Day 5 - 8 September 2008
Morning sun. Cool, but bright. No rain forecasted. Time to reach into this new day, already launched with promise before Button insisted on her imperial right as the house matriarch, to rouse us to duty. Irving tended them both outside as they performed their duties, then sniffed about, relishing the still-weak warmth of the sun.
By the time he got back into the cottage with Button and Riley, I was in the shower, and then it was his turn. During which time I set the breakfast table, prepared our meal, fed recalcitrant Button and eager Riley. Our turn; we relaxed, enjoying our leisurely meal, feeling well pleased with the weather ahead and the prospect for the day.
Our days are invariably divided into two-fold, unrelated activities. With the first part of the day devoted to outdoor activity, to enable us to engage in hiking the mountain trails. To exercise ourselves physically, along with our little dogs, and to enable us, through that same process, to celebrate our vital connection to, and need for, a narrative with nature and her creations.
In a sense, it becomes, at times, a journey of the spirit, a re-connection with the earth, the flora and the fauna that represent life's constant renewal.
The second of our purposeful and pleasurable intents is to peruse the offerings of area shops purporting to present themselves as respectable purveyors of material objects imbued with both age and aesthetic appeal. Commonly known as antiques. And, on rare occasion, proving agreeably to match their often-hyperbolic descriptives by mendacious shop owners.
It comes as a particular treat to discover the presence of an antique dealer who is knowledgeable, forthright and trustworthy. They balance the distaste we feel of the alternatives. Because of our focus on the personal need-fulfillment of an enjoyable trek through nature, the second of the activities cannot be fully enjoyed without the fulfillment of the promise inherent in the first.
Today we decided our first order of the day could be mounting the relatively modest height of the West Rattlesnake. The drive there as picturesque as always. Puffy-white clouds in a mostly-blue sky, the backdrop of mountains, one peak melting into the next, a contiguous granite grandeur, offset by deep-green forests.
When the final lap of the drive, along the winding road skirting the mountains on one side, Big Squam Lake on the other, concluded at the parking lot we were familiar with, which serves several trails, we were pleased to note the presence of a new parking lot, on the correct side of the trail, with new, direct access to its trailhead.
Off we set, trundling ourselves up the first portion of the ascent. Over time-eroded, rock-strewn,root-crossed trails. Which local nature-loving volunteers had planned to ameliorate by laying logs at inconveniently-wide placements - suited to the steps of giants - obviously meant to assist the hiker in ascending the mountain slope as a notional series of rough stairs.
Which most people make a deliberate effort to side-step, preferring to traverse the natural lay of the land, upward. Button, as usual, trots lightly ahead, eager to discover new experiences, while shorter-legged Riley, half Button's age, lingers mournfully behind. We - particularly me - don't mind his more measured gait in the ascent and exhort half-deaf Button to patience.
It becomes an exercise in nimble footwork to keep from stumbling, slipping, tripping. Beware the unwary mis-step. We forge on, and Riley manages to muster the effort it takes to half-heartedly leap obstacles to forward motion. Obstacles to him, far less so to confidently nimble Button, our 15-year-old wonder dog.
Roughly a third of the way we come across a group of women, over fairly rough terrain. I do a triple-take as we close in on one another; we ascending, they carefully descending. These are elderly women, all shapes and sizes, a half-dozen smiling, happy-to-greet-us ladies, laughing at the presence of Button and Riley. Though expressing kindly concern for Riley's diminutive presence.
Surely, I think to myself, the thin white-haired woman clutching the walking stick, is at least 80! The others, some with fashionably coloured hair, some not, don't have an especial look of fitness, and I wonder how they could have managed the climb. We mouth the platitudes of well-met, and continue our separate ways.
We note the lower portion of the mountain slope given completely to deciduous trees, primarily oak, maple, birch, with a smattering understory of ironwood and moose maple. Further up the slope, pine, hemlock and spruce assert themselves, among the predominant oak. Acorns litter the trail and we wonder where the squirrel population might be?
Having seen none, nor indication that the acorns have been squirrelized. Dogwood dangle their white-red clusters of berries. Lilies-of-the-Valley, Solomon's seal, baneberry and bunchberry, their tangles of tiny red berries enlivening the colour scheme. Asters, in hues of white and of mauve, with brilliant yellow centers, vie for space with goldenrod.
Then, again moving toward us, a group of elderly men. I laugh inwardly as we move abreast, and greet one another, then verbalize my surprise, admitting how smug I felt about being able to exercise my physicality at the age of 71, when it seemed obvious that others, seemingly older, were similarly inclined and obviously capable.
That elicited a group response of delighted laughter. And we learned that they were aged, uniformly, 76. Of the graduating class of l954, Tufts University. A group who arrange an annual assignation where they gather from distant places to celebrate life and climb the West Rattlesnake. They and their wives.
This, from a slender, tall man with a patrician bearing. While a short, overweight companion, puffing still from his dismounting efforts, wipes his brow and ruefully claims this to definitely represent the last year for his participation. We empathize, tease him by letting him know we also make similar claims, at predictable intervals.
Some 20 minutes after we part to re-commence our upward hike, two young women ascending behind us, take Riley's notice and he stands immobilized until they come abreast, vetting their presence. They ohhh and ahhh over adorable apricot-haired Riley, our reluctant Alpinist. Soon they pass us, effortlessly. The tall, slender, dark-haired young woman and her shorter, weightier blond-tressed companion.
We trudge on after them, appreciating no end those brief periods of evenly-gravelled modestly-ascending trail. All too soon reverting to a more elevating steepness, complicated by the foot-trickery of exposed and tangled roots. Increasingly, also, the presence of broad expanses of smooth, horizontal granite patches.
Surprisingly tiny black lethal mosquitoes make their presence known; sharply, irritatingly.
Finally, at the top, we enjoy the spectacle of the lake laid out far below us. We offer fresh water to Button and Riley, then take some photographs, and watch as an ambient freshening stirs the lake into silver ripples, glinting in the sun. The top is a broad expanse of granite, interspersed with random boulders and wind-and-weather-challenged, stunted trees.
There are ample places to sit and enjoy the view. But no shelter from the sweltering sun; the mountain top fully exposed. We call Button repeatedly back from her exploration of the rock-face. Her adventurous spirit has kindled a desire to stand too near the edge of the precipice.
As for Riley, he is people-oriented and has waddled over to where the two young women have seated themselves, overlooking Squam Lake. He shamelessly plays to their admiration and they appear quite prepared to indulge him, rubbing his ears. They live locally, they inform us.
Both, to my surprise, recently back from Boston, just graduated. I hardly thought them old enough. She of the short dark hair, in Psychology. She of the long blond tresses in Sociology. They plan to practise in Boston, will live there together for the nonce, school friends and confidantes. They're fresh-faced, eager, happy. Prepared to make their futures.
We speak together of many things. I ask them their opinion of the presidential race, what they think of Senator McCain's vice-presidential selection, Sarah Palin. They grimace, look at one another. Frightening, says the dark one.
By the time he got back into the cottage with Button and Riley, I was in the shower, and then it was his turn. During which time I set the breakfast table, prepared our meal, fed recalcitrant Button and eager Riley. Our turn; we relaxed, enjoying our leisurely meal, feeling well pleased with the weather ahead and the prospect for the day.
Our days are invariably divided into two-fold, unrelated activities. With the first part of the day devoted to outdoor activity, to enable us to engage in hiking the mountain trails. To exercise ourselves physically, along with our little dogs, and to enable us, through that same process, to celebrate our vital connection to, and need for, a narrative with nature and her creations.
In a sense, it becomes, at times, a journey of the spirit, a re-connection with the earth, the flora and the fauna that represent life's constant renewal.
The second of our purposeful and pleasurable intents is to peruse the offerings of area shops purporting to present themselves as respectable purveyors of material objects imbued with both age and aesthetic appeal. Commonly known as antiques. And, on rare occasion, proving agreeably to match their often-hyperbolic descriptives by mendacious shop owners.
It comes as a particular treat to discover the presence of an antique dealer who is knowledgeable, forthright and trustworthy. They balance the distaste we feel of the alternatives. Because of our focus on the personal need-fulfillment of an enjoyable trek through nature, the second of the activities cannot be fully enjoyed without the fulfillment of the promise inherent in the first.
Today we decided our first order of the day could be mounting the relatively modest height of the West Rattlesnake. The drive there as picturesque as always. Puffy-white clouds in a mostly-blue sky, the backdrop of mountains, one peak melting into the next, a contiguous granite grandeur, offset by deep-green forests.
When the final lap of the drive, along the winding road skirting the mountains on one side, Big Squam Lake on the other, concluded at the parking lot we were familiar with, which serves several trails, we were pleased to note the presence of a new parking lot, on the correct side of the trail, with new, direct access to its trailhead.
Off we set, trundling ourselves up the first portion of the ascent. Over time-eroded, rock-strewn,root-crossed trails. Which local nature-loving volunteers had planned to ameliorate by laying logs at inconveniently-wide placements - suited to the steps of giants - obviously meant to assist the hiker in ascending the mountain slope as a notional series of rough stairs.
Which most people make a deliberate effort to side-step, preferring to traverse the natural lay of the land, upward. Button, as usual, trots lightly ahead, eager to discover new experiences, while shorter-legged Riley, half Button's age, lingers mournfully behind. We - particularly me - don't mind his more measured gait in the ascent and exhort half-deaf Button to patience.
It becomes an exercise in nimble footwork to keep from stumbling, slipping, tripping. Beware the unwary mis-step. We forge on, and Riley manages to muster the effort it takes to half-heartedly leap obstacles to forward motion. Obstacles to him, far less so to confidently nimble Button, our 15-year-old wonder dog.
Roughly a third of the way we come across a group of women, over fairly rough terrain. I do a triple-take as we close in on one another; we ascending, they carefully descending. These are elderly women, all shapes and sizes, a half-dozen smiling, happy-to-greet-us ladies, laughing at the presence of Button and Riley. Though expressing kindly concern for Riley's diminutive presence.
Surely, I think to myself, the thin white-haired woman clutching the walking stick, is at least 80! The others, some with fashionably coloured hair, some not, don't have an especial look of fitness, and I wonder how they could have managed the climb. We mouth the platitudes of well-met, and continue our separate ways.
We note the lower portion of the mountain slope given completely to deciduous trees, primarily oak, maple, birch, with a smattering understory of ironwood and moose maple. Further up the slope, pine, hemlock and spruce assert themselves, among the predominant oak. Acorns litter the trail and we wonder where the squirrel population might be?
Having seen none, nor indication that the acorns have been squirrelized. Dogwood dangle their white-red clusters of berries. Lilies-of-the-Valley, Solomon's seal, baneberry and bunchberry, their tangles of tiny red berries enlivening the colour scheme. Asters, in hues of white and of mauve, with brilliant yellow centers, vie for space with goldenrod.
Then, again moving toward us, a group of elderly men. I laugh inwardly as we move abreast, and greet one another, then verbalize my surprise, admitting how smug I felt about being able to exercise my physicality at the age of 71, when it seemed obvious that others, seemingly older, were similarly inclined and obviously capable.
That elicited a group response of delighted laughter. And we learned that they were aged, uniformly, 76. Of the graduating class of l954, Tufts University. A group who arrange an annual assignation where they gather from distant places to celebrate life and climb the West Rattlesnake. They and their wives.
This, from a slender, tall man with a patrician bearing. While a short, overweight companion, puffing still from his dismounting efforts, wipes his brow and ruefully claims this to definitely represent the last year for his participation. We empathize, tease him by letting him know we also make similar claims, at predictable intervals.
Some 20 minutes after we part to re-commence our upward hike, two young women ascending behind us, take Riley's notice and he stands immobilized until they come abreast, vetting their presence. They ohhh and ahhh over adorable apricot-haired Riley, our reluctant Alpinist. Soon they pass us, effortlessly. The tall, slender, dark-haired young woman and her shorter, weightier blond-tressed companion.
We trudge on after them, appreciating no end those brief periods of evenly-gravelled modestly-ascending trail. All too soon reverting to a more elevating steepness, complicated by the foot-trickery of exposed and tangled roots. Increasingly, also, the presence of broad expanses of smooth, horizontal granite patches.
Surprisingly tiny black lethal mosquitoes make their presence known; sharply, irritatingly.
Finally, at the top, we enjoy the spectacle of the lake laid out far below us. We offer fresh water to Button and Riley, then take some photographs, and watch as an ambient freshening stirs the lake into silver ripples, glinting in the sun. The top is a broad expanse of granite, interspersed with random boulders and wind-and-weather-challenged, stunted trees.
There are ample places to sit and enjoy the view. But no shelter from the sweltering sun; the mountain top fully exposed. We call Button repeatedly back from her exploration of the rock-face. Her adventurous spirit has kindled a desire to stand too near the edge of the precipice.
As for Riley, he is people-oriented and has waddled over to where the two young women have seated themselves, overlooking Squam Lake. He shamelessly plays to their admiration and they appear quite prepared to indulge him, rubbing his ears. They live locally, they inform us.
Both, to my surprise, recently back from Boston, just graduated. I hardly thought them old enough. She of the short dark hair, in Psychology. She of the long blond tresses in Sociology. They plan to practise in Boston, will live there together for the nonce, school friends and confidantes. They're fresh-faced, eager, happy. Prepared to make their futures.
We speak together of many things. I ask them their opinion of the presidential race, what they think of Senator McCain's vice-presidential selection, Sarah Palin. They grimace, look at one another. Frightening, says the dark one.
Labels: Peregrinations, Personally Dedicated
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