ROCK IT LIKE A HURRICANE

The hurricane skirted by our coast recently. It brought with it waves, excitement, daring, stupidity, and tragedy.

We live in the Merrimack Valley, which means that the mighty Merrimack River is our major waterway. It empties into the Atlantic Ocean in a channel that is known for its treacherous undertow. This means that people who jump off the jetty to swim often get pulled out or under, only to wash up as bloated corpses days or even weeks later. Seriously. They slip in the water without a care in the world and then get swallowed up into oblivion.

I've boated through the channel on a good day, which means everyone except the captain lies down on the bottom of the boat for balance and safety. Every time we hit a swell (they're continuous), the boat goes perpendicular, and we are "standing" and watching the boats behind us attempt the same maneuvers. It's an experience not for the faint of heart. We lived through it and no one got tossed overboard. 

Do boats go through there every day? Sure. Are there calm days? Sure. The problem is that the ocean up this way can look deceptively placid even when it's aiming to murder you.

Rip tides are a frequent event up here. Not frequent enough to keep us out of the ocean, but frequent enough that every summer a few people get caught in the rip currents and either have to get rescued (if they're lucky) or have to be recovered (if they're not). Sometimes the rip tides can be spotted from the beach -- an area suddenly looks flat, or waves crash on the shore all except in one place where they just . . . don't. 

In all the times that I've been to the beach, once (and only once) have I been involved in a rogue wave situation, and my friend and I were lucky because it only involved us chasing our chairs and our flip-flops into waist-deep water as it receded. Thinking back on it now, though, we probably should've called it a wash and let the stuff go with the major undertow that sucked the beach dry after the wave crested.

But, like the coastal water babies we are, we can't resist hurricane-induced surf.

We head out to the beach and notice that the waves just keep coming in and coming in, right on top of and with each other. It's fascinating to watch and even better to hear because the roar doesn't stop for a breath; it keeps sounding like an unhinged alarm clock. There are two surfers in wet suits (dumb to attempt surfing this but smart to be suited up) and one who just walks into the ocean wearing shorts and a t-shirt. We see them go into the water, but we don't see them come out for a very long time. Finally, about twelve minutes goes by and one of the wet-suited surfers reappears near the shoreline. My only worry is that if we can't see them, rescuers can't, either. 

After a while, we head toward the inner areas, places that are still windy and choppy, but are marshes or small bays or coves, more protected from the wide open stretches of beach. There are two windsurfers taking full advantage of the steady, strong breeze. They are smart -- they're staying along the edge of the water, along a parking lot, a residential street, and houses. In other words, they are both protected and visible. And they are flying. Literally. Maybe four to six stories in height.

It is pretty cool to watch and not nearly as nerve-wracking as watching the surfers disappear into the Atlantic Ocean.

Later, when the hurricane makes its closest pass, the news stations report on swimmers drowning (people in the violent surf who probably shouldn't have attempted the thrill) and at least one boater lost at sea after passing through that turbulent (on a good day) channel. None of these people had any business being in or on the water in such conditions, but we all misjudge (sudden rip tides and rogue waves and sharks and jellyfish). 

After all, it's not like the hurricane actually hit us, right? Wrong. 

The sea is its own master. It can turn on its wrath with the rapidity of Poseidon punishing Odysseus. The ocean doles out waves and excitement and daring that often make great photo ops, but it also indiscriminately punishes stupidity and delivers tragedy. It demands and deserves respect and will always exact revenge in the face of hubris. If you're lucky enough to be its witness, the camera is a better option than a wetsuit, swimsuit, or life jacket. Just as long as you rock it like a hurricane and don't roll it like bloated roadkill.

SCENIC NON-VISTAS

Eastern New Hampshire's idea of a scenic vista and my idea of a scenic vista are sharply different.

I am galivanting around the Lake Winnipesaukee area for a few days. The weather is iffy, but the rain mostly holds off for me to take a few side trips in the mountains. For a couple of years now, I've been itching to drive over toward Alton Bay and check out the two "scenic overlooks" that Google Maps claims are worth stopping to see. After all, they have "camera" icons marking them.

I've been to the Mount Washington valley. I've also seen the views from Whiteface in Lake Placid. I've been to the top of Pack Monadnock, Bradbury Mountain, and even Mount Agamenticus -- smaller mountains, but still with worthy views..  I've seen the hundred-mile view in southern Vermont. There's a hike in Simsbury, Connecticut, that's also worthy, especially if you climb the stairs of the Heublein Tower once you reach the top. There are great views from the Poet's Seat tower in Greenfield. When I lived in Southern New Hampshire, we could easily see mountains just driving around our small town. I'm also a bit spoiled because very little compares to the middle of Lake Champlain with the Green Mountains on one side and the Adirondacks on the other, wrapping people up in a complete circle of beauty. The ghostly image of Mount Rainier from the Seattle Space Needle was pretty dang cool, too. 

I start my misadventure in Meredith, NH, where there are some sculptures around town. The views are battling with the passing storms, providing some dramatic cloud cover. I snap a few pictures, then head back toward Gilford, where there is a thick, heavy, dark gray cloud hanging over the entire area, and I make it out of there just as the rain lets go. I'm on my way now, heading east toward Maine, with my GPS locked and loaded for "scenic view" number one.

The first thing that I notice is that the view is more of a hill than a mountain, and it's so overgrown that there really isn't much to see. I give it a "meh" rating and hope stop number two is more impressive. This second scenic overlook has just me and a dump truck driver, who is in desperate need of a cigarette. I jockey for position along the weedy and bush-laden guardrail and away from any ash and fire potential. If I stand just so, at a certain angle, I can almost sort of maybe make out part of the lake and some small mountains. Mount Major is behind me and under the road I'm on, so I'm still looking back toward the same view that I had in Meredith, just from a different angle.

Disappointment is the day's buzz word. The weather is iffy, anyway, but I am truly surprised that these two overlooks have been . . . overlooked for upkeep. If I hadn't grown up around here and been trekking to the White Mountains pretty much all of my life, I suppose I wouldn't bother coming back. Certainly nothing to see here. Even the Madison Boulder is more impressive than this view. Okay, to be honest, the Madison Boulder is damn impressive on its own, but that's a story for another day.

I don't know. I guess Alton's idea of a scenic vista and my idea of a scenic vista are a couple of mountains apart. I'm still glad I made the trip, but I doubt I'd go route 11 ever again if I can avoid it. It's interesting and it's scenic in a backroad New England kind of way, but, if you're looking for photo ops and expansive views, don't get tricked by the signs.

SUMMER WINDS DOWN

As usual, the weather for the last two weeks of my summer break are "iffy" - at best. So, when a sunny, warm day rolls around, I try to take advantage of it. It's Saturday, the second to last Saturday before the complex's pool closes. With the air temperature reaching the mid-80's, I grab my towel and a book and head to the lounge chairs, expecting a weekend-sized crowd to be there.

No crowd. Not a single soul other than the lifeguard.

I am there for about fifteen minutes when one of the regulars shows up. He immediately grabs the same two lounge chairs I always see him using on the opposite side of the pool. He flings towels over them, puts in a Dunkins order on his phone, and promptly disappears. Apparently, he is high-hosey-ing those chairs, just in case.

Just in case of what, exactly, I'm not certain. I am still the only person here.

I usually read for a while, swim for a bit, then read some more. I decide to hit the water only to discover that the heater has been turned off. The water is a cool (and I do mean cool) 74 degrees. That is pretty close to the temperature of the ocean water. A quick cool-off is needed, but then I'm right back out again.

I hang around reading for another half hour. By this time, Chair Claiming Man still has not shown back up. The empty loungers have been warming two towels for over an hour. Even more interesting, I continue to be the only person poolside. As I'm leaving, I hear a family unloading their car on their way to the pool (good luck -- it's pretty chilly), and I pass a neighbor on her way to the lounger chairs. At least the lifeguard won't be bored while waiting for Dunkins DoLittle to make his reappearance.

I know exactly when the weather will return to Summer Mode, with perfect days in the 90s: The first two weeks that I am back in school, suffering through mindless professional development, useless meetings, and lunches with at least one person who was supposed to be transferred elsewhere . . . but wasn't. (I'm way too old and jaded to be diplomatic, so I'll have to eat at my desk instead of the lunch room because ain't nobody got time for her shit.)

Maybe I'll bring a towel to work with me and claim a few chairs for myself. Perhaps I can escape reality through the same portal my pool-mate did. It will appear that I am there (at work), but I will be somewhere far more interesting. It will be like pulling a magic trick at lunch: I'm there, but in an alternate dimension, perhaps back in Summer, where the weather is way too warm and the water is way too cold.

SUMMER SHENANIGANS CONTINUE

My siblings and I like shenanigans. We are always getting into some kind of adventure or, as often happens, trouble, but it keeps us spry. It's the kind of stuff we pulled as youngsters. 

Of course, we aren't as daring as we once were, like suffering lacerations and a broken nose while on roller skates (the old four-wheel type) tied via long rope to my sister's bike. Or trying to throw another toddler out the second-story window at church nursery school one Sunday morning. Or building giant snow horses instead of snowmen so we could scale the icy things to play on them. Or taking our downhill skis through the very hilly and tree-filled backwoods around our property -- amazing that we didn't smash our helmet-less skulls.

Now, we are into tamer pursuits, for the most part. We did replace skiing through the woods with sledding at supersonic speeds past stumps, trees, and boulders (still helmet-less), and playing snowball baseball by swinging shovels full-tilt. 

We still have a smidgen of daredevil in us.

When my sister and I take in an easy hike to Cascade Falls, we don't expect much. We have had exactly two days of rain in the last three or four weeks. Imagine our surprise when there is actually water running over the rocks. This is where normal people would snap some pictures and stay on the trail.

We are far, far from normal people.

Instead, we go off-roading. After all, we are both wearing sensible shoes. We take to balancing on the rocky and jutting surfaces as if we are the Flying Wallendas (and, a couple of times, we almost become them).We tiptoe over crags, jump over small water features, and climb up small rock faces, all in the name of shenanigans.

We do get some artistic photos. My sister leads the trail, for the most part, so I get a lot of pictures of her rear-end. We work our way along the rocks and through small paths made by others who ventures off the trails as did we until we reconnect with the trails we are supposed to be on. (Don't panic! We were both Girl Scouts, and I was an Assistant GS Leader to two different troops. We only stepped where others had and did not damage any wildlife.)

Surprisingly, we end up on the family-friendly trail after crossing a bridge. We are greeted with Ruby the Rock Snake, a human-created sculpture of rocks laid along the trail to extend Ruby's length, and a concrete block game of hopscotch. Naturally, we dive right in to both activities and are pleased that we are still able to hop and scotch with the best of them.

I'm sorry to see Summer winding down, but that just means a whole bunch of new shenanigans once the season changes. 

STOPPING TO SMELL THE (REAL) ROSES

I'm notorious for stopping in random towns and random places when I'm out driving around because, to be completely honest, I despise the highway. Traveling by interstate may get you where you're going a lot faster, but the scenery is blasé, to be polite. Monotonous. Repetitive. The view from I-95 in Maine is often the same as it is in Connecticut, North Carolina, and Florida: Trees! Some houses! An occasional cow! Pretty standard stuff.

So, I like to wander off the overly-beaten path. Oftentimes, I get lost. (I get lost a lot, actually.) Sometimes my travels lead somewhere unexpected, like finding an old schoolhouse in the middle of being lost in Vermont, or having a quiet lunch by myself while being lost along the edge of a vineyard in New York. 

Perhaps, it even means passing by a sign pointing to a place I didn't realize existed in its location. This is how I stumble onto New England Botanic Garden at Tower Hill.

I knew there was a botanic garden in Massachusetts, but I thought it was closer to Boston. Instead, it's tucked into the middle of the state, much closer to Worcester (but not too close). It's off a backroad, but an easily accessible backroad, and there's no hectic city traffic to confuse my nonexistent sense of direction. After passing the sign a half dozen times in the last month or so, I decide that a hazy summer afternoon of temperatures in the high seventies means that it's time to stop and, quite literally, smell the roses.

And smell the other flowers, and the plants, and the trees, and the rocks, and the statues. Well, I do not smell the sculptures because that might be too weird, but the place is a treasure trove of vision, smells, and serenity. I'm wearing my comfy and sturdy flipflops, so I at first stick to things that say "easy walk." Then, I see "moderate" and decide, yeah, I can do that, too. There is one trail marked "difficult" and it's the summit trail. 

It's only a bit of a quick climb through the woods over ruts and rocks and roots, and the elevation isn't pitched too sharply, so my trusty Clark's sandals and I take to the trail. It turns out to be so worth it. At the top it is only me and an older couple. They've hiked up to celebrate their fifty-fourth wedding anniversary. They take the bench, and I stand in awe of the view. We are looking out over Wachusett Reservoir with the smoky image of Mount Wachusett sixteen or so miles off.

After that, I feel pretty invincible, so I hike all the way down to the pond, which is a silly idea in the afternoon sun and heat with nothing but an uphill climb to get back to the visitor center. This is when I have my Robert Frost Moment. I come upon two paths that diverge right there at the woods; one is well-established and one is less-traveled. I now have two choices: Do I hike back up the steeper, groomed path through the shady but buggy woods? Or, do I go for the grassy, meandering, full-sun path that rises a little more gently back to even ground?

Of course, I decide to go field-bombing. I swerve off to the left, just me and some butterflies and some haying grass, and start the trek back to even ground. About halfway up, though, the sun really is too much, so I find a connecting path and walk the last hundred yards in the shade. Technically, I took the path less-traveled, but I kind of worked my way back to civilization before I keeled over from heat stroke.

I will wander back there again, though. I realize as I'm leaving that I missed a part of the garden. I also didn't spend a lot of time perusing every little placard. I'm more of a looker than a learner when I encounter museums and places with lots to see. I'd rather take in all the visuals than synthesize information. (Explains why my nephews and I zoomed through the National Gallery of Art in D.C. -- gotta see everything!) In the end, I might veer off the beaten path, but I'll make sure every detail gets a perusal, and, if I miss something, it's just another reason to return.

IT'S JUST AROUND THE CORNER

It has been hot this summer. Wonderfully, fabulously hot! The last few steaming days were lower humidity, so the heat has been pure enjoyment, even at 97 degrees. 

Not every day has been perfect, though. Nearly so, but not completely. 

The one day and evening that I need to be outside (local Drum Corps show for the nephews), it pours and pours for hours. We've also had a couple of crisp nights with temperatures in the fifties. For the most part, though, this summer has been perfect.

Until a hike in the woods.

It starts out innocently enough. Warm temperature, occasional breezes, almost completely empty trails through the woods. We encounter fairy houses hidden in offshoot trails, we trek over wooden walkways and mini-bridges, and there is enough water still running through the very low river. 

But, then -- we spot something. It's just one thing at first. An anomaly, right? Except, it's fresh, still soft and not brittle. And another. And another yet. 

Autumn leaves. Freshly turned foliage. On the way home, we spot entire bushes already half-turned to fall colors.

Oh, Summer! How could you? You fickle and callous season. Pretending you want to roast us inside of our own skins and then you pull this -- this nasty trick of October right here at the start of August.

I suppose it was bound to happen. After all, I did see a joke post about putting up a Christmas tree now that August is here, and I thought, "You know, that's a dang fine idea!" (I probably shouldn't mention that my downstairs neighbor keeps her tree up and lit all year long.) Those of us who jump from July Fourth to Advent with zero regard to Labor Day, Halloween, Veterans' Day, and Thanksgiving are the ones who are causing all of this. So, I apologize.

I am sorry that I had thoughts of the holidays. I'm sorry that I watched Christmas in July on every sappy movie channel available on my TV service. I guess it's my fault that the leaves are starting to turn. I do believe that we have a couple more weeks of swimming before the snow falls, so I promise not to take out my snowshoes and admire them or make sure my ice skates (both figure and hockey) are sharpened.

Watch out, though. I swear to you, I saw it in the woods today. Autumn is just around the corner. FYI.

NO SUCH THING AS THE SILVER LINE

I ride the subway, or, as we call it here around Boston, The T. I don't ride it every day, but I ride it enough to know my way around. Much like the city streets of Boston, the T often makes zero sense.

Last year my friend and I were in a T station when we encountered a Texas mom and her teen daughter. They were in a suburb (Chestnut Hill) to check out Boston College and had come into the city easily enough on the Green Line. However, they stood dumbfounded at the map trying to get back to the campus in Chestnut Hill. 

You see, Boston actually has four different Green Lines: B, C, D, and E; and D has a northern nook and a southern branch. Worse, all four lines connect in the middle for several stations, and you have to get to the train with your letter on it. 

Worst of all possibilities, because it does go from bad to worse to worst, part of the Green Line operates through the streets with single carriages, meaning riders are literal sardines around the Museum of Fine Arts (the E Line) and Boston University (not ever in the entire world to be mistaken for Boston College -- the Bean Pot Hockey Gods spit on you for such infractions). This whole sardine routine makes the T resemble an overcrowded Bangladesh Festival Train. 

Getting back to our Boston College tourists, even more complicated: Chestnut Hill T-stops (by name) are on both the Green Line B and the Green Line D routes. 

We here in Boston understand the T. 

For example, the Silver Line doesn't truly exist. Oh, sure, there are buses at the airport that operate as "The Silver Line," but I swear to you, they just circle the airport in a Mobius loop like the old folk song Charlie on the MTA (its pre-MBTA title). Do not ever be tricked into boarding anything that says Silver Line -- you will disappear into another dimension and may never be seen nor heard from again.

Summertime Boston is a hopping place. I am meeting my son in the city, so I take the T in (Orange Line -- the only one that actually makes sense) and hoof it from Haymarket. The train is not that crowded even though Boston itself is wall-to-wall people. We have a grand old time, end up at Kelly's in Medford (for you out-of-towners, it's a pretty famous local chain). After we are done in the area there, known as Station Landing, we trek on over the skybridge to Wellington Station. My son will go south back to Boston, and I will go north a few stations back to my car.

It is no small (or even large) lie to say the T gets loaded with people sitting, standing, shoving, and clutching. Yes, the T has multiple color codes, multiple stations, and even multiple branches of the same lines. However, for a Saturday night around 9:00 p.m., the trains should all be hopping and jumping and jiving.

But, this . . . This is my surreal subway ride. I thought maybe I'd finally made it into Final Destination. No one. Not one damn soul. Nobody. Sure, being on a nearly-deserted subway carriage with one or two tough-looking  people is far more dangerous and frightening, but this was nearly next-level psychosis.

I guess the moral of this story is: You can't get there from here; sometimes you can't even get from here to there; if you ride the Green Line, remember what train letter you are on; there is no such thing as The Silver Line. Take that to heart, and you'll be fine.