You have to know where you come from to know where you're going. (Lindsay)

August is "Happiness Happens Month" so it was only fitting that we fill these 31 days with visits to our friends and family members.  If May was a bit hectic in its planning, June was a deep breath in the mountains, July was adventures in new places, then August was certainly about reconnecting with those we love.

It all started in Prince Edward Island and a visit to a dear friend.  Elise and I spent three months together at the Chimpanzee Conservation Center in Guinea, West Africa in 2005-2006.  This is a sanctuary for orphaned chimpanzees; survivors of the illegal bushmeat and pet trades in Africa.  They all have stories but most make their way to this haven as young babies (1-5 years old) and spend 10-15 years learning essential skills from one another, the international volunteers and native Africans.  Volunteers are required to spend at least six months - enough time to learn how to A) survive around and B) assist these amazing animals.  While most days you feel like a nanny with very hairy children, some days may bring a chimp attack complete with boulders thrown at your head and a bite to the back of the neck because you looked at someone's new girlfriend too long.  Combine the stress of trying to integrate with a group of wild animals with the complete isolation of the sanctuary (the closest African village which has no electricity or services is hours away on a very bumpy road) and you inevitably form strong bonds with those around you. 

Elise showing the babies something essential to their survival. 
Or maybe she's just eating her lunch.

Elise showed up after I'd been there three months.  I remember being excited because she was the first volunteer coming from Canada (the rest were from France) and mistakenly thought I'd be able to speak English again.  Not only was I wrong but her Quebecois accent was the most difficult for me to understand.  We spent many an afternoon miming weird gestures to one another.  The international volunteers were incredibly patient with my minimal understanding of French.  When I said, "Dan should go in my butt!", they politely taught me how to say, "Dan should ride on my back!".

Dan on my back.  Not in my butt.

 

Elise is one of my favorite people.  She has a confidence and empathy I've never seen.  She says exactly what's on her mind but not in an overbearing or pushy way.  She literally has children named after her in Africa because of her ability to connect with people.  And yet, we'd lost touch over the years and I hadn't seen or talked to her in seven years.  We arrived at her apartment, the door flew open and I was immediately in her armpits (hugs are appropriate in this scenario).  We spent hours reminiscing and cooked a 10pm dinner with plenty of wine.  Keira was thrilled at the amount of drinking that occurred because it allowed her to snatch a baklava out of Elise's boyfriend's hand. 

The weekend brought an oyster festival on the western side of PEI, camping in an awesome spot and a day at the beach.  As she forgot her bathing suit at the campground and needed to borrow a sports bra from me, I was flooded with memories of swimming in the Niger River, shrieking at every movement which even remotely resembled a hippo or crocodile.  Good food, wonderful province and promises to do a better job staying in touch.

Then it was on to Baxter State Park and down the coast of Maine.  In our previous home, we rented out two bedrooms in our upstairs over the years and were fortunate enough to have Anna move in with us for six months.  (the roommate lottery is a scary venture)  And while she and her husband, Bobby, had since moved to Virginia, we were thrilled to hear they had returned to New England just a week prior.  One of my favorite nights in Boscawen was an all night board game marathon that had me literally peeing my pants.  (Board game: "What part of a man makes him more feminine?"  Bobby: (reading an answer from one of us) "His vagina".   And out came the wine.  Through my nose.

So we had dinner and walked around town catching up on our ever changing lives.  They were kind enough to adopt my grandma's cat when my beloved grandma passed away because our pets were not accepting of another cat joining the clan.  Abby lived in our office at home for a month or so while I tried every attempt to keep her out of the shelter where I worked.  One day, Anna came to me and said, "I like Abby.  Let me talk to Bobby."  And my reply, "Yes.  Please.  Thank you."  And so it goes.

Abby getting ready to move to her new home.



Just an hour or so down the highway and we stopped at one of our favorite "pit-stops"; Jim's Aunt & Uncle's place in Wells, Maine.  Some of the most gracious people, I swear.  We were there about ten minutes before his Aunt Molly started talking about her frustration because she was finally a match for a bone marrow patient but couldn't donate because of a pending shoulder surgery.  And then it was on to how they could help an acquaintance's son with college.  It's just who they are.  I was so inspired I told Jim I wanted to donate my kidney.  He rolled over and fell asleep so I took that as a yes.

Their beach house is cozy and there is a constant (and I mean constant) stream of people coming through.  When others (including ourselves) might buy a retreat to spend time alone, they open it up to anyone in their lives who might need a break and can't afford the otherwise exorbitant fees of vacationing in Maine in the summer.  It is a gift that we get to spend many weekends and random days in "their peace in Maine". 

Keira searching for clams on the beach.

While I was blissfully enjoying a rare, fast internet connection, I noticed that our most favoritest yoga instructor needed help stacking wood the following day.  So off went our now standard email (copy/paste) - "Do you have a driveway?  Can we sleep in it?  We will offer X if the answer is yes".  She wrote back a very colorful "HELL YES" (that's not really what she said but I can't write her response on this blog because children are watching)  So it was off to Concord and our old stomping grounds.  Being Tina, she wasn't there when we got there so we parked the camper, befriended her dog and drank wine until her teenage daughter came home and invited us in.  We stayed up until midnight with her girls making Friendship Bracelets.  (Which is crazy because I was just telling Jim about how I used to sell these bracelets in the lunchroom in 6th grade.)

Now this is what I call a team effort.

Woke up and went to yoga class and then stacked wood all afternoon with a very nice hodgepodge of Tina's friends and a sick but determined teenage daughter.  Many glasses of wine later and it only collapsed once.  Success!  We've been going to Tina's "Yoga for Athletes" class for the past four years and it's one of the things we miss most on this trip.  I've laughed hysterically through that class and cried uncontrollably.  (the class was on Wednesday nights and was my mid-week relief from the stress at work)  I've listened to dear friends snore through Savasna and shed a tear themselves.  And it was all good.  At the risk of sounding like a hippie yoga person, it truly does just take paying attention to your breath to experience your life.

Drinks at Margarita's with another ex-roommate of ours, Daryl.  (Daryl Barrel)  Living with Daryl and Jim was like getting to see back in time to when Jim was a small lad.  "Mom, can we ride bikes?"  He was our last roommate and one of the most long-term and we thankfully lucked out in the lottery with him.  He was quite understanding of our, "umm, we want to go on a road trip but we don't know when and we have to sell the house first so can you clean your room" crap.  He even helped restrain small kittens on the dining room table when I needed to draw blood and put a smile on his face every time I brought another obnoxious dog home and said, "umm, I don't know if he likes men yet".

Feeling refreshed and sore, it was back to the homebase - good ole Swanzey, NH and the Monadnock region.  We are, at this stage, planning to move back to this area when we return.  (Of course, there are always mitigating factors so no promises people!) but we both love this area.  Inevitably, Jim logs onto the real estate website when we're here and we end up driving by a few properties before I remind him that we're still on a road trip and I don't care how pretty the house is, I'm living in a tiny camper.

We spent the week in the hay field of the faux in-laws, teaching Jim's six year old nephew how to snap his fingers and say, "oh no you did - n't."  Kathy: You. Are. Welcome.  I love knitting in this house because they have the only non-toddler chair in the world that I actually fit in - I mean, sitting all the way against the back and feet fully on the floor!  It's amazing.  We washed our sheets for the first time in three months and hung them on an actual clothesline - ecstasy.  Took Ivy and Keira for a trail run in the woods behind the house which always fills me with smooshy happiness because it's proof that with time, my dear girl can hang out with another girl off-leash and actually enjoy it.   Round out our visit home with a family reunion and a night of Scrabble (alright, I loathe Scrabble but the company was good) and all was well.

Jim's family is vast and continues to multiply.  Thankfully, they are also hilarious.

We were scheduled to be in Rhode Island for my very good friend's wedding.  Ben and I met in college as bus drivers (yup, we drove buses - who lets college kids drive buses?).  We spent our last summer on campus not just sharing an apartment, but a room because there were five of us crammed into a small three bedroom apartment.  He slept in my closet which is as hilarious as it sounds.   "Goodnight Ben.  Goodnight Lindsay."  A normal exchange made funny by the closing of a closet door.  Oh, the adventures we had.  Phone rings.  "Hello?"  "Lindsay.  I woke up in a shrub."  "Of course you did."  Ah college.  But we've changed so much since then.

Then.

And now.
See.  Growth.

After a weekend of stuffing our faces, it was off to my favorite place to eat brownies.  Mom's house in upstate New York.  I spent about four months living in her basement after grad school waiting to get a job so I'm always happy to return and see how far I've come.  Crap.  I still don't have a job.  Anyway, I joke that I've desensitized my mother to my adventures at this stage and she hardly notices when I do something crazy anymore.  2001: Mom, I'm going to Australia for six months.  (she cried when I got to Los Angeles)  2005: Mom, I'm going to Africa for six months.  (she didn't freak out until week three of not hearing from me).  2013: Mom, we're going to sell our house and live in a truck.  "That's nice dear." 

As they say, the apple doesn't appear to fall too far from the tree.

Upon consuming an entire pan of brownies, a bag of chocolate chip cookies and a box of cupcakes, our blood sugar told us to move on.  Facebook has been an incredible gift on this trip.  While I usually use it just to see what people are doing and to post excessive pictures of animals, it really has allowed us to find people with whom we've lost touch.  My parents divorced when I was very young and I was about five the last time I saw my dad's sister and her husband - Aunt Ruth & Uncle Otto.  A few years ago, I found my cousin on FB.  Turns out my Aunt and Uncle live in Michigan and were literally on our way to another family gathering.  So after 27 years, I saw them again.  Crazy.  Amazing dinner over a dose of catching up and breakfast the next day with more catching up and promises to stay in touch.

Then it was up the coast of Michigan to my Aunt Kay's and Uncle Bob's new camp on Hubbard Lake.  I use the term "camp" loosely as it's a three bedroom, two bath lodge.  Our mini family reunion included my Aunt Cindy & Uncle Rob (my mother has two sisters and they all look exactly the same so it just feels like I have three moms running around), my cousin Heather and her kids and my cousin Nicole's seven year old daughter who quickly became Keira's shadow.  I normally see my family in an exhausting, four day out and back around Thanksgiving so it was blissful to spend a whole weekend drinking and swimming without a job to get back to.   I love to see my family because A) they know how to make a good drink and B) they tell me hilarious secrets about my mother. 

Can you tell which is my mom? 
Neither can I.

And so we're off again - away from the comfort of places we know and people we love and while I'm crazy excited to see what's in store for us as we head across the Upper Peninsula, through Wisconsin and on to our first big park in South Dakota, it has been a true gift to spend time back in our roots.

"A man finds room in the few square inches of the face for the traits of all his ancestors;

for the expression of all his history, and his wants."
Ralph Waldo Emerson

 

 

 

Why the Truck Camper (Jim)

Note: Originally written a couple of weeks ago in Newfoundland, but only now getting around to posting it.  I blame Canada

The weather has mostly been glorious during our two weeks here in Newfoundland, but she has seen fit to grace our last couple of days with a more seasonal rainy weather pattern.  We will not complain - in fact it has been a good excuse to allow ourselves a couple of lazy days having spent so much time in the great outdoors.  As I sit here on the bed, the staccato of rain drops on the camper is reminding me that yes, it is OK that you splurged $30 on a campsite for a safe place to plug in and read away an afternoon.  And shower.  Damn, did we need to shower.

One of the persistent questions we have fielded by friends, blog readers, and fellow travelers is why we decided on a truck camper as a means to do our road trip.  Having been on the road in it for well over a month now we have had an opportunity to experience all the pros and cons and are generally pleased with how it has functioned.

Why on earth would we do this to ourselves?

There are as many ways to travel as there are travelers.  At various points in the evolution of this road trip, we considered many different options including but not limited to:

1. Towing a tear-drop camper behind my beloved (and sorely missed Accord) or upgrading to a bigger vehicle and doing the same.
2. Towing a camper trailer or fifth wheel behind a truck or SUV
3. Driving a big SUV or van and packing a big tent to set up in camp sites and staying in motels
4. Driving a Class C motor home (think van package on a truck chassis)
5. Driving a Class B van (think conventional van with more head room and utilities)
6. Wearing a backpack and hitchhiking using sad wet golden retriever puppy eyes and/or having Lindsay flash truck drivers to get lifts (OK only one of us considered this)
7. Hold out for a Vanagon in decent shape, meanwhile growing dreadlocks and shopping for underwear made only of hemp

We want to look like this after the road trip, not before

Ultimately, there were a few reasons that the truck camper option was the one we settled on, although if the right Class B van had come along we might have made that work.  In our part of New England however, decent used Class B's were very rare and brand new they are ludicrously expensive.

We want to be comfortable, dammit!  This is 'Into the Mild,' not 'Into the Wild' for a reason.  Do you remember what happened to the 'Into the Wild' guy?

This happened.  BEFORE, you know, dying and stuff

This is our home for at least six months - we literally do not have a permanent home right now.  Little things like having a bed that does not have to be made, a kitchen (however tiny) that we can cook and clean dishes in whenever we want, a fridge, a central heat source, and a bathroom (incredibly tiny) go a long way in making us feel that we have a refuge wherever we go.  We have 'camped' on busy city streets (thanks Newport and Halifax for the free digs!) and in parking lots - with the shades drawn, any place we can park has the potential to afford us privacy and a few (cramped) comforts of home.  While motel rooms are comfortable, they would not be a home and neither of us wanted to pack every night.  So, the tenting / car camping / motel options were out.

Never under estimate the importance of this....

...to make even the wasteland behind the grocery store in Port aux Choix, Newfoundland a home on a 40 degree foggy night

We don't want to tow anything.  We wanted to be able to go down any road, in the city or boondocks.  Towing anything, even a wee tear drop camper immediately complicates this.  We couldn't have done this with a trailer....

....I'm not saying we SHOULD have done this, of course

We still want some flexibility.  So we settled on some form of RV.  Class A's are so big you can only park in specially designed lots and you have to tow another vehicle just to get around towns and parks and get about 7mpg.  Class C's are commonly used but usually have been rotting in driveways for years and are full of raccoons, crusty fluids of unknown origins and shame, and are notorious for leaks.  Class B's (the smallest RV option) were a strong contender but did not have the storage we needed.  Also, all of these options have low ground clearance and not much power.  We wanted a vehicle that could handle some off road and mud in a pinch.  This pushed us in the truck direction.  Truck can get places RV's cannot.

We wanted to be able to do this, which is hard to do with a bus-sized RV

We have to consider the stupid precious dog.  This was a huge and non-negotiable part of the trip.  Keira had to come.  This meant that we needed a place for her to ride with us while on the road and a safe place to be left when she was not with us.  An extended cab pickup provided extra storage and plenty of room for her to sit with us along with a home (the camper) to leave her in - with the battery powered fan and AC when plugged in, we do not have to worry about leaving her in a car (ironically, the gal is a big fan of leaving dogs in cars.) 

Shut up, Keira

We are a wee people.  Our camper is a generous 60 square feet and 6.5' high.  There are precious few advantages to being short people, and goddammit we are going to luxuriate in this one.  Not only are we small, but we are nimble and do not mind clambering around on top of the bed to make it or hopping in and out of the thing without bothering to put the stairs up every time.  One advantage to being under-aged RV'ers (most of our peers these days are retirees) is that we are still on our original hips.  Plus, being hobbits gives us a stealth bonus, great when boondocking.  Bottom line, we don't need all the space provided by bigger RV's or trailers and truck campers work better for small young people.

We're like this, except more platonic. 

The miscellaneous intangibles.  Intangibles!  My favorite sports statistic (along with 'scrappiness,' only applicable to short white players that probably play for a Boston team) applies to this.  The truck camper concept just felt right.  We were able to shop around for just the right camper, and then shop around for just the right truck.  At the end of the trip, we have a viable vehicle to get us through the short term (and can use it to move).  The camper, not having axles, does not need to be registered and costs us no extra in tolls or ferry fares (this has literally saved hundreds of dollars so far).  Mechanically, there is less that can go wrong and while maintenance for both the truck and camper are expected, an issue with one or the other will not leave us stranded AND homeless at the same time (neat!).  Also, it is just small enough that it really forces us to have our shit together, only pack the essentials, and make sure everything goes back into its place - kind of like when backpacking.  Finally, it allows us to crash with friends (and strangers!) without feeling like we are imposing TOO much...since we just need a driveway to park in, we are low maintenance guests. 

Truck Campers are like the Danny Woodheads of the RV world....leading the league in scrappiness

Disadvantages.  Yes, there are some.  The biggest by far is the gas mileage.  Did you know that F250's kind of suck at this?  Kind of makes you wonder why so many dipshits drive trucks just to get around (probably the same assholes who drive Harleys).  Well, our camper must be hauled and a truck is required.  Our budget assumed a worst case of 10 mpg and $4.00 a gallon, we are so far getting about 12.5 mpg.  Gas is our biggest expense by far, we decided to accept this disadvantage because of what we save on camp sites, hotel rooms, or eating out.  And unless we bought a Prius and hauled nothing, it would have been hard to do much better than 20 mpg for a trip like this.  Say La Vee.  Another disadvantage is the height - we sit about 10' 6'', just high enough to have to keep an eye out for low overpasses or, much more likely, low hanging tree limbs.  Most recently, we could not drive into Baxter State Park because it has a maximum height of 9'.  We also had to be cautious driving around Acadia, which has some low arched overpasses.

I had to leave the camper behind to get into Baxter State Park, so I could take Lindsay here, so she could do this to me

Bottom Line.  This model works for us.  We do not really understand why more people in the US did not converge on this option and instead stick to the conventional ones of trailers or big RV's.  When touring Nova Scotia and Newfoundland, we saw many more truck campers with Canadian plates.  (I guess this makes us honorary Canadians eh?).  Some of these were headed to even grander adventures in Labrador, Nunavut or Alaska - places where having a truck is simply a matter of safety (trucks are polar bears natural enemies).  We are not sure if we will keep our setup after the road trip or if this will be the start of a lifetime of searching for the perfect truck / truck camper setup, but at this point all of our options are open.  Right now we are excited to be heading out west - Badlands here we come!!! 

It's just one hill. (Lindsay)

Yesterday we hiked Mount Katahdin; Maine’s highest peak.  I have been trying to avoid this mountain for many years as it strikes terror into the part of me that is afraid of heights.  Each year, Jim would say, “I’m going to drive to Maine and hike Katahdin.  Wanna come?”  Umm no.  Not only do I not want to give up an entire weekend to drive “downeast”, I also want no part in this structure named “The Knife’s Edge”.  

Jim gazing at the Knife's Edge.  And no, I did not hike on these spikes of death.

But this time around, I had no excuse.  Baxter State Park was “on the way”; our new euphemism for anything within 100 miles of our very flexible route and the weather was going to be perfect.  I’ve always considered myself a hiker but I’m not sure why.  Before this year, I had hiked exactly five mountains in my entire life.  I was dragged up one as a teenager and hated every step.  Jim has brought me up the others – Mount Monadnock in Southern NH, a small mountain in central NH and two in the White Mountains.  I cried most of the way up Mount Chocorua, a mountain that I would now practically fly up, because I was sure the wind would blow me right off the boulders.  My legs were shaking so much at the end of the nine mile Franconia Ridge Trail that I was passed by a woman with a broken wrist sprinting down the wet rocks. (Nothing gives you confidence like a broken middle-aged woman politely rejecting your offer to help her down the mountain.)

Just because you put white paint on a boulder, it doesn't make it a trail.


Needless to say, I wasn’t really a hiker.  But as lover’s luck would have it, I ended up with a boy who is in love with the mountains.  He was fortunate to have his Crazy Aunt Denny and many family friends start him on mountains at a wee age and he can now leap from boulder to boulder without pausing.  (I readjust my balance with every step which typically invokes the "are we really going this slow" look from him). 

 

I like to do this when I hike.

Not this.

If Jim is mountains and oceans, I’m forests and lakes.  I’m perfectly happy running through a town forest.  Hills are fine, even roots and rocks; I don’t mind running into terrifying wildlife and I’ve gotten myself home in the middle of the winter when I was lost for five hours in the woods without enough clothes or any food.  In the end, I just don’t want to die.  Running through the woods without another soul in sight while Keira sprints around, occasionally checking in with me, is bliss.  Scrambling up steep rocks while trying not to look at the ravine I’m likely to slide into is not my idea of a good time. 

Until it was.

I seem to have replaced long runs with long hikes on this trip and, I have to say, it’s kinda gnarly. (Advice: if a hiker ever tells you to do a hike because it’s “gnarly”, avoid it at all costs.  Gnarly = you will probably die) So, I begrudgingly agreed to hike Katahdin because Jim said, “well, I think you’re ready for it” which is Jim-speak for “she’ll tweak out but I really want to hike this mountain so I’ll pretend she’s ready”.

 

We wanted to hike the “easy” trail up (and by “easy”, I mean only “moderately strenuous”) but this particular park limits the number of people who can park at any given trailhead and apparently 35 other people also thought the easy route would be nice so we ended up on the Appalachian Trail (AT) instead.  (i.e. “very strenuous”) For those who don’t know, the AT ends at the summit of Katahdin so we were excited to possibly see some thru-hikers (those who hiked from Georgia to Maine) finishing their four-six month journeys. 

We met our first hiker at, you guessed it, the first f’ing ladder.  Ladders are used on trails to assist hikers up a particularly steep section.  I think ladders are a park’s way of saying, “okay, all the wimps can turn around now”.  When I get to a ladder or steep section, I want to be alone with my fear of heights.  I want to whimper and yell at Jim and even drop a tear or two without an audience.  But today, a man who had hiked 2,200 miles in the past four months stood there and watched me.  Of course, when someone is staring at you, you want to be cool so I just hoisted myself up without much drama.

This is what Jim thinks of ladders. 

And this is what I think.  See any difference?

We chatted with him for awhile and another thru-hiker about their plans now that their journey was complete.  I recognized the mixture of elation and sadness now that they were finished and knew I’d see the same in my eyes when our trip is completed.  And it got me thinking about how these men (and one woman – yay!) gave six months to be in the woods, to get away from the working world and just live in the moment.  And while Jim and I like showering too much to have done the AT (we considered it at one point but our max is one shower every three days), I found many similarities in the people hiking this incredible trail. 

While running helps me stay in the moment, it occurs more frequently when I hike.  Whether I’m trying to focus on every step on a technical climb or so exhausted at the end to think about much else, I tend to find hours of blissful nothingness in my overly-planning brain.  Imagine the effects of this if you do it every day for months? 

And unlike a long run, where you could theoretically quit and call your partner for a pity ride or just turn around, once you reach a summit, you have to go back down.  Which means when my legs are screaming after five miles of ascent, I just tell them to shut up because we have to do the same five to get back to the car where the cookies are.  It’s a wonderful feeling really, to move from excitement in the beginning of a hike, to a chatty ascent, to the silent huffing and puffing in the steep sections, to the celebration at the top, to the rage at having to now climb down the same sections that made you crap your pants on the way up, to a peaceful calm in the last mile or two and that glorious feeling of taking a shower and stuffing your face because you know you burned a few thousand calories.

I see the same peaceful look in the eyes of shelter dogs (or any dog) after a good run or hike.  There is nothing more satisfying than watching a shelter dog go from anxious and hyper in her kennel to calm and serene - the world is a better place for having volunteers who run with shelter dogs.

 

Beauty, a shelter dog, after her run.

Hiking is pushing yourself and staying calm when your brain is telling you to just go home and serenity all in one.  I heard on the radio today public libraries described as “places of bustling quiet”.  I believe mountains and trails support the same culture.  And it seems, for this reason, I am now a hiker.