This story is a work in progress. If you know a place that might want to publish it, let me know and I'll do some more work on it.
Neighbors
By Michael Lee
I was sad to hear that my neighbors are gone. Dani had a stroke and was taken off to hospital. Hopefully he’ll recover. But he and Joyce won’t be at their camp on South Twin Lake where they’ve lived for last 50 years. They didn’t waste time after Dani’s stroke and sold the place to a guy from further down the lake.
They were there when I bought my lakeside camp next door some 4 years ago. Not only were they great neighbors but have provided me with a lot of inspiration for living fully into old age. I was also in awe of their simple and happy lifestyle. I was able to celebrate their eightieth birthdays with them and always enjoyed their company along with their families and friends. They chose to make their camp their home sometime in the fifties when Dani still worked at the mill. He retired at least a decade before it downsized some five years ago. He still gets a small pension payment and social security which gave them enough to get by on if they kept life simple – and they really did.
I miss their presence and it’s lonely ‘up at camp’ now without my familiar neighbors next door. Whenever I was there hardly a day would go by without us exchanging greetings and spending a little time in each others company. I recall one such day from last winter and the adventure which followed.
“Well what do you think, Mike?” calls Joyce as I stick my head out the door around seven in the morning after over a foot of heavy wet snow had fallen overnight. Joyce is already out shoveling around the door outside of their place. She’s in pretty good shape and could easily be taken for ten to twenty years younger. Dani had been hanging tough too although recently bothered by accidents and few health problems, all of which in typical Maine fashion, he made light of.
“I don’t know Joyce,” I respond. “We could get a few more inches before it’s all over but I think I’ll get started on the plowing.” Little does Joyce know that I’ve never driven a plow truck in my life before. The previous night I visited with them after I had arrived. I had planned to spend a few days getting my place ready for summer but hadn’t anticipated the late winter extending into mid-April. There was still two feet of ice on the lake and snow drifts a good fifteen feet high around my camp. The pipe from my well was still frozen and although I had heat from a propane heater, I had no water. I’d survived for a few days like this before and it was no big deal but I had not anticipated an overnight snow storm dumping this much snow. In conversation the night before, I learned that Dani had an accident back in late February getting pinned between his plow truck and another vehicle in our shared driveway. Luckily Joyce heard his screams for help even above the sound of her vacuum cleaner, was able to back the plow truck up to get him free and then wrap his bloody legs in towels and drive him in his truck ten miles into town and to the hospital. They stitched him up and sent him home and everything seemed to be OK until one of his wounds became severely infected through to the bone. He went back for surgery and then had a vacuum inserted in the wound to help it drain and heal. “Look at this damn thing they put on me!” he said with a grin as he lifted up the tube, red with his blood, and bared his leg to show me the device.
“Geez! That must have kept you laid up for a while?” I say thinking about how they could have dealt with a Maine winter out here in the middle of no-where with not even a permanent neighbor close by.
Like me most of their neighbors are seasonal residents and stay away when the 50 knot norwesterlies blow drifting snow across the frozen lake in temperatures in double digit negatives. Dani and Joyce heat their camp with a wood burning furnace and Dani cuts and hauls the six or seven chords they need for a winter all by himself. Luckily it’s always stored away “down cellar” long before the first snows. Joyce tells me that in the last storm another year round resident from about two miles up the road came and plowed them out but they are not sure if he’s coming again after this next storm. Joyce is concerned about how I will be able to get out if the driveway isn’t plowed. “Don’t worry about me,” I tell her, “but how can I help get it done?”
“Well if you can get that god damn son of a bitch truck of mine started you can plow us out,” says Dani.
“Sure… why don’t I see if she’ll start”.
Dani gives me starting instructions. The truck is about fifteen years old and over the years has been modified by Dani every time something on it needed “fixing”. I scrape the snow from the last storm off and hit the starter. With a reluctant and sluggish sound it gives a cough and the engine springs to life. I run it a few minutes and return to tell them all is well and in the morning I’ll “plow us out”.
My oldest son Chris has done some plowing so after I get back to my camp I give him a call. “Anything I need to know about snow plowing other than just driving it with the plow down and pushing the snow away?” I ask. He laughs when I tell him what I’m planning to do but gives me a few pointers anyway.
This morning I’m excited to begin and head for the truck. She starts again just like last night. By the time I’m ready to drop the plow and begin Dani appears from his place with tube and bag slung over his shoulder. He’s not there because he’s worried about how I’ll do. Just wanting to be part of it all and help out. He advises me not to drop the plow too low for the first run and I follow his advice. What I don’t know is that the truck has very bald tires and there is a good thick layer of ice beneath the heavy wet snow. The result is that the truck doesn’t move when I drop the clutch and there I sit, truck roaring, wheels spinning, and no forward progress. By this time Dani has a shovel in hand and is ready to dig around the wheels, tube and bag still slung over his shoulder. I dismount from the truck cab and race over to grab the shovel from him which he hands over with a little reluctance and a big grin and says “OK then”.
For the next two hours or so we follow a similar routine. A little plowing, a lot of digging and sanding around the wheels to get the truck moving. A break in the routine comes when I slide the truck into a snowbank and we have to do a lot of digging. By this time Dani has found another shovel and there is no taking that away from him. Joyce observes from a distance knowing better than I that it is useless to try to talk Dani into putting down the shovel. Next thing without saying anything he climbs into the cab and decides he’ll try a little plowing himself. I look at Joyce and she just smiles and shrugs. I admire his skill in knowing just how much to rev the engine before engaging the clutch and how he gets the truck moving before lowering the plow blade. He makes a great long run up the driveway giving me a look and see lesson on how it should be done but on the reverse stalls the truck on the road. It won’t restart. “Too damned hot, goddambed truck!” he mutters as he looks for jumper cables. I’m not sure how he plans to use them as it would seem impossible to get another vehicle anywhere near the disabled plow truck parked across the access road. Just then a neighbor and his wife come driving along the road and stop where I’m waiting by the truck. ”What the hell is Dani up to now?” asks the woman. I explain.
“That man! I tell you, he’s tougher than nails!”
I nod in agreement.
The neighbor uses his truck to jump start the plow truck and I get in and continue a few more runs up and down the driveway. By now we are down to dirt in patches and it’s easier to get traction. We’re almost done when this time I stall the truck and it won’t restart. Fortunately it’s at the bottom of the driveway. “Leave the friggin thing there!” says Dani. “We as good as done anyway.” Joyce agrees reminding Dani that the visiting nurse will be coming by in a little while to check his wounds. I’m not sure she’ll make it as the access road in from the main road is awful messy. “She’ll be here all right!” says Dani. Dani retires inside and I shovel a little more before retreating to my place for cup of coffee and the removal of clothing wet on the inside from sweat and on the outside from wet snow. I notice that it is ten-thirty. How time flies when you are having fun.
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Thursday, January 3, 2008
Monday, December 10, 2007
Katahdin again
Late Fall 2007
“Da-a-a-ad! Dad! Where are you? “
I stirred from my half asleep state wondering which of my offspring was calling my name. In seconds I realized both who it was and where I was. It had been hard to sleep anyway in Shelter #5 at the Chimney Pond Camground at the base of Katahdin, Maine’s highest mountain. My first born daughter, now a 35 year old mother, had hiked in the 3.2 miles with me in the afternoon and we were spending the night here to make our ascent of the big mountain a little easier next morning.
“Over here!” I tried to respond loudly enough for her to hear me but hopefully not loud enough to wake up the rest of the almost full campground. It was mid October and the last week before the camp would close for the season. The night had a fall chill to it and a gentle little rain was falling.
Last year I had hiked the mountain with my three son’s and my grandson (Keiron’s son). We had a photo now mounted on the living room wall as a memento of the occasion. Keiron had only been to Maine once before with me about the time I bought our “camp” there some four years ago. A few weeks earlier she had expressed an interest in hiking Katahdin with me – now an annual ritual for me and what was becoming a rite of passage for our family. How could my oldest be denied such an opportunity? And I needed company for my hike as well. So we made plans and here we were.
The 3.2 mile hike in to Chimney from our truck at Roaring Brook had been somewhat of a shock for Keiron. I guess I had told her it was “fairly flat – maybe a little uphill but with the usual roots and rocks that go with any trail inside Baxter State Park”. She soon discovered that it was indeed uphill, the rocks were bigger than expected, and the 35 pound pack she was carrying felt a lot heavier. But we made good time and after a few hours and made our destination , checked in with the ranger, set up our lean to for the night and had an early dinner of food we had pre-prepared and carried in with us. By 7pm there was little else to do but turn in for the night and get a good sleep. I had noticed Keiron did not roll out her sleeping mat when we had been setting up. She’d claimed that for “just one night” she didn’t think she’d need it and could save the extra weight of carrying it. I could tell from her stirring she was having a cold and restless night. She had ventured out to the outhouse and had become lost on the way back to our shelter unable to read the small signs with numbers on them at the corner of the trail to each shelter. But she heard my response and found her way back. Within a few minutes I had returned to a state of semi-sleep while I listened to her continued stirring until sleep took over.
Perhaps a few hours later I thought I heard the same calling…. “Daaaaad!” Was it déjà –vu, was it a dream, or was it Keiron out there again. It was her, once again lost on the way back from the outhouse. This time her call had a little more energy to it and I was sure our fellow campers had heard it as I had. Again I responded as quietly as I could, she heard me and once again found her home for the night. I began wondering what the lack of sleep might mean for us next day as we made our assult on the big K – a difficult climb with the best of conditions and preparation. I encouraged her to try to sleep. The rain had become softer I thought but then as I myself got up to pee I noticed small flakes of snow mixed with rain and sleet. Indeed it felt colder and so no surprise that the precipitation was semi-solid. And if it was snowing here at the base of the mountain I was certain the precipitation higher up would be snow for sure. Not only that the earlier rain would have frozen on any surface it had contacted and that would be all the large granite boulders we would be scaling in the morning. I managed to grab a few more hours of sleep and I think Keiron did too. At least she didn’t get lost again and so hopefully the whole camp got some sleep as well.
At daylight we brewed some coffee on our butane stove, munched on a variety of whole food grain breads that Keiron had brought as a treat for us both. I smiled as I felt the weight of my chunk of bread and made some comment about it being about as heavy as a sleeping mat. Keiron smiled and it was re-assuring to see she hadn’t lost her sense of humor as a result of her nocturnal ordeals. That was good because in past ascents of Katahdin, I had found a sense of humor almost a mandatory hiking companion. When confronted by a 10 foot vertical rock with a blaze upon it indicating “up and over is where the trail is”, it helps if you can laugh before figuring out how to scale it.
We checked in at the Rangers Cabin to check the weather report and tell him of our plans for the hike. “You realize there is going to be some snow and ice up there, “ he cautioned. “Be sure to watch your footing and take it slow.”
I told him our plan was to go up the mountain by way of the Cathedral trail and down the Saddle trail. He thought that was a good choice but and asked “Have you done Cathedral before?”
“Saddle yes, but Cathedral no!”
“No problem – Cathedral is a more aggressive climb but you both look like you can handle it.”
I wondered what he was thinking and how he might handle the situation when someone standing before him would most certainly not look like they could handle it. Would he say “Listen you fat ass there is no way you can make it up there!” Or would he choose a more politically correct turn of phrase.
Anyway it was reassuring to know we had passed muster on our looks. I wonder if he knew what I was thinking, having heard that Cathedral is one of the most challenging ascents to the summit going up some three thousand feet in less than two miles with much hand over hand bouldering and rock climbing. But no time for thinking now. We picked up our day packs with our several extra layers of clothing, more food than we would probably eat, and the mandatory two liters of water each. At least at this time of year we wouldn’t need any bug repellent.
The first half mile was a gentle ascent with the usual rock hopping. Then we began the big climb of the First Cathedral. The Cathedrals are so named for the three separate mini-peaks or spires that stand out of the side of the mountain. Each one is an almost vertical, hand over hand, rock climb. Blue blazes mark the trail and are placed in such a was as to supposedly indicate not only the safest route but also the most favorable. To me the people who mark the trail also have a sense of humor with blazes often painted in places that make you simply stop and declare “No f….g way! How am I supposed to go up THERE!” Usually with a little patience, trial and error, and creativity a way emerges and up you go.
I laughed when Keiron looked up at the summit of the First Cathedral and joyfully announced that we were almost at the summit. She couldn’t see the next two Cathedrals and the actual summit of the mountain even further behind that. We had barely reached a quarter of the distance to the summit. Soon we also began to see and feel snow and ice on the rocks we climbed. Luckily we had both brought gloves. I remember the first time I hiked Katahdin without gloves and ended the day with many small cuts on my hands from the sharp edges of rock. Now with the cold as well it was even more important to have covering for our hands. We had been so focused on our climb with our face to the wall that we hadn’t taken the time to enjoy the view behind us. It was only when we stopped to drink and turned around that we noticed and it was great to hear Keiron emit a grateful “Wow!” The view was even more awesome as we were sitting just under a cloud and would soon be plunging upward into it’s mist. The valley below was bathed in patches of sunlight coming through the clouds and lighting up the fall colors at full peak. It was indeed a good time to hiking Katahdin and I hoped at the summit we would be afforded a view but suspected we might be in cloud with only a few yards of visibility in any direction.
The second and third Cathedrals came and went and we found ourselves at that “almost” place. Every time I’ve hiked Katahdin I have noticed this deceptive “almost “ place. You think you are almost there. You can sometimes even see the summit. Yet between you and your destination remains some more arduous and challenging hiking. On this trail it was some more bouldering – steep bouldering – maybe even steeper than each of the Cathedrals behind us. At last we broke onto the tableland for the final fifth of a mile and through the mist could make out the infamous sign marking the summit and a handful of people milling around. It felt good to arrive and greet our fellow hikers. The mist rolled across the summit but every so often would clear and we would find ourselves sitting in sunlight looking out over the top of the cloud bank surrounding the summit on the North side. To the South it was totally fogged in with no view at all. I had hoped to see our camp and the island in front of it on South Twin lake, some 20 miles to the south, but today it was not to be.
As we broke open our lunch we could hear the cheers of a lone hiking ascending to the summit via the Appalaichan (Hunt) Trail. He immediately raced to the sign, kissed it, and declared “I made it. Now I’m just a bum again!” He went on to tell us that after completing his 2,174 mile hike from Georgia to Maine he was now no longer a “thru-hiker”. Now he was just a “bum” again. I could see the sense of his logic but couldn’t help reminding him that he was perhaps a “bum with a resume” as many may dream of hiking the AT but only about ten percent of those who start ever make it.
Several more finishing thru-hikers arrived as we ate our lunch and chatted amiably.
After a few photos to commemorate our ascent we began the hike down across the tableland and to the head of the Saddle Trail. This was a relatively easy descent or at least not too difficult when compared to other trails I’ve used to get off this big mountain. It was good to reach Chimney Pond but then we had to shoulder our packs for the final 3.5 miles. It was this last haul that challenged me the most but Keiron seemed to be loping along eager to be done and clearly wanting to make sure there was no possibility of us spending another night in a shelter.
We made it back to our truck and into Millinocket for a meal at the Scootic Inn before heading back to our “camp” for a long and comfortable sleep after a father-daughter adventure that neither of us will forget.
“Da-a-a-ad! Dad! Where are you? “
I stirred from my half asleep state wondering which of my offspring was calling my name. In seconds I realized both who it was and where I was. It had been hard to sleep anyway in Shelter #5 at the Chimney Pond Camground at the base of Katahdin, Maine’s highest mountain. My first born daughter, now a 35 year old mother, had hiked in the 3.2 miles with me in the afternoon and we were spending the night here to make our ascent of the big mountain a little easier next morning.
“Over here!” I tried to respond loudly enough for her to hear me but hopefully not loud enough to wake up the rest of the almost full campground. It was mid October and the last week before the camp would close for the season. The night had a fall chill to it and a gentle little rain was falling.
Last year I had hiked the mountain with my three son’s and my grandson (Keiron’s son). We had a photo now mounted on the living room wall as a memento of the occasion. Keiron had only been to Maine once before with me about the time I bought our “camp” there some four years ago. A few weeks earlier she had expressed an interest in hiking Katahdin with me – now an annual ritual for me and what was becoming a rite of passage for our family. How could my oldest be denied such an opportunity? And I needed company for my hike as well. So we made plans and here we were.
The 3.2 mile hike in to Chimney from our truck at Roaring Brook had been somewhat of a shock for Keiron. I guess I had told her it was “fairly flat – maybe a little uphill but with the usual roots and rocks that go with any trail inside Baxter State Park”. She soon discovered that it was indeed uphill, the rocks were bigger than expected, and the 35 pound pack she was carrying felt a lot heavier. But we made good time and after a few hours and made our destination , checked in with the ranger, set up our lean to for the night and had an early dinner of food we had pre-prepared and carried in with us. By 7pm there was little else to do but turn in for the night and get a good sleep. I had noticed Keiron did not roll out her sleeping mat when we had been setting up. She’d claimed that for “just one night” she didn’t think she’d need it and could save the extra weight of carrying it. I could tell from her stirring she was having a cold and restless night. She had ventured out to the outhouse and had become lost on the way back to our shelter unable to read the small signs with numbers on them at the corner of the trail to each shelter. But she heard my response and found her way back. Within a few minutes I had returned to a state of semi-sleep while I listened to her continued stirring until sleep took over.
Perhaps a few hours later I thought I heard the same calling…. “Daaaaad!” Was it déjà –vu, was it a dream, or was it Keiron out there again. It was her, once again lost on the way back from the outhouse. This time her call had a little more energy to it and I was sure our fellow campers had heard it as I had. Again I responded as quietly as I could, she heard me and once again found her home for the night. I began wondering what the lack of sleep might mean for us next day as we made our assult on the big K – a difficult climb with the best of conditions and preparation. I encouraged her to try to sleep. The rain had become softer I thought but then as I myself got up to pee I noticed small flakes of snow mixed with rain and sleet. Indeed it felt colder and so no surprise that the precipitation was semi-solid. And if it was snowing here at the base of the mountain I was certain the precipitation higher up would be snow for sure. Not only that the earlier rain would have frozen on any surface it had contacted and that would be all the large granite boulders we would be scaling in the morning. I managed to grab a few more hours of sleep and I think Keiron did too. At least she didn’t get lost again and so hopefully the whole camp got some sleep as well.
At daylight we brewed some coffee on our butane stove, munched on a variety of whole food grain breads that Keiron had brought as a treat for us both. I smiled as I felt the weight of my chunk of bread and made some comment about it being about as heavy as a sleeping mat. Keiron smiled and it was re-assuring to see she hadn’t lost her sense of humor as a result of her nocturnal ordeals. That was good because in past ascents of Katahdin, I had found a sense of humor almost a mandatory hiking companion. When confronted by a 10 foot vertical rock with a blaze upon it indicating “up and over is where the trail is”, it helps if you can laugh before figuring out how to scale it.
We checked in at the Rangers Cabin to check the weather report and tell him of our plans for the hike. “You realize there is going to be some snow and ice up there, “ he cautioned. “Be sure to watch your footing and take it slow.”
I told him our plan was to go up the mountain by way of the Cathedral trail and down the Saddle trail. He thought that was a good choice but and asked “Have you done Cathedral before?”
“Saddle yes, but Cathedral no!”
“No problem – Cathedral is a more aggressive climb but you both look like you can handle it.”
I wondered what he was thinking and how he might handle the situation when someone standing before him would most certainly not look like they could handle it. Would he say “Listen you fat ass there is no way you can make it up there!” Or would he choose a more politically correct turn of phrase.
Anyway it was reassuring to know we had passed muster on our looks. I wonder if he knew what I was thinking, having heard that Cathedral is one of the most challenging ascents to the summit going up some three thousand feet in less than two miles with much hand over hand bouldering and rock climbing. But no time for thinking now. We picked up our day packs with our several extra layers of clothing, more food than we would probably eat, and the mandatory two liters of water each. At least at this time of year we wouldn’t need any bug repellent.
The first half mile was a gentle ascent with the usual rock hopping. Then we began the big climb of the First Cathedral. The Cathedrals are so named for the three separate mini-peaks or spires that stand out of the side of the mountain. Each one is an almost vertical, hand over hand, rock climb. Blue blazes mark the trail and are placed in such a was as to supposedly indicate not only the safest route but also the most favorable. To me the people who mark the trail also have a sense of humor with blazes often painted in places that make you simply stop and declare “No f….g way! How am I supposed to go up THERE!” Usually with a little patience, trial and error, and creativity a way emerges and up you go.
I laughed when Keiron looked up at the summit of the First Cathedral and joyfully announced that we were almost at the summit. She couldn’t see the next two Cathedrals and the actual summit of the mountain even further behind that. We had barely reached a quarter of the distance to the summit. Soon we also began to see and feel snow and ice on the rocks we climbed. Luckily we had both brought gloves. I remember the first time I hiked Katahdin without gloves and ended the day with many small cuts on my hands from the sharp edges of rock. Now with the cold as well it was even more important to have covering for our hands. We had been so focused on our climb with our face to the wall that we hadn’t taken the time to enjoy the view behind us. It was only when we stopped to drink and turned around that we noticed and it was great to hear Keiron emit a grateful “Wow!” The view was even more awesome as we were sitting just under a cloud and would soon be plunging upward into it’s mist. The valley below was bathed in patches of sunlight coming through the clouds and lighting up the fall colors at full peak. It was indeed a good time to hiking Katahdin and I hoped at the summit we would be afforded a view but suspected we might be in cloud with only a few yards of visibility in any direction.
The second and third Cathedrals came and went and we found ourselves at that “almost” place. Every time I’ve hiked Katahdin I have noticed this deceptive “almost “ place. You think you are almost there. You can sometimes even see the summit. Yet between you and your destination remains some more arduous and challenging hiking. On this trail it was some more bouldering – steep bouldering – maybe even steeper than each of the Cathedrals behind us. At last we broke onto the tableland for the final fifth of a mile and through the mist could make out the infamous sign marking the summit and a handful of people milling around. It felt good to arrive and greet our fellow hikers. The mist rolled across the summit but every so often would clear and we would find ourselves sitting in sunlight looking out over the top of the cloud bank surrounding the summit on the North side. To the South it was totally fogged in with no view at all. I had hoped to see our camp and the island in front of it on South Twin lake, some 20 miles to the south, but today it was not to be.
As we broke open our lunch we could hear the cheers of a lone hiking ascending to the summit via the Appalaichan (Hunt) Trail. He immediately raced to the sign, kissed it, and declared “I made it. Now I’m just a bum again!” He went on to tell us that after completing his 2,174 mile hike from Georgia to Maine he was now no longer a “thru-hiker”. Now he was just a “bum” again. I could see the sense of his logic but couldn’t help reminding him that he was perhaps a “bum with a resume” as many may dream of hiking the AT but only about ten percent of those who start ever make it.
Several more finishing thru-hikers arrived as we ate our lunch and chatted amiably.
After a few photos to commemorate our ascent we began the hike down across the tableland and to the head of the Saddle Trail. This was a relatively easy descent or at least not too difficult when compared to other trails I’ve used to get off this big mountain. It was good to reach Chimney Pond but then we had to shoulder our packs for the final 3.5 miles. It was this last haul that challenged me the most but Keiron seemed to be loping along eager to be done and clearly wanting to make sure there was no possibility of us spending another night in a shelter.
We made it back to our truck and into Millinocket for a meal at the Scootic Inn before heading back to our “camp” for a long and comfortable sleep after a father-daughter adventure that neither of us will forget.
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