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.

Calendoon

This story was told to me one of my colleagues when I was a school teacher in the Outback. It is supposedly a true story and reflects the unique sense of humor of the Aussie in the bush.

Calendoon
by Michael Lee

“My turn!” said Will grabbing the rifle from his brother Sean’s hand. He filled the clip with another half dozen rounds and took careful aim while resting the rifle barrel on the window frame of the Holden Ute – the Aussie equivalent of a GMC pickup truck. The sun shimmered off the red dirt of the burnt landscape in this arid part of the outback. The boys had been on a weekend jaunt from Brisbane, a city some three hundred miles distant on the coast, and a place from where most people had rarely ventured this far into the heart of their country.

“Who’d wanna go out there?” they’d say. “That’s just a place for sheep, abos, and ‘roos!”

Will and Sean, both in their late teens, had heard their Uncle talk about his experiences in the outback when he was a sheep drover in his younger days. “There’s more bloody kangaroos out there than you could poke a stick at!” he had told them. So they had saved some money for a few paydays, borrowed their uncles 222 semi-automatic rifle, and headed out for a weekend of ‘roo hunting. It had been a long drive - two hundred miles to the end of the sealed road and then another hundred on dirt roads. There was so little traffic that you could spot an oncoming vehicle some 10 or miles away by the cloud of dust on the horizon.

After driving all night they had seen a few ‘roos on the morning of their arrival and had gotten off a few shots but from much too far away to be able to exact a kill. As a result most of the remaining kangaroos within miles had heard the shots and taken off. They remembered though that Uncle George had told them they needed a spotlight and the dark of night to be able to get close enough to get off a head shot and take down a giant red.

“Geez, we’ll just have to kill some time till tonight, Will,” said Sean.
“Yeah, mate. Would be good if we could get some sleep but it’s too bloody hot to sleep out here. Hey, look at that sign!”

They had just crossed a grid on the road with barbed wire fence stretching away from it on either side – a property boundary. A large white sign with bold red letters announced the name of the property they were entering. “CALENDOON” read the sign, some 200 yards distant. Had the boys done some research they would have known they were entering one of the largest sheep and cattle properties in South-West Queensland. In this part of the world public roads went through private property and single properties half the size of the state of Vermont were not uncommon.

Sean had pulled over to the side of the dirt road and grabbed the rifle from behind the seat. He took careful aim and fired blasting a hole just off center in one of the “O”s in the sign. A few more shots and a few more well placed holes in the “O” resulted. Will took his turn and placed a shot inside of the second “O” and was about to fire off his second shot when the boys noticed a cloud of dust approaching. Earlier in the day they had stopped to greet and chat with the occupants of other passing vehicles so were not surprised when Charlie pulled up and got out. Charlie was typical “cockie” as landowners in the outback were known. Even though he had barely turned forty his skin was bronzed and wrinkled from the sun. On his head he wore the wide brimmed felt hat, his shirt was brown with the two large chest pockets, and he his shorts were trim and neatly supported with belt and buckle. He wore the elastic sided riding boots with socks rising a few inches higher on his ankles.

“Gidday!” he greeted. “How ya goin? Orright?”

“Yeah, mate. Orrright!” Sean replied.

“Doin’ a bit o’ shootin’ are yez?” enquired Charlie.

“Yeah. Just killin’ a bit of time till we can get amongst ‘em tonight,” said Will.

“Nice lookin’ rifle ya got there!” said Charlie.

“Yeah. It’s our uncle’s. A semi-automatic,” offered Sean.

“Mind if I take a shot with ‘er?” asked Charlie.

“No worries mate! Go for it,” said Will, passing the rifle though the window of their Ute.

Charlie held the weapon in his hands for a few seconds appreciating its beauty and the feel of the wood trim around the barrel. He glanced at the clip to see three rounds available and one in the chamber. With a flick of his wrist he turned the end of the barrel back the way it had come and in through the window of the ute towards its roof over the driver’s head. With his finger on the trigger he squeezed off four quick shots, blasting four holes through the roof of the ute.

Will catapulted back into his brother’s lap amid the smoke and smell of burnt roof lining and torn metal.

“What the hell are you doin’ you stupid bastard? That’s our ute!” he exclaimed.

Charlie threw the rifle into his lap, and smiled as he pointed toward the “O”’s in Calendoon. “Yeah. And that’s my sign!”

He turned climbed back into his vehicle and drove away with a wave of his hand accompanied by a friendly “Gidday!”

Washing The Bird

First published in AOPA Pilot, (Dec 2006) the Aircraft Owners and Pilots Magazine with a circulation of over 400,000.

Washing the Bird
Soaping up flying memories
By Michael Lee

Washing an airplane is nothing like washing a car. You can't just take it to the drive-through and enjoy the thrill of soapy water squirting at your face behind the windshield, big roller brushes thrashing away, and the air dryer sweeping away the beads of water. Not only is this a job that has to be done by hand, but also most airplanes are a lot bigger than cars. They require special soaps and polishes that are kind to their aluminum skin, and they take a whole lot longer to wash. It can take all day if you are picky. I'm generally not.
I remember the kid who used to wash my airplane for me. If only he were still around. He had approached me one day at the airport and asked if he could wash my airplane, as he needed money for his flying lessons. "Sure," I said, "how much?"
He told me it would be 100 bucks.
"Wow! You must be either very good or very expensive," I recall saying to him at the time. This was back when avgas could still be bought for just more than a buck a gallon, not the four bucks or more a gallon it costs today, and an hour of flight training was around $45.
"I'm very careful and will do a good job," Tim politely informed me. And he did. It took him six hours and when he was finished Archer 53A hadn't looked so good in years. Tim would wash my airplane for me once or twice a year and always for the same price and with the same pleasing result. Sometimes I'd help out just for the heck of it, and marvel as I watched the way he focused on every move as he rubbed, squirted, polished, and buffed.
Mine wasn't the only airplane Tim washed. He built up a healthy clientele, paid for his flying lessons, and earned his private pilot certificate. Shortly afterward, he went off to an aviation college to become a professional pilot flying the big iron. Now he's a first officer for a major airline and probably no longer washes airplanes, although it wouldn't surprise me if one day at some hub airport I spotted Tim doing his preflight walk around a Boeing 737 with polishing cloth in hand. I missed him when he left and was never able to replace him. So the job came back to me. I was really no match for him, even though I'd studied his moves. A three-hour job is the best the airplane gets from me.
My mind wanders. It's too difficult to focus. I find myself thinking about other things — aviation things, to be sure — prompted by my proximity to my airplane, other airplanes, and the comings and goings at the not-so-busy little airport. When I'm washing my airplane, I'm feeding my passion for aviation, but not with the washing.
Today as I wash, I think of many things. Noticing the small chips in the paintwork on the tail, I'm reminded how they got there-a brush I had with some freezing rain on a flight last winter. How relieved I was to be able to escape the ice by finding warmer air above. There are some blackish bug remnants on the wing, and my mind goes back to a late-evening arrival in northern Maine in early summer and the black flies being thick enough to blur my visibility during landing.
My reverie is broken by the sound of engines. I watch a big twin-engine amphibious Grumman Goose whose pilot is practicing some takeoffs and landings. The beautiful, gray, ungainly bird struggles skyward with engines roaring, into the shimmering sunlight. I sigh in appreciation and bring my attention back to the bugs with the movement of soapy sponge on metal. For a few strokes I focus like Tim, but can't do it for long. Soon I'm recalling more wonderful moments from the past, moments that only being a pilot and owning an airplane could give me.
I recall the 7-year-old whose mom would bring her to the airport on weekends just to watch from the parking lot. One beautiful Sunday just like today, seeing them there as usual, I asked the youngster, "Would you like to go for a ride today?" The look on her face at that moment comes vividly back to me along with the sound of her hearty "Wow!" shortly afterward, as wheels left the ground and we were flying. I saw her mom in the backseat with tears of joy streaming down her face, watching as her daughter fulfilled a dream to fly. Just thinking about it now makes me smile. Sharing my passion in some ways far surpasses the act of engaging in it.
My sponge moves over the lights on the wing tips. In my mind's eye I see the lights blinking as I wing over New York City at 10,000 feet on a clear, crisp night in the fall, gazing at the lights ablaze below, spread out like a giant twinkling carpet. As I wipe the antennas under the belly I recall the feeling of having mastered the use of instruments they feed. How cool it is to experience the exhilaration and satisfaction of breaking out of a low overcast sky on an instrument approach just 300 feet above the end of the runway after spending hours surrounded by nothing but gray-to be guided to the runway solely by the navigation instruments with no visual reference to ground or horizon until the last few seconds of the flight. I revel for a moment in the trust, the training, and the patience it takes to pull that off.
The buffing is as complete as I want to make it, and I put the buckets, sponges, and cloths away. Three hours have passed quickly. My time with my thoughts has been enjoyable even if I haven't given the job at hand my undivided attention. The result probably wouldn't meet Tim's standards. I think about that some more and recall some other conversations I had with Tim. He was passionate too. But was his passion really about washing airplanes? In hindsight, I think not.
His conversation never revealed much excitement about flying here at this airport or about washing airplanes. But he talked a lot about airlines and Boeings and the Airbus, and the dream job he would have one day. His driving force was propelling him into the front seat of a jet and he would settle for nothing less. What is more, he knew what he needed to do to get there and he did it. My airplane was part of his ticket and he took very good care of that ticket. It was his passion to one day fly as a professional that gave him his focus. Washing my bird was an important steppingstone in Tim's overall flight plan, and so he gave it the same focus he would when he stepped into that jet. There was a mission to accomplish. Time spent remembering could wait. Buffing my airplane to perfection would help buy those future days that would fuel his memories. I hope he's somewhere up there right now building them.
I chuckle to myself as I come to the tentative conclusion that my difficulty in washing the bird comes not from my dislike of the job itself, nor does it come from my difficulty in focusing. When I'm shooting an approach in ugly weather or landing in a 20-knot crosswind I am very focused.
My airplane-washing mind drift comes simply because I am fortunate enough to have accumulated such great memories from aviation. I'm free to choose not to focus on earthly pursuits when I'm around airplanes. I can allow my thoughts to take over to fuel my passion and take me away from the task. I have nothing to lose by allowing it. Yet when I'm flying I can switch in an instant and become completely focused to the task at hand — even getting ahead of the airplane to be ready for what happens next. It's really just a choice for me to indulge my memories and be the half-hearted airplane washer I seem to be. After all, how could I enjoy washing my bird if it wasn't for the happy-memory logbook in my mind? Yet three hours are long enough to indulge it, no matter how good the memories. I head for home. Mission accomplished.
Michael Lee, AOPA 1153628, is an Australian-born freelance writer and private pilot who owns a 1979 Piper Archer.

Fishing for Brookies

Unedited and unpublished but plan to work on it.

by Michael Lee

He leapt out from behind a tree along the trail like cat pouncing on his prey. “Warden Walter Wishoneke” read the name badge on his soaking wet uniform. We were his prey - three very tired and very wet fishermen about a mile into the long three mile hike back to the road after our day of fishing in an isolated pristine pond in the North Woods of Maine.

“OK boys,” said Game Warden Wally, “open your creels and get out your fishing licenses!” The surprise on our faces surely showed and he grinned and added, “Kind of wet day to be fishing isn’t it?”

It surely was. It had started raining on our hike in early in the morning. I had been looking forward to this day. In my three years of fishing in this part of Maine the native brook trout had eluded me. I wasn’t a fly fisherman which limited the number of places I could legally fish for ‘brookies’. I had met Sam and Jeff some time back on a chat forum about fishing in Maine. They both used to live in a small town some 30 miles north of my place in Maine and were returning for a weekend of fishing. They planned to hike in to this remote pond that they used to successfully fish as kids and teenagers growing up in this wild and beautiful part of the state. Although the weather had somewhat dampened my spirits after we met at the gas station in their town, I was reinspired by Sam’s assurance that “This is great weather for catching brookies.”

By the time we got to the pond we were all very well soaked. Although we wore rain gear the rain was so heavy at times the water found its way in. Our boots were no match for the puddles and small streams we trudged through. With the rain came strong gusty winds and even with the temperature around seventy, our wet bodies braced for the chill of each gust. We made it to the pond, assembled our poles, baited our hooks and began to fish. I had a strike almost immediately and hauled in the first fish for the day – a six inch brookie. I was about to throw it back when Jeff reminded me that it was at the legal limit to keep and the small one’s tasted great. Into my creel he went but I hoped to land some bigger ones. We moved spots a few times over the next hour to try to find the bigger ones. Finally we hit the right spots – places along the lake shore where small streams fed by the morning rains were flowing in. With the flow of water came tasty grubs and insects that the brookies came looking for. Our worms must have been additionally attractive as we began to catch some beautiful eight to ten inch trout. We spread out a little so as not to cramp each other and so didn’t really know what each was catching other than we were all fully engaged in baiting worms, removing trout from hooks, and becoming oblivious to the persistent rain and chill winds blowing across the water. The hours passed and being more selective now, I released many smaller fish, keeping only those that came in at ten inches or more.

My mind wandered to the descriptions I had read of these beautiful fish we were catching. This particular variety of trout is a true native – not a stocked variety. This was its natural habitat and thanks to careful management and the remote location it has survived and even thrived to the extent that fishing with worms is permitted here. Most other ponds in the area allow fly fishing only. I wasn’t sure if it was the weather or the strenuous hike but we were the only ones here on this day. By early afternoon we gathered and decided we had enough fish, each with our bag limit of five. Sam remarked however that even if we had cheated and taken a few more who would be out here on a day like this to check on us? He imagined the game wardens would all be snug in their cabin playing cards on a day like this. As Sam and Jeff ate the last of their lunch before the hike out, I allowed myself one final cast. I immediately felt a strong strike and carefully played the fish to shore. It was a lunker and looked to be bigger than any I had caught so far. My mind kicked in as I thought to myself, “I’m going to keep this one. Who cares if I have six fish in my creel instead of the five limit. Besides the first one I caught was barely legal size”. I was fishing this time from a rock a few feet above the pond. I brought my prize fish to the surface and decided that rather than try to lean over the rock and risk a plunge into the lake, I would hoist the fish up on to the rock. As I lifted it, I was once again in awe of its beauty and size. “He’ll have to go on the grill,” I muttered to myself. “Too big for the frying pan”. Just then the fish gave a flip of his tail and released himself from the hook with a splash and disappeared from sight.

Now standing in front of Warden Wally with my open creel, I thought again about that fish. “Thank you, fish” I thought. “If I had landed you, I would be in big trouble right now.” Wally checked our creels and licenses one by one. He looked a little skeptically at my first fish and I thought he would probably bring out his measure to check him, but he didn’t. We all seemed to pass muster, each with the bag limit of five and current Maine fishing licenses. He decided to hike the last two miles out with us and became quite jovial about the miserable day and lack of fishermen for him to check. Even when we reached our truck he hung out for a bit to chat some more. Eventually he departed and we began to change into some dry clothes we had left in the truck.

Sam also took off his wet boots and pulled down his socks. Our eyes popped as four more brookies, two from each sock, fell to the ground. “Damn,” I laughed, “Seems I have a lot more to learn from you local guys about fishing for brookies.”

Going Greek

Every year, usually in the early part of spring, I get this urge to “go Greek”. My Greek Day is often inspired by a combination of the color and the weather sometimes experienced in our New England Spring – a clear blue sky, the feeling of warmth when standing in sun, an increasing intensity of light, and the calmness that comes with little or no wind, and a fresh and shiny look to just about everything outdoors. This combination of conditions tends to take me back to the time I lived for the best part of a year on the Greek island of Lesvos.

“I need a time out!” I remember saying to my friends. “I need to get away where I can do nothing for a while.” Work and family life had been intense for a few years and I was also going through that mid-life questioning as to what really mattered in life. Through some connections I discovered the village of Molivos. With the help of my connection's friend who lived there I rented a house for six months for not a whole lot of drachma, bought tickets, took a crash course in Greek at the local community college, and then headed for the land of Helen and Hercules.

While that was then and this is now and I no longer have the urge to drop it all and head for the Greek islands, I do seem to get that pang of nostalgia every spring and it must be fed. This year I was ready for it. Before the urge hit I noticed a set of outdoor furniture on sale at the local hardware store. It was perfect. A blue sun umbrella with table and four chairs with blue and white stripes. A perfect likeness to the Greek flag. Just what I needed to prepare for my poolside Greek experience and I already had the grill.

Outdoor cooking over a charcoal grill was how most of the tavernas I had frequented in Greece did it. My favorite was surrounded by ocean on three sides.  The relaxed atmosphere, the great food, the stunning light, and the good wine did it. Who could worry about anything much while lazing under an umbrella by the ocean and enjoying a four hour lunch?

Taverna by the Sea

This photo of George's Fish Taverna is courtesy of TripAdvisor

It was early June this year when it happened. I was home for the day with no major commitments. The pool was open and I needed a day off.  Some cold beer, a chilled bottle of retsina, some octopus for the grill, and the ingredients for a real Greek salad, and all was set.

The grill was fired, some twangy bouzouki music blasted from the stereo, and the cooler was reachable beside the blue and white chairs where I sat, wearing only a swimsuit and sunglasses to soak up the sun and to eat and drink to all that was good in life.  I moved slowly as I grilled the octopus and prepared the salad.  Time did not matter today, and grilled octopus takes about 45 minutes to make it tender anyway, but who cares?

Grilled Octpus

Not Greece but Pretending

In Greece I was often surprised how quickly a day of doing nothing could pass so quickly. On many days my walk to the beach,  a bare half mile from my house,  could take up to two or three hours. Mostly it was stopping for coffee with neighbors. “Iassou, Mikalis! Ti pinis? Kafé?” I had become a regular at two or three houses along the way to the beach and felt great about accepting the hospitality offered, despite an awareness of a growing addiction for the thick sweet dark liquid that was brewed in the little pots on the stove and known as coffee.  It bore no resemblance to anything I had previously called by that name. The only problem was that by the time I got to the beach I was buzzing,  and any chance of dozing in the sun was long gone. My “going Greek” day at home was different. No ‘kafe’.

The memories soon begin to float to awareness as I lazed in the sun beside the pool.  It had been a strange time – probably one of a few times in my life when I had surrendered to hedonism beyond balance. Days were full of nothing but eating, drinking, and loving. I could feel "Zorba the Greek" springing to life from within and nothing seemed to matter. The music drew me back to wild rides over mountainous roads to raucous celebrations in neighboring villages and nights of ouzo and the smoke filled haze in the tavernas. My understanding of Greek had grown to the point that I could hold conversations long into the night with my new Greek and European friends. The end agreement of such conversations were usually always the same - nothing really mattered. Live for the moment!  Do it now! My time in Greece had given me a look at freedom, nihilism, and existentialism,  although I really didn't know it all at the time.  It also gave me consequences - a volatile and disintegrating relationship, questions about my integrity, and a lot of work to do to find balance in my life again.

Today, I look back and ask.  "What did this particular chapter in my life teach me?"

I know full well that Zorba is a part of me, and he is alive and well.  I also know that he needs exercise from time to time, and that he needs to do it within context.  The context of my life today, my priorities, the people I love, the things I value and all of the commitments I want to keep.  It was great to find him then and give him room to express, however awkwardly -  a great teacher. And today he gives me yet another lesson.

Can I expect my children to learn from my journey?  Probably not.  Yet I can relax in knowing that who I am today is a product of who I was then, but not the same.  My children learn from both - me then and me now.  They take a little piece of my Zorba.  And I think they know how to handle him more like I do today - room to play but not overpower.  But they still have their own lessons to learn in life which are not the same as mine, and they will undoubtedly set up their life to learn them, just as I did.  "Iassou, Zorba!"

Duck

As yet unpublished work in progress. Please leave me a comment if you like it or have any suggestions or publication possiblities.


Mostly I look at them swimming by on the lake but sometimes I like to eat some. I’ve never hunted ducks so until now I’ve relied on the supermarket for my supply. Last Saturday on my ritual stroll through the supermarket for the weekly groceries I happened to spy a tasty looking piece of the said bird - “Maple Leaf Farms – Half Roasted Duck”. In its beautifully enticing red and cream package with seasoned duck showing through the cellophane window, the directions said “fully cooked” - just pop it in the oven for 25 minutes at 375 degrees and dinner is ready. “That would be great for Monday night when I’d be dining alone”, I thought.
On my way home from the supermarket I stopped by our local CSA Farm. “CSA” is intellegencia speak for “Community Supported Agriculture”. Our farm known as Farm Girl Farm sells shares each year for around 400 bucks which entitles the shareholder to pick up a “share” of produce once a week. This week with the tomatoes long gone and not much else left in the field as I drove in, I did not expect a whole lot, but I was wrong. Bunches of baby beets along with lots of greens and winter squash were amongst the pickings laid out on the farm table. Happy with my harvest my mind turned to Monday’s dinner. Duck with steamed beets and braised bok choy seemed like the right combination along with a bottle of Aussie Rutherglen Shiraz that I knew I had stashed away.
I don’t mind eating alone but I’m not the “hunt in the fridge for some crappy left over and hope for the best” kind of guy. For me eating alone means “dining alone” and the selection and preparation of the repast is a big part of the fun.
So the duck went in the oven as prescribed, the beets were trimmed and set to steam and the bok-choy was in the pan to braise with a little garlic, olive oil, and lemon juice. The wine was open , the table set, the candles lit, and I was ready to dine.
“Excellent choice of wine”, I remarked to myself as I took the first sip. The beets attracted the first bite and that too prompted the remark to self “Tasty beets!” The duck looked great and so a little portion of the leg was forked and brought to mouth. “MMmmm….. so, so.” Another bite not much better. It looked good but had no real flavor. The meat was also stringy even though seemingly moist. It wasn’t dry and the preparation directions were probably right on. But something was missing here. Try the greens. “Ah, yes! I love them!” Another sip of wine. “Goes well with the meal except for that damned duck!”, came the inner voice.
For a while I went back and forth trying each until deciding to forget the duck and just focus on the beets and greens and enjoy the wine. Always adept at making good from a bad situation, I took my time to relish those parts of the meal that grabbed my palate and forego the rest. But my thoughts went elsewhere.
“Our food supply is really fucked for those of us who can taste the difference” came one voice.
“Don’t be friggin’ snob!” came another.
“But I’m not! I just want to eat things I enjoy and that duck really sucked! It was not worth the six bucks I paid for it and I feel I was cheated.”

“You were!” said a third voice. “How do you think a company can make money today with the high cost of product not to mention the huge cost of distribution now that gas is more than three bucks a gallon. Something has to get compromised in all that if you want the convenience of buying duck in your supermarket. They probably try to do it well but with mass produced product to begin with and freezing it for a long shelf life, don’t you think you’d be sacrificing something in the way real taste? Like what the fuck were you expecting?”
“Ahh.. how about something like the taste of the bok choy or the beets?”
“Dreaming! Unless you want to grow your own ducks you idiot. Haha!”
I poured another glass of wine. Damn, the decision was made. Next year was going duck hunting for the very first time.

Neighbors

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.