I Ain't Dead Yet, Still Have It..Somewhat.

So why am I doing it? Hiking and climbing? I'm 54, 30lbs beyond my normal weight range, have less lung elasticity and “should know better by now” about dangerous pursuits.

Is it an older man's last, desperate clutch at his youth? You're GODDAMN right it is! I've long since reached the age where self deception falls away. I know myself. I know what I am, not who, but what. (Really, think of it in that term of “what” and you'll soon reach some startling conclusions about yourself). And I know full well I'm testing myself on these climbs to see what reserves I still may have and what has waned. And some things have waned. When pulling myself up a 50 degree slope by grabbing branches, I could feel that my upper body strength ain't was it once was. My cardio stamina? That too has waned. I found myself having to stop more often now vs. when I was young humping up these rocks. On the plus side, I found out my ankle's tendons are probably leather now from doing this all summer. I can walk on anything horribly uneven now.

I never believed that 50 was the new 40. Know what the new 50 is? It's 50, period. On these climbs, I came across many teens who are made of elastic, strong and bounce their way UP these slopes. For them, they have the physical wherewithal. At my 54, it has to be mental. I accomplish this with fuckin' sheer, hardheaded determination as my natural strength diminishes. It's what I have left and so far, it's enough.

For women who dread getting older, it's beauty. Tight skin, perky tits and that damnable, compelling magic to turn men's heads as they pass by. For guys it's power (financial, political, career or whatever), strength and vitality. You're not supposed to admit this but c'mon, look at Propecia hair restorer, the beauty industry for women, Viagra and much older people in Coral Gables wearing sports Lycra attire to shuffleboard. It's a giant elephant in the room and since I was a kid I often pointed them out to the dismay and consternation of other people. “Oh Jesus...he went there again!”

We love youth and what it means and hate the fact it fades.

So, I'll admit it. I'm still hanging onto what youth I still own. So-do-YOU! I know a guy in his late 40's who has gone back into the ring to box. Another tries to pardy hard at Gillette arena concerts and yet another who tries to stuff his overweight ass into a kayak and cascade down whitewater. And why mention all the 40+ girls in the gyms? That's a given. We Boomers won't just age gracefully!

Here's a bitching complaint about what Boomers have turned into.

"staring down the barrel of middle age burnout" Click it!

This isn't new. Ever since we hid in caves, afraid that an eclipse would eat and kill the sun forever, we glorified youth as beautiful. But we Boomers created a religion out of it. I'm one of them.

There now, we're past those awkward truths about hanging onto youth, we can move on now...

I first got the idea of climbing from an Eastwood movie called, “The Eiger Sanction.” It was panned by critics in every way but one, the cinematography of having to film a climb on the north face of the Eiger was astonishing to Hollywood's technical people. The Eiger was known to kill experienced climbers with ease. In fact, a climbing adviser for the film got his face flattened. A boulder had came loose, tumbled down the mountain, striking his face and sending him to Heaven rather quickly.

So, being 10 years old, the tree in the backyard was my Eiger and with nails, rope and a good deal of imagination, I started to climb up it. I was about 20 feet up, hanging there, suspended when the old rope broke and the next thing I knew I was rolling on the ground. But I was 10 and made of rubber so I just got up, got a new rope and tried again.

In high school, I had a geometry teacher who taught boring algebra with it's quadratic equations, graphs and such. She rarely strayed off that topic when one day she said, rather deadpan, that she spent her last summer climbing the Matterhorn. Since when do boring math teachers have interesting lives? This surprised my 15 year old worldview.

This perked me up and I asked a bunch of questions of her. How much to do it? She wouldn't say but I suspect she came from some money, from some where. How can you breath when the oxygen is 80% less that high up? Ever fall? Freeze toes off? Later on, we immature teen boys wondered if she gotten laid on the world's highest peaks too. A real, hard core Mile High Club.

So, a few years pass by when I notice an escarpment in Attleboro composed of that red slate rock you see all over that town. Hell, why not try? When your 20, you think death and accidents only happen to other people and up I went. It was perhaps just 30 feet up and there were plenty of hand and footholds to make use of, but to fall 30 feet onto jagged rock below, would've cut my scrambling career short.

I lived.

So as a few more years passed, I learned about the needed safety measures you have take. Busting a leg 6 miles into the woods w/o an Iridium phone, ain't too smart. I never invested too much money into this and did it only on nice spring, summer and fall days. It was a pass time if anything else but I learned a few things that have come back to me all these years later and why I did it. You learn a lot about yourself.

Maybe it's a guy thing? You prove to yourself you can “do it.” For some reason I'd put myself in situations where I had no one else to rely on but myself (Gee, that sounds familiar to me and others that know me) and see if I can pull it off. The navigation, the climbing, the stamina, the decisions you have to make. All go to improving that situational analysis. Be Aware! Wake Up!

**

I've done about, perhaps...14 places this summer so far. So what does the next season hold? I keep looking at Katahdin in Maine, the worst one around here for height, struggle and weather. To do it, you have to know yourself and what I've found out is to go damn slow. The problem occurs is that too slow won't get you off the mountain before sunset. So, camp in place, overnight with thunderstorms at 4,000 feet? I'll have to think on it some more. 

The People You Meet on the Trails

 

The Trail Runner: I never knew they existed till I hit the trails again. I suppose each sport has it's “extreme” variant and hiking/scrambling seems to have theirs. The guys/girls you see out there doing this have about 1% body fat. They are incredibly fit and all seem to be about 23 years old. They alone can wear the spandex tops and bottoms that accentuate everything that a great looking body should look like. They also tend to wear Oakely sunglasses whether it's sunny or not. Gotta need those accessories to finish the look! The first time I saw one was while we were going up Blue Hill outside of Boston and this guy comes thumping by us, at a decent clip, uphill! Some of those grades will make your calves burn but these types are too fit for that to happen anymore. Their bodies are trained! The second time was when we were going up Mt Watatic and I swore I heard a deer bouncing by me and I caught a glimpse of a shadow. No, it was a runner bounding down the slope past us fairly quick, leaping past rock, roots and streams.

The next time the summer Olympics are on, look at the sprinters. These trail runners have that kind of body. Am I jealous? Sure. I want six pack abs and the ability to wear spandex in the forest or a busy street without looking like a pile of PlayDoh stuffed in a plastic lunch zip lock baggie.

The Normal, Traditional, Not Dysfunctional and Wholesome Family: It's a family outing and they're all there, Mom, Dad and with the gaggle of kids swarming in and out. Mom is usually leading the way up the trail. None of them have any of the equipment and are dressed like they're going to Olive Garden after the hike. The funny thing I saw was that, at times, I'd see the Dad with a backpack baby carrier. The baby seemed totally disinterested in the whole thing. The Dads did too come to think of it from judging the look on their faces. This Sunday hike was the wife's idea. “Great idea honey, let's do this instead of lying on the couch watching women's gymnastics on TV and drinking beer.” What bothered me about it was that on one trip, I saw a couple of family groups out there with all the mosquitoes, disease bearing ticks and rocky trails where you can bust a kneecap or break an arm depending on which way you fell. No matter, just because you're 15 miles from the nearest outhouse/road/cell phone tower shouldn't worry you at all.

The Former Cheerleaders Who Stay Desperately Thin: You've seen them in the mall, soccer fields, schools and you can see them on the trails. They're usually older women, 40+ who still have nearly the same figure as they did when they were in high school. They are wearing the sports Spandex, if they can get away with it. They travel still in that teen girl pack mode, three abreast if the trail is wide enough. Some have great unlined faces due to Botox or surgery, but time still etches itself on those faces in one way or another. Each has their cell phone out till the signal dies. They absolutely HATE the Trail Runner Girl who may bound by them. The Trail Runner Girl is about 23 and in fantastic shape with the assured hope of at least seven more years of looking young and great. One bolted by one Cheerleader group I saw and after the pretty one was out of earshot, the old cheerleaders started to complain about the way she dressed. No ladies, admit it, you're jealous YOU can't look like and get away with it anymore.

Hyperactive Teens: You hear them about 50 yards behind you on the trail but can't see them. Just wait. They'll catch up to you! They come by, usually 4-6 in a pack and they too aren't well equipped either. They look like they'll be hitting Misquamicut beach after. With all that energy and great, young cardio, they charge right past you with a quick, “Hi!”. The boisterousness of their talk will fade as they easily disappear into the woods ahead of you. However, give it time, you'll catch up with them. Since they charge onto these trails with all the gusto of hoping to hit the summit in 20 minutes, they blow all their stamina fairly quick. I, tortoise-like, will come upon them later on, sitting on rocks, with “this was harder than we thought” faces on them. They all tend to quiet down the higher they go too. The reality of clambering over rock is a wake up call. This is WORK. They also bitch about losing their cell phone signal. The teen girls complain their neat sports clothing is getting dirty.

The Geologist/Biologist/Botanist...Hobbyist: I came across a few of these guys. One was collecting rocks and showing me the various crystalline structure of them (like I cared) and another was plucking leaves off some plant and putting them into little zip lock bags. Both times I had asked if they were working for URI or some other scientific organization and they said “No,” they just enjoy doing this. They're not hiking at all, they're just exploring. The only two others I knew who did this was from long ago, Ted Duluk and Duncan Grey, both PhD's in Biology and who did go prancing into the woods looking for weird creatures and plants. The two had a weird sense of humor and by weird, I mean they took a Kermit the Frog doll into the woods and placed him in various horrible accidents that befell him. Kermit under a boulder. Kermit drowned in a stream. Kermit falling down an escarpment with his arms and legs all broken and twisted around his body. Kermit wasn't wearing his day-glo orange vest and got shot by a hunter. How do I know this? The two would take pictures of various creatures, plants and Kermit, transferred them to slides to show us in Biology class from an overhead projector. “Here's Polypodiopsida, a common fern.” *Click* “And there's Kermit sinking in the mud! Haw, haw, haw!”

I shit you not. They did this.

Anyways, back to my story.

The HardCore Environmentalist

I saw these guys on top of Watatic and Wachusett. They tend to climb in groups and all wear clothing purchased from LL Bean's catalog. They look the part I swear. They know every plant, rock, animal and geologic history of any spot you encounter them at. On Wachusett, a group of them were hawk watching. I never knew hawks migrated south for the winter and each time they saw one, they entered it into some data book. The funny thing about it is what follows.

These guys all had spotting scopes which go for several hundred dollars to thousands. They humped this equipment up the mountain and set it up. As W. and I sat on a bench below a fire tower, one of the guys yells out, “Peregrine! Peregrine falcon! 11 O'clock HIGH!” With that alarm, seven spotting scopes swung to that position and all started jabbering away about the bird.

I turn to W. and say, “Hey, that sounds like those old World War II bomber movies, like Memphis Belle, where the gunners yell out, “Bandit! Bandit at 11 O'clock high!” Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat! And the Messerschmidt goes down in flames. I had said it a bit loud when the leader pulls his head off his scope to shoot me a dirty look.

Gee, sorry!

The Granola Guy/Earth Mother: These are usually older people, my age and up who look like 60's hippies. When you come upon them on the trail they're usually alone, are kind but say little. I think they're kinda perturbed that their peace was disturbed by another human, me. I have to admit though they are very knowledgeable of the trails, forest and such, but I think that comes from their environmental bent that they have. They “hike and climb” but not for the usual reasons. They do it because if you're in the woods, you have too, and they like being alone. They would be the type that would be the “thru hikers” you'd meet on the Appalachian Trail, all in tune with nature and all that good shit, as long as they are ALONE. Eventually they put off a vibe to me that says, “Ok, I've acknowledged you, I've talked to you, now leave me by myself with the trees!”

Guys Like Me: We're older, heavier and either alone or in a small group. We tend to have the equipment and a more serious look on our faces vs. the younger ones. We're huffing and puffing and forever looking to where the trail leads to next, because the idea of staying overnight with the bugs is not fun if you get lost. We fall into two mindsets, or a blend of the two. We're trying to hang onto what's left of our youth or prove we “still got it” and/or we're doing what that Dr has told us: Exercise or be dead in 10 years from heart disease. One guy, about 60, tells me with some pride that he climbed Mt Washington and it took him “only 14 hours.” He hung that out in the air once he found out I was “just 54.” Ok, you win. You climbed Mt Washington and I haven't. Guys are guys, we're always competing about something or other.

We're dressed like rag bags. There's no stylish spandex or really rad and cool colors. Why do that? We're in the woods and our shitty clothing is perfect for this! We're dirty, sweaty and our hair looks like we never knew what a comb was. We're older men, we don't care anymore! Once we reach the summit, we're found sitting on a rock, just looking around. The younger ones run to and fro, with their phones out, taking pics of everything. They're off the summit in less than 20 minutes. Wow! All that work to leave as soon as you get there.

Mr. Forest Ranger.

Dressed like Smokey the Bear, crisp and clean uniforms to boot. They're Forest Cops whose job it is to keep the likes of me and you from killing yourself out there. They're also loaded, like the environmentalists, with every scrap of information you wanted to know about the mountain. I tend to look upon them a bit warily because they are COPS. They'll tend to look you up and down to see if you're poaching, stealing precious rocks or stinking of weed. They're a step below Game Wardens and I've run into a few of those in the middle of no where when I was in my 20's. They assume you have to be doing something illegal if you're out here. Lucky for me, they profile me as the silly old guy who might bust his leg proving he can still do what he did in his 20's and not a drug mule.

Be Polite, But Don't Gag Over It

I'm not Anthony Bourdain, God Rest His Wicked Soul, but I've been around food long enough to make some observations. There are some people out there who have the weirdest neurosis about food. Hell, it probably goes back to childhood. It seems some of them go into a near panic if their sandwich is cut at a 45 degree angle and NOT 180 like their Mom used to do it. But wait, you're 39 years old now! Time to grow up! No matter. They won't eat it and treat it as if was soaked in urine.

I can sorrrrrt of understand it. As a kid, there were a ton of things I'd never eat. Most veggies reminded me of freshly cut grass and that was gross. Eggs in any manner? Ugh! I couldn't get past that sulfur reek to them. Mushrooms were the ghouls of the veggie world. I knew they sucked nourishment off the DEAD. And will you believe this? Cheese. My brother thought I was nuts for disliking it. I hated the texture I felt in my mouth when I tried it. There's a ton of other things I wouldn't touch with a 10 foot pole then too.

I've become better! Honestly! In fact, I have turned into a Billy Goat that will pretty much eat anything if it holds still long enough...or survives the Five Second Rule if it should hit the floor. Except sushi. I've seen far too many times the parasites that live in fish. I don't want some creepy thing laying it's 4,000 young in my intestines. But, barring that, I'll eat most anything now, or at least try it once. I've grown up. I've also learned that bachelor trick of eating right out of the pan you cooked in. Why create more of a mess? Billy Goat Philosophy works well here too.

**

Emily Post (an original Miss Manners) once said:

“Eat Whatever the Host Serves You”

My Response? “Fuck YOU!”

Actually, I wasn't that bad. Anytime I was at someone else's house and food was served, I was lucky enough to be able to identify it and most other Mom's in the neighborhood were, at least, passing cooks with a few talents. I could sit there and eat, say “Thank you” and not burp or fart at the table. I knew enough to keep my mouth closed while eating too!

But...but...there were a few certain things I'd never eat and so what if the host was horribly insulted.

There was only one hot chocolate mix that I'd ever drink. It was called Quik and had a picture of a rabbit on the front. You'd heat up some milk, put far too much Quik into the liquid and hey presto! Great hot chocolate!

I once tried, and not by my choice the new Swiss Miss “Just Add Water” hot chocolate that came in a one serving pouch. You'd pour the dust and shrunken marshmallows into a mug, add hot water and wait till the marshmallows reconstituted themselves.

It was disgusting. I never finished it. Down the sink it went.

A few years later, Gail, Jim and I went door to door one pre Christmas week singing carols to the neighbors in the hopes of getting some money off them. I felt like a moron, at 13, singing “Oh Holy Night” to anyone but since there was a chance at a few bucks, I guess I can put up with the early teen embarrassment. It was pretty cold that night and after we had scored about three bucks a piece in change, we headed back to Gail's house to warm up.

Gail's Mom, trying to be nice to us all said she'd make some hot chocolate to “warm us up.” I then saw her open the cabinet to reach for the Swiss Miss.

“Oh fuck...” I thought to myself. Here I am in a friend's house and her Mom is going out of her way to serve us something in the Spirit of Christmas. This was a rare time when I panicked about food.

As I watched Gail's mom prepare this DuPont/Dow/3M chemical glorp, I began desperately trying to figure a way out of this situation. I wasn't coming up with any plausible reasons to scoot out in a nice, normal manner.

I kid you not, I was actually becoming nauseous at the sight and smell of that stuff. The major warning was the watering of my mouth, that saliva your body makes to protect your teeth when you heave a gallon of stomach acid past them. I looked at the kitchen floor and thought, “will I puke right here and now? God, that'll be embarrassing to hell!”

Since I had no nice reason to leave, I just said, “I have to go home now” and bolted right out their kitchen door without looking back.

About 30 minutes later, Gail and Jim come to my house an ask why I left. I still didn't tell the truth but did admit I felt “pretty sick” rather quick. It's been years but I can still sort of remember that weird smell the 70's Swiss Miss gave off.

**

At my old occupation of social work, there were times when we'd drop off the clients to visit their relatives for a day or two. One such relative was the Italian mom of S. DeNuncio. Her mom was a decent person and I had never had any problems with her till one day she INSISTED she feed me. That's Italian Mothers for you.

“Oh great, free food!” I thought to myself as I sat at her kitchen/playing card table.

I watched her as she cut up a bright, green pepper, toss it in a pan with some butter and fry it I sat there waiting for her to add something else but there was nothing else. I had to ask.

“What are you making?

“A fried pepper sandwich for you.”

I began to worry. I wasn't big on green peppers and was the kind of person who ate the insides out of a stuffed pepper, leaving the carcass behind. I didn't mind a trace of green pepper taste in the rice/hamburg mix but I really detested that overpowering green pepper assault should you eat that part too. The trick to destroying a green pepper's flavor is to cook it from 6 AM to around 11:30 AM.

Mrs DeNucio finishes up and places the sandwich before me and, being a good guest, I take the first bite of it.

“Auuuuuggggghhhh!” my brain yelled. I stopped chewing to prevent anymore of that taste from leaching out.

“What can I do? I have to spit this out!” I said to myself. “But you can't! She's still in the kitchen!”

So, each time she turned around to clean up, I quickly spit the mess into my hand and shoved it, without a napkin, into the pocket of my Navy Pea coat. I didn't care. I wasn't going to eat this gross thing any further.

I kept taking largish bites of the sandwich, waiting for her to turn the other way and dump it into my coat, until the sandwich was gone.

“Oh, you ate that quick...want another?” she asks.

“NO! Uh, no..thank you...that was enough!”

Driving down her street after we left the house, I dug up my pocket and heaved the mess onto the street.

**

This one is a bit different. It comes from when you refuse to return to a certain restaurant ever again.

In 1976, after twenty-five years of being a “company man” and working his way up the ladder, my Dad was elected the CEO of a small chain of banks. His dream realized. Work hard enough, ignore you family, be loyal to the company and they will in turn, repay the favor. This actually happened back then vs. the backstabbing you get routinely today for showing loyalty to a corporation.

I can remember many people congratulating my Dad over the position and there were also, some who grumbled about it, loud enough so you'd hear them from across the street.

Anyways...

Every Friday, for like a zillion years, we'd go the Friendly Tap on Beverage Hill ave for a dinner and then off to the Almacs in Seekonk to do the weekly shopping. This was like clockwork. The thing about any town in RI is that everyone know's everyone else's business and that restaurant was no different. My Dad was probably one of the very few in a suit vs the other blue collar workers there. I am sure the management, waitresses and a few customers had heard about Dad's elevation.

About a month before that though, when we went there, my Dad got on a kick of ordering Hero sandwiches there for supper, Friday after Friday. I had heard of them, never eaten one and didn't really care as I liked my pasta and meatballs instead. But one Friday, about a week after Dad's promotion, I had ordered one to try it out. My Dad had then ordered a veal cutlet type of thingy drowned in cafeteria brown gravy.

Flo the Waitress comes and gives us our plates. Now, being curious, I began to take the sandwich apart to see just what's in it and to scrape off anything I find disgusting (ie: too much lettuce, tomatoes, anything raw). It was then I saw it. A great, big GLOB of spit.

“Uh...Dad?” I said. “I ain't eating this no matter what you say!”

I show him the sandwich and he sort of sat bolt upright in the booth and looks straight head to the back wall, in a sort of shocked realization.

“That was intended for me...” he says.

It probably was. He had been ordering them constantly for weeks now.

He calls Flo over, shows her and a look of pure evil crossed her face. She snatches the plate and goes into the kitchen and the list of swears that came out of mouth to the cook should've been recorded for history.

“You SPIT in the kid's sandwich? You SPIT in it you dirty son of a bitch!!” What was great about that was that the entire restaurant became real quiet to listen in.

Dad slowly gets up, grabs his coat and motions for us to leave, leaving the unpaid items on the table.

“What did I DO to get that?” My 12 year old self said to everyone in the car as we left.

“NOTHING...You did NOTHING...That was aimed at ME” my Dad says. He looks at my Mom and admitted aloud that he had been getting some grief from some when they found out how he finally secured the Dream Job he had worked towards. He figured this cook was especially annoyed at him.

We never returned.

Instead, we started hitting up a new restaurant a week to try things out. 

Some of You Remember This, Click n Play