked Katahdin. It appealed to me then because of its relative ease compared to other mountains in Baxter State Park, according to the guide book. Little did I know that then that there are really no “easy” mountains in the Park. Even Sentinel at less than 2000ft, is a solid hour and half of hiking on the typical BSP trail of mostly roots and rocks. Sentinel is a little deceiving though.

The first few miles are not very steep. In fact there are some flat sections around Kidney Pond, some gentle ups, and also a few downs near a couple of stream crossings. But like all large chunks of granite in the area with the name "mountain" attached, the last haul to the summit calls for a few pauses to breathe and to let a little heart pounding subside before continuing.

This time, I chose Sentinel because I wanted to see the view again and get some pictures from the summit. Sentinel gets its name from the fact that it stands like a sentinel in the south west corner, guarding the other mountains deeper into the Park. There was the usual morning fog which I’d assumed would burn off by the time I reached the top.

Realizing I had the mountain to myself gave rise to both excitement and a little trepidation. Hiking alone always adds a little more excitement to the adventure and knowing that nobody else was out there on the same trail added a little more. Some say you shouldn’t hike alone in the wilderness and I can understand that perspective, but don’t always choose to abide by it. Sure, you could have a heart attack, or fall and break your leg, or get attacked by a bear and no one would be there to help or to save you. To me it’s a simple matter of calculating the risks, managing them as well as possible, and enjoying the rewards that come from a little more risk exposure. Even though I’m no longer a spring chicken, as a pilot I’m required to have an annual physical. I’m told my heart health is pretty good for my age. Now if you are on heart medication, or are an overweight smoker, or have done no physical exercise in the past several months that you can recall, then yes, you’d better take a companion on your hike. As for bears, I figure that if a bear wants to eat someone, she’s just as likely to go for a menu of two as a menu of one. All a companion will achieve is to perhaps be first on the menu and give you a little extra time.

Now having said that partly in jest, I strongly believe the chances of being attacked by a bear in the Maine North Woods is pretty remote. I’ve seen several bears over the years and never once did I feel I was in danger. There are a few simple rules I follow that seem to work. Don’t get between a bear and her cub, and give the bear the room and time to move. Mostly they will amble off and leave the trail to you.

Given that the trails in the area are mostly rocks and roots with the odd stream crossing and several muddy patches, you really do have to focus on where you put your feet to avoid injury. This is not the place to hike with your head up. Sounds simple enough, but a friend who works in triage at the local hospital tells me that most falls on the trail happen because people simply don’t look where they are placing their feet. When asked how it happened the reply often includes “I was looking at ..(a bird, the trees, the trail up ahead, my brother coming behind me……) and I didn’t see the (rock or root) and I fell.” I’ve done enough rock hopping in Maine to know that if I want to look around, I stop and look. When my feet are moving so are my eyes but not too far from where my feet are landing. There’s always the danger of slipping on slippery rocks too, but the most dangerous is wet feet landing on what appears to be a smooth dry rock. I’m always aware of how wet my boot soles might be and take extra precaution when I know they are wet.

I see a lot of newbie hikers trying to imitate the pros with their shiny new hiking poles. Let me tell you, unless you plan on doing some serious long distance hiking, you do not need hiking poles to day hike most of the mountains in Baxter State Park. If anything they are more of a hindrance and are totally useless on mountains like Katahdin. On the other hand they do make an excellent lightning rod when strapped to the back of your pack. But if you really want to get struck by lightning you might as well also put a sheet of aluminum foil inside the back of your pants. Then when you do get zapped you’ll cover five miles of that ten mile hike in a single heart beat. Forgive my Maine sense of humor that I've acquired from my friends at the local watering hole.

Jokes aside, a better alternative to poles is a single solid staff. My preference is a five foot length of birch sapling. It serves to steady my upper body when I need a little more support but leaves my other hand free to grab tree trunks or rocks as well. And as for lightning, people do get hit. The odds are in your favor but I still always check the forecast before I hike and make sure I get below tree line if there is a storm.

The most serious danger in my book, weather hiking alone or with others, is the risk of hypothermia. Several people over the years have fallen prey to this one. It’s important to stay hydrated and to carry more than enough water for your hike. You also need appropriate clothing. Avoid cottons and go for polyester which doesn’t cling to your body when wet and make you cold. Carry rain gear and some extra dry clothing. I always take at least an extra pair of socks, an extra shirt, and a flashlight, in a dry sack, just in case. The temperature on the tops of many mountains can be ten to fifteen degrees colder than at the bottom. If circumstances do arise that you’ll need to spend a night on the mountain, make sure you’ll survive it.

So much for the risks of hiking alone and how to manage them. What about the rewards? For me the best part of hiking alone is that I get to choose my own pace. I don’t have to play catch up, I don’t have to stop and wait, and I get to feel my stride and go at the pace that is just right for me. I noticed today on Sentinel that my pace varied. When my second wind kicked in, I felt that wonderful feeling of a surge coming into my pace. When I began to feel the strain of the final accent to the summit, I noticed myself slow and breathe more deeply to accommodate. They say that everyone hikes their own hike, regardless. To me it just seems easier when hiking alone. I also enjoy being with my own thoughts without interruption. Like anything, too much of this would probably not be a good thing. For most of us though, I’d guess we don’t get enough of it. For me, when hiking alone, I begin to actually notice what I’m thinking about. I become a witness to my own racing mind and get to see all the things that seem to come to the top of the tree. I guess this is a form of meditation in a crude sort of way. And it works like it too. After a while I see the speed of my mind beginning to slow and I start to become more present to each moment and more present to what is around me.

On this particular hike I began to notice the different varieties of mushrooms I encountered along the trail. Being alone, I could take the time to stop for a closer look if I wanted. I even took a few photos with my digital camera to show a mushroom savvy friend. I know there are basically three kinds of mushroom. There are those you can eat with your steak, there are those you feed to your enemies with their steak, and there are the kind that will provide an inexpensive trip without needing to leave home. I don’t trust myself to know the difference so when I hike and see mushrooms I look at them for their visual appeal and not their food potential. Perhaps if I learn a little more about them it could add a little more excitement to future hiking adventures. After all, I do like mushrooms with my steak.

I did stop to pick the blueberries though. Being the second week in August, and after an abundantly wet several weeks (some say too wet), it was a perfect season from Maine’s wild blueberries. Around the summit of Sentinel I discovered a huge patch of heavily laden bushes exposed to the southern sun. The only container I had was an empty water bottle which I quickly filled with blueberries. I then went about devouring as many berries and I could possibly load up on. This was lunch. Anything I’d brought in my pack could wait till later.

The clouds had lifted a little but not enough for a clear view of Katahdin and its surrounding ridges. I shot a few photos anyway and began my descent, slowly at first to let the blueberries settle. On the way down I noticed that slightly exhilarating feeling I sometimes get when I hike. Some say its endorphins kicking in. I don’t know what causes it but I do recognize it. It’s a feeling like “all is well with life and with the world around me”. When I feel it gives rise to a litany of appreciation. I’m grateful for my health, for my life and all I have, my wife and family, my friends, and this great place in Maine where I’m now so fortunate to be.

The distance passes quickly now and soon I find myself back close to the shore of Kidney Pond. I know I’m close as I see the sky through the trees and hear the sound of the loons on the pond. From the shore of Kidney Pond there is an awesome view across the water to Katahdin’s bulk planted firmly behind it. I love this view and even though I have several photographs of it, I pause to take yet another. As I sign out at the trail register, I add one more gratitude to my mental list. Thanks for giving this mountain to just me today.

Shannon’s Big Hike

From a very early age Shannon has been a hiker. In fact she even gave herself the trail name of “hiker girl”. She’s been on lots of hikes with us and also a couple of class hikes on the AT in Massachusetts. She wants to hike Katahdin one day, and probably will by next summer. This year though, as a seven year old, I thought I’d let her experience some of what she’ll encounter on Katahdin but without the ten or eleven hour ordeal.

I’d hiked White Cap before and its one of my favorites. I love that it’s smack in the middle of the 100 mile wilderness and one of the biggest mountains on the AT in this part of Maine. The view from White Cap on a clear day is stunning. From one side you can see Katahdin in the distance and the mountains that surround it. From another vista you get the mountains to the south and west including the Chair Back Range, the Bigelows, and many others. The many lakes stand out like jewels in the valleys below and there are no visible signs of human habitation in any direction. It is indeed a beautiful wilderness.

Not many people day-hike White Cap. For most it’s a section hike of several days if you use the standard trail heads recommended. Since coming to the Main North Woods I’ve been fascinated by the local geography. In putting together information gleaned from local hikers and snowmobilers and what I could find on the web and on maps, I discovered the White Brook Trail – an old trail that was part of the AT in days gone by. It’s still there and provides an access trail to the AT but only if you can get to it. If you don’t have a reliable four wheel drive vehicle with high clearance, then you can hike to it but it’s a long way. If you are vehicle equipped, a little daring, and willing to drive slowly, you can follow old logging roads for about 10 miles from the Katahdin Iron Works road and get to within a mile of the trail before the road becomes completely impassible. Then it’s a short hike on the old road bed to the start of the trail.

We took along my friend’s daughter Alyssa who sometimes baby-sits for Shannon. She loves to hike and has accompanied us before on shorter hikes. I figure she’ll provide some inspiration and balance for Shannon.
Hiking with Shannon always adds to the hike a dimension of curiosity that takes me to places in myself I don’t visit when I hike alone. We discover lots of blueberry bushes along the old road bed and stop to harvest some.

“Dad what kind of poop is that? Is that bear poop?”
I take a look and respond. “Yes, Shannon. It looks like it. And I think it was around here a few years ago that I saw a bear on the trail.”
“Why is the bear poop all in round balls like that?”
“Mmmmm, I’m not really sure”
Alyssa rescues me. “It’s because they eat so many berries!”

Just as I’m about to think the bear poop conversation has come to an end Shannon says, “But how does eating berries make the poop round?”
It’s time to move on as we all agree that we’ll need some further research to find an answer to Shannon’s question.

Shannon is also fascinated by all the wildflowers in bloom. Neither Alyssa nor I have a clue as to what kind of wildflowers they are but Shannon is content to just pick some anyway. Along with the wildflowers she’s also collecting rocks and manages to persuade Alyssa into putting a few of them in her back pack. My suggestion to put the rocks on the side of the trail and get them on the way out is not well received. Alyssa stuffs the rocks into her pack and we move on.

Once we reach the White Brook Trail we begin to ascend. In a short while we come to a stream which we cross by rock hopping and hoping not to slip. I go first and then help them both across and our shoes stay dry. A little further up is a trail junction. The White Brook Trail goes off to the left while another unmarked trail goes straight ahead and straight up. From my previous hikes here and information I’ve discovered, I know this trail is known as the Fire Warden’s Trail. Like the White Brook Trail it goes up to the ridge line to meet up with the AT but is slightly shorter and comes out closer to the summit of White Cap. I decide to take it as I think Shannon will handle the steep uphill scramble just as easily as she would a slightly longer and only slightly less steep ascent.

I have no idea what the Fire Warden might have carried up this trail but if it was anything more than a day pack he must have been in great shape. It is so steep that we need to stop frequently to regain our breath. We also stop a few times to snack and drink. There is little change for the next hour but eventually we notice the vegetation begin to become more alpine like and can see light through the trees up ahead. All the while Shannon is asking questions or commenting on what we see.

I mention that it shouldn’t be long before we reach the junction with the AT.
“What’s a junction?” she asks.
I enjoy explaining it to her and delight in all she must be learning today. And it also makes the hiking so much easier in some way.
Early in the hike Alyssa had mentioned that she too would like to hike Katahdin. About half way up the Fire Warden’s Trail she jokingly declares, “The day you guys hike Katahdin, I think I’m going to be busy doing other things!”

Eventually we reach the AT and our pace quickens as we near the summit of White Cap. We stop to look at the views to the west as we reach the short stunted alpine tree line. In the lead, as I near the summit, I think I hear music. I pause and listen again. Sure enough I hear the sound of a banjo being strummed. As I round a bend just before the summit I see a hiker lying back on a rock, his pack on the ground beside him, looking out at the beautiful view and strumming away in what looks like a state of complete bliss. I motion to the others to be quiet so as not to disturb him.

We stand in silence for a while just listening. When he stops strumming for a bit, we applaud. He seems a little startled but beams a smile at us and we begin to chat.
“Beautiful music!” I remark.
“Thanks. I’m just grateful for all this,” he says motioning to the vista before us.
It turns out he’s a thru-hiker. He started in Georgia on February 14th and has been on the trail for six months. His tells us is trail name is Allgood. I remark that on a day like today it’s a fitting name.

I ask him if he’d like a cold beer and see him look at me wondering if I’m serious. Whenever I hike White Cap or any other remote part of the AT around here, I make a habit of carrying a small ice pack and two cans of beer along with my lunch. For most hikers to be given a cold beer in the middle of the hundred mile wilderness is borderline ridiculous. Allgood shakes his head and smiles as I pass him the frosty cold can.

I can see Alyssa and Shannon are just as fixated as I am as Allgood tells us of some of his adventures on the Trail.
I notice how relaxed he is and how much he seems to be enjoying what he’s doing. Some hikers I meet at this stage of their journey (less than a week to completion and within sight of Katahdin), are not this way. They’ve had enough of the journey and only want for it to be over. Not Allgood.

“I started without a date I had to finish by,” he tells us. “It makes the Trail a different experience to not be under any time pressure. I’ve been able to enjoy it. Slow down when I felt like it. Go faster when the weather was good and sit it out when it wasn’t.”
I like his attitude and it shows in his demeanor. We talk for close to an hour. It’s hard to leave but we do, as we wish him well on the last part of his long journey and give him my contact information for when he gets into Millinocket about a week from now. He goes back to strumming the banjo-mandolin that he’s carried with him all the way.

We decide on the longer White Brook Trail as the way down. It’s easy to slip and slide a long way on the steeper trail and we are all a little tired at this point. No sense in risking a fall. Carrying someone down these trails would be almost impossible.

It takes us about an hour and a half to make it back to the truck. Shannon celebrates the completion of the hike by throwing wildflowers into the air. We talk about our day, what we learned, and how it feels to have hiked a big mountain like White Cap as we bounce back over the logging roads in the direction of home. Shannon wonders where Allgood will sleep tonight and if he’ll be alone or have company. She thinks it won’t matter though because he has his music.