tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-60445230132306920412024-03-13T00:09:48.735-04:00The Sunday Hikera guide to dawdling in the woodsanniemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12762867807246831445noreply@blogger.comBlogger54125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6044523013230692041.post-46925393133990650042011-05-08T10:52:00.001-04:002012-03-06T13:40:58.196-05:00Procrastination Part 1 – The Life of an Academic<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrKikhwheVlyafv6iOqtdbRo6jXge3RwjJHLcCeovTUYqJLtIHQoDxITLyT5cjLfOINM9PFh2hmSRsuXEMDj7nM05BgEPjWpRCDx4SajiTcPgFkrtE6YqDW6wMr4lVDnmG5lzsh67ZV2_F/s1600/Massachusettes+Wildlife.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 169px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrKikhwheVlyafv6iOqtdbRo6jXge3RwjJHLcCeovTUYqJLtIHQoDxITLyT5cjLfOINM9PFh2hmSRsuXEMDj7nM05BgEPjWpRCDx4SajiTcPgFkrtE6YqDW6wMr4lVDnmG5lzsh67ZV2_F/s200/Massachusettes+Wildlife.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5604145485518795506" /></a><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Procrastination can take many forms, sometimes it even wears the guise of a celebration. I should have been doing homework, but with the semester almost at an end, freedom was too close not to take a taste. No, I did not go on a hike to celebrate the almost-end of my first year as a grad student, and exorbitant quantities of reading and “thinking.” I slipped some plastic out of my wallet, sat before the all powerful glowing screen of my laptop and shopped, an activity <a href="http://sundayhiker.blogspot.com/2010/05/to-buy-or-not-to-buy.html">I don't take lightly</a>.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><a name='more'></a>It was time to free myself from the chains of bondage, let my hair down and rip at my bodice – or at least send my credit card number into the ether and purchase a subscription to the New York Times, of which I had long dreamed.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">As with most unwholesome indulgences, guilt followed quickly on freedom’s heels, stomped on freedom’s toes really. With the click of the "buy" button my bliss bubble popped and feelings of foolishness oozed out. I did not wallow. If the realization that I was already a year behind on all non-essential reading deflated my glee, it was time to get reading. I sat my plump white ass in a chair and started in on last fall’s copy of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Massachusetts Wildlife, </i>expecting to read about Semipalmated Sandpipers, Brook Trout and Wood Turtles. Why go into the wild, when the wild can find you while you sip tea on the veranda? </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Blasphemy? Well, what else do you expect from someone who put their hiking blog on hold to pursue the esoteric academics of Children’s Literature? If nothing else, my education has turned me into an armchair. I was going to say armchair historian or traveler or philosopher but really at this point, I’m just an armchair. Though sedentary (and not good for one’s posture or circulation) reading can be expansive in unexpected ways.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Massachusetts Wildlife</i> in hand I found myself projected far beyond the cuddly turtles and fluffy birds I'd expected and into a strange mysterious world where I found myself thinking, “Wow, those are some sexy guns.”</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Typically, as the good liberal I am, the descriptives I would attach to the word “gun” would be prim and disapproving. But apparently, this modern instrument of death was once an art form. <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Reading</st1:place></st1:city> about the detailed metal work and beautiful inlays of the early handcrafted rifle sparked admiration in my bosom. Yes, I had to mention bosoms. It’s Mother’s Day, it’s a bosomy holiday. And if you haven’t thought of that perfect gift, now you have. No, not the gun, a subscription - to your local wildlife magazine, it just might inspire a new thought, or two.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">[“Double History: The Embodiment of Craft & Sportsmanship” was the article that lead to all this expansive thought, found in No. 3 2010 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><a href="http://www.mass.gov/dfwele/dfw/publications/mwmag/mwmag_home.htm">Massachusetts Wildlife</a>,</i> written by Ernest W. Foster, Jr., with superb photos by Bill Byrne. Annual subscriptions are cheap too – only $6 a year. The <st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on"><a href="http://www.wvdnr.gov/wildlife/magazine/Current/toc.shtm">West Virginia</a></st1:place></st1:state> wildlife magazine is free. Sadly some states, like <st1:place st="on"><a href="http://wa.audubon.org/"><st1:placename st="on">Washington</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">State</st1:placetype></a></st1:place>, don’t seem to have a state wildlife magazine. In that case, I recommend <a href="http://www.audubon.org/locations/type/304">a subscription to a state Audubon Society Chapter </a>or national subscription to the<a href="https://ssl.palmcoastd.com/pcd/app/index.cfm?iXz=3A3BB2908A3FACA89856BE8E27E5137A#"> Audubon Society</a>.]</p>anniemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12762867807246831445noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6044523013230692041.post-47891442425280904232010-11-21T05:47:00.006-05:002012-03-06T13:38:37.004-05:00This Turkey Butt’s for You<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB44RrflE17YEL549fXj5jkjUsYMEF8SfjYbAJer6aIpsh6RtBLhELk8i9UzLoQkLSOxx2Toz7jmgkma-mDv0zjXOI4H4wguzn8ExuUIhOI5R64znEW2n9a5e8ZhO5FFsYbYc70V64yDS9/s1600/Turkey+Tail+Maybe.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB44RrflE17YEL549fXj5jkjUsYMEF8SfjYbAJer6aIpsh6RtBLhELk8i9UzLoQkLSOxx2Toz7jmgkma-mDv0zjXOI4H4wguzn8ExuUIhOI5R64znEW2n9a5e8ZhO5FFsYbYc70V64yDS9/s400/Turkey+Tail+Maybe.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5541847070700298754" /></a><p class="MsoNormal">Probably every child in <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">America</st1:country-region></st1:place> has colored in a turkey at some point in their grade school careers. There is something satisfying in smashing a red crayon to that iggly wiggly wattle. The real artistic bravado, though, comes in choosing colors for the tail feathers, taking those oversimplified lines and turning them into the daring display of plumage. But never once did I wonder what was underneath, what was hidden behind the <a name='more'></a> tail feathers.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">It’s surprising considering the answer was one of our most oft used jokes. The joke was, “Guess what?” The other person would invariable reply “what?” Then the jokester would say “<st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Turkey</st1:place></st1:country-region> butt!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The wittiness of this rhyme still tickles me. Eventually “turkey butt” became a comeback of sorts. Sincere attempts to illicit interest were batted away with turkey butts. “No, really, guess what!” the eager sibling insisted only to be slapped with another “turkey butt.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Yet, in all these years, I never really gave turkey butts any consideration.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Well that’s changed. Thanks to the fantastic fungus <a href="http://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://botit.botany.wisc.edu/toms_fungi/images/tvers.jpg&imgrefurl=http://botit.botany.wisc.edu/toms_fungi/aug97.html&usg=__TmR_VN--thqiSTIukSlfW3nucgY=&h=263&w=400&sz=37&hl=en&start=0&zoom=1&tbnid=STuvp9tzmTul1M:&tbnh=145&tbnw=194&prev=/images%3Fq%3DTrametes%2Bversicolor%26um%3D1%26hl%3Den%26sa%3DN%26biw%3D1440%26bih%3D780%26tbs%3Disch:1&um=1&itbs=1&iact=hc&vpx=119&vpy=258&dur=1054&hovh=182&hovw=277&tx=166&ty=75&ei=rpvoTKL1F4OC8gaZhvXADA&oei=rpvoTKL1F4OC8gaZhvXADA&esq=1&page=1&ndsp=25&ved=1t:429,r:6,s:0">Trametes versicolor</a>, known in some circles as “turkey tail,” I now meditate a good deal on turkey butts. And just in time for the ritualistic stuffing of turkey butts nationwide.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">There is nothing more ubiquitous to the American holiday season than turkey. And, as it turns out, there is nothing more ubiquitous among woodland polypores than the turkey tail. Once I heard there was a mushroom called “turkey tail,” it went straight to the top of my Fungal Interest List.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Unlike turkey at the holidays, the ubiquitousness of turkey tail is a nearly global phenomenon. <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Turkey</st1:place></st1:country-region> tail is one of the most common mushrooms in the world, but be warned: the false turkey tail is also terribly common. Neither mushroom is poisonous but a false turkey tail (a.k.a. <a href="http://botit.botany.wisc.edu/toms_fungi/nov2000.html">Stereum ostrea</a> for you Latin lovers) is false, it doesn’t even have any pores. Without pores one certainly can’t expect to be invited into a group of polypores. Nor does the false turkey tail have any medicinal properties.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Turkey</st1:place></st1:country-region> tail is a heavily researched fungi, found to have both anti-tumor compounds and immune strengthening properties (Stamets, 299). It also made great jewelry for tribal peoples apparently. But if you don’t want to get <a href="http://cavernaobscura.wordpress.com/2009/10/03/turkey-tail-faerie-outfit/">caught wearing faux turkey tails</a>, guess what… turkey butt.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I’m serious. Look underneath the fungus to determine verity of the variety. Look at its butt. If you can see pores no one can accuse you of donning an imposter (you may need a magnifying lens to see them though).</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxMha1HZBu6Bgx_HMCqdByl-XSW9f3cmuFoaabG3_l6yk5zFTvsyZjdYqflV45zaLpKrwWx9Mj8sosL-_NLahTIT01z1dZBlaSsscxgxEaee0Anj6UbH9WSJ_3fYoujuyh0yk3qfuZnQV8/s1600/Turkey+Tails+Magnified.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxMha1HZBu6Bgx_HMCqdByl-XSW9f3cmuFoaabG3_l6yk5zFTvsyZjdYqflV45zaLpKrwWx9Mj8sosL-_NLahTIT01z1dZBlaSsscxgxEaee0Anj6UbH9WSJ_3fYoujuyh0yk3qfuZnQV8/s200/Turkey+Tails+Magnified.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5541847980266658770" /></a><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal">And if you are preparing this week’s feast, and if stuffing turkey butts makes you squeamish, think of fungal butts instead. Let your mind wander to the forest and be thankful you aren’t eating turkey tail. It takes 62 hours of boiling to render a broth from the buggers… and you thought roasting a turkey took forever (Arora, 594).</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Or you could think about other things you’re thankful for.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I’m feeling particularly thankful for my siblings this Thanksgiving.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Hey, Guess what…</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">[For this post I consulted Mushrooms Demystified by David Arora, published by Ten Speed Press, 1979, 1986; Mycelium Running: How Mushrooms Can Help Save the World by Paul Stamets, also published by Ten Speed Press, 2005; Magical Mushrooms Mischievous Molds by George W. Hudler, Princeton University Press, 1998; A Field Guide to Mushrooms of North America, Kent McKnight, Hougton Mifflin, 1987.]</p><p></p><p></p>anniemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12762867807246831445noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6044523013230692041.post-64822176333714406252010-10-10T22:03:00.004-04:002010-10-10T22:14:05.201-04:00Soft Squishy Abdomen Sighted!<object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/0jZe_VGLRYI?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/0jZe_VGLRYI?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><div><br /></div><div>I don't know what is cooler, seeing a hermit crab switch shells or knowing that you can see all kinds of amazing private animal moments thanks to sites like YouTube and the fine folks who post <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0jZe_VGLRYI">incredible footage</a> like this!</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>anniemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12762867807246831445noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6044523013230692041.post-43024789180977124682010-10-03T06:24:00.002-04:002010-11-22T11:16:14.198-05:00Midday Madness<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWsy2WcsdU8t_jsRzbJnUYWBgQaf9BOL3x9EGFNo4GcPuKBTs-D3Nc_Rfdy2MsvPGN6FEgZBrAhuIoMLhAFHCnzYiDWCA357hwU51k0eSqB2gyYl2KKj6LUbvuiIwgQpCCrXEBRXabsfk_/s1600/Letterboxing+sunday+hiker+midnight+madnenss.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWsy2WcsdU8t_jsRzbJnUYWBgQaf9BOL3x9EGFNo4GcPuKBTs-D3Nc_Rfdy2MsvPGN6FEgZBrAhuIoMLhAFHCnzYiDWCA357hwU51k0eSqB2gyYl2KKj6LUbvuiIwgQpCCrXEBRXabsfk_/s400/Letterboxing+sunday+hiker+midnight+madnenss.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523631859683642002" /></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">I never saw so many trees growing in pairs. Of course I never looked for them before either.</span></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The clue said “See two trees of similar size with several large rocks behind them. A dead tree lies across one rock…” <a name='more'></a>We were supposed to see a white marker in the middle of the trail too. Looking from one set of suspiciously close trees to another, and at an alarming number of dead trees lying on rocks, I felt lost. </span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">So went my introduction to Letterboxing. It’s a little like <a href="http://www.geocaching.com/">geocaching</a> without the GPS. Really who needs a Global Positioning System when there are trees by which to give directions?</span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">It was madness, I tell you, midday madness. </span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">If you were not watching bad films in the early ‘80s you might have just missed that pop culture reference. That I would even half reference the movie Midnight Madness, forces me to seriously reflect on the expression “impressionable youth.”</span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><a href="http://www.fast-rewind.com/midnightmadness.htm"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Midnight Madness</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> is the story of a</span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> genius geek who, with the help of his roller-skating scantily clad assistants, manipulates collegiate clicks into competing in an all night scavenger hunt. The only difference with Letterboxing is lack of feather-haired short-short wearing assistants. That and the scavenger hunt is organized by a decentralized army of wholesome nature loving types.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">It sounds a little less sexy but it’s not.</span><a href="http://www.letterboxing.org/Smithsonian.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> Letterboxing came from </span></a></span><st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on"><span class="Apple-style-span"><a href="http://www.letterboxing.org/Smithsonian.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Britain</span></a></span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> and like all other things British, it's sexy.</span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Not only is it sexy, it’s economical too. Actually, it’s free. Yes, that’s right, you too can go look for trees growing suspiciously close together and it won’t cost you a dime. If you’re really lucky (or really smart) you might even find a box. We eventually found the box "</span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">in the crotch of that rock and the one next to it</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">" just like the directions said. (Really, there was no other way to describe it.)</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">In the box there was a stamp and ink pad. You collect stamps from all the boxes you find. You also carry a stamp with you to stamp the book in the box, thus leaving proof of your passing. Can’t wait to start? Check out </span><a href="http://www.letterboxing.org/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Letterboxing.org</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> and get outside. Fall is the perfect time for frolicking close to madness.</span></span></span></span></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaxAyBd_FPPdPu1MkhBHw1Gn6GXlTM9mC7kASePF3ptRu7YLRR6JIgmwvU6p1BVfEZxz_AfmJD8frPlRfKOZUL9QHjn1x_r_gjOQ51JSugMkqJfBRdiaGZkxyYSjJx0cQJeYy0OUXWrYs-/s1600/Letterboxing+Sunday+Hiker+Midnight+Madness.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaxAyBd_FPPdPu1MkhBHw1Gn6GXlTM9mC7kASePF3ptRu7YLRR6JIgmwvU6p1BVfEZxz_AfmJD8frPlRfKOZUL9QHjn1x_r_gjOQ51JSugMkqJfBRdiaGZkxyYSjJx0cQJeYy0OUXWrYs-/s320/Letterboxing+Sunday+Hiker+Midnight+Madness.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523618326319534610" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">[The top picture is of my stamp and stamp-book handmade by my friend Eric and my daughter Willow respectively. My beloved hiking buddy Tara introduced me to Letterboxing when she brought these seemingly simple clues with us on a hike from Dalton to Cheshire MA on the AT. <a href="http://sundayhiker.blogspot.com/2010/07/well-marked-trail-at-41.html">We got lost</a> in more than one way that day. The second picture is of the book, stamp and ink pad we found in the box.]</span>anniemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12762867807246831445noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6044523013230692041.post-91058929835260508522010-09-12T21:23:00.002-04:002010-11-22T11:14:03.406-05:00This Is Not A Post<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6nC6jWqY7sSBLJEBhyphenhyphenEweJbnWEWmbeEZXfbqNOf1XZHFOetQUbjqSf6xtck-7CQnM6pibE3bnTtkffvrQwEhMFLloyKR-B0K4hgi_hLQqn6YwYxjcEKgM24WVyOPQrWl9tTLVpZ6sZgTA/s1600/Picture+Books+Simmons+MFA+Sunday+Hiker+Annie+Parker.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6nC6jWqY7sSBLJEBhyphenhyphenEweJbnWEWmbeEZXfbqNOf1XZHFOetQUbjqSf6xtck-7CQnM6pibE3bnTtkffvrQwEhMFLloyKR-B0K4hgi_hLQqn6YwYxjcEKgM24WVyOPQrWl9tTLVpZ6sZgTA/s400/Picture+Books+Simmons+MFA+Sunday+Hiker+Annie+Parker.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5516206268966364930" /></a><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family:Georgia; color:black">I've maxed out my library card borrowing picture books. That’s how I’m getting my kicks these days.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>No, I’m not pregnant. I’m thrill-seeking. </span></span><span style="font-family:Georgia; color:black">Parenting is a series of adrenaline rushes, one after another, but it isn’t perfect.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;color:black">The problem with kids is that they don't last.<a name='more'></a> They grow too fast leaving those around them mumbling banal observations like, "gee, little Jimmy has grown so much," as stunned minds try to comprehend.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;color:black"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Children are transitory but educational debt is forever.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;color:black">Really nothing gets the heart pounding, sweat glands moist and hair follicles standing on end, like exorbitant quantities of debt. That’s the rush I’m talking about.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;color:black">I guess I’m kind of into the whole thirty year thing. I’ve got a thirty year mortgage, a <a href="http://sundayhiker.blogspot.com/2009/12/just-2134-miles-to-go-section-strolling.html">thirty year plan to hike the </a><st1:place st="on"><a href="http://sundayhiker.blogspot.com/2009/12/just-2134-miles-to-go-section-strolling.html">Appalachian Trail</a></st1:place> and now I’ll have a matching thirty years of educational debt.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;color:black">And you thought I was kidding when I said, "This is not a post." It's more like one of those annoying letters you get from your credit card company informing you that the terms of your "agreement" have been changed.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;color:black">NOTICE: Until I've completed my MFA, The Sunday Hiker will be a monthly, rather than a weekly blog.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;color:black">The picture books? Ah, you see, it’s the <a href="http://www.simmons.edu/gradstudies/programs/childrens-literature/writing.php">MFA in Writing for Children through </a><st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on"><a href="http://www.simmons.edu/gradstudies/programs/childrens-literature/writing.php">Simmons</a></st1:placename><a href="http://www.simmons.edu/gradstudies/programs/childrens-literature/writing.php"> </a><st1:placetype st="on"><a href="http://www.simmons.edu/gradstudies/programs/childrens-literature/writing.php">College</a></st1:placetype></st1:place><a href="http://www.simmons.edu/gradstudies/programs/childrens-literature/writing.php">.</a></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;color:black">As I often do, I've piled more onto my plate than I can eat. I can take a bite of everything but I can't eat it all. Except the education. I'm going to eat every bite of this expensive education and lick the plate clean.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;color:black">You may have a hard time taking a tall stack of picture books seriously (I myself feel like I'm getting away with something) but I calculated what I'm paying per class. Let me tell you, I'm dead serious about seeking these thrills.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;color:black">And what about hiking the <a href="http://www.appalachiantrail.org/site/c.mqLTIYOwGlF/b.4805401/k.8865/About_the_Trail.htm">Appalachian Trail</a> you ask? Well let’s just say, the way the plan is structured they’ll be a big balloon payment coming up.</span></p>anniemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12762867807246831445noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6044523013230692041.post-60238843068054688332010-09-05T18:32:00.002-04:002010-11-22T11:18:16.537-05:00Foiled, I Never Get To Suffer: AT Section 5.3<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguTcl8c_imLYS3KrKeRy8Z7w8pSbw9R6SVeKr7XaoSbQk25aBBbrlHH4tdV1Lo2R9bEPXxrZTHTkhluaMXEugu8m6hPXfZR1XmcJXCGP2pJ0uPrbcvmPLaBEvM1I4Vw35-ZbbqSTbS2fLW/s1600/sunday+hiker+annie+parker+water+wand+steriPEN+.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 110px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguTcl8c_imLYS3KrKeRy8Z7w8pSbw9R6SVeKr7XaoSbQk25aBBbrlHH4tdV1Lo2R9bEPXxrZTHTkhluaMXEugu8m6hPXfZR1XmcJXCGP2pJ0uPrbcvmPLaBEvM1I4Vw35-ZbbqSTbS2fLW/s320/sunday+hiker+annie+parker+water+wand+steriPEN+.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513536954181958866" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 20px;font-size:13px;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">“Would you like a hot cup of tea? It’s no trouble.” Dennis the ridge runner had welcomed me to the <a href="http://www.whiteblaze.net/forum/vbg/showimage.php?i=19002&catid=member&imageuser=6216">Mt Wilcox South Lean-to</a> the evening before. I was about to say no, but before I did he added, “I think I have some Earl Grey.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">That did it. There went my stouthearted plans to drink my tea cold. The ridge runner had found my Achilles heel, Earl Grey. I’d left my stove and tent at home to lighten my load. Here I was, braced for a rugged adventure and I was <a href="http://sundayhiker.blogspot.com/2009/12/strolling-at-section-1-part-2.html">being spoiled</a> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">yet again</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">This always happens to me. I go out in the woods to suffer, and <a name='more'></a>someone comes along making everything easy and comfortable. I’d got one cold sip of tea down before hot comforts dangled before me.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">“Yes, thank you,” I said.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Dennis grabbed his super light-weight stove and his water purifying glow stick and prepared to boil water. </span><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2008/03/02/business/02novel.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">His purifier</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> looked like a miniature lightsaber from Star Wars. I wanted to zap aquatic bad guys too. It looked really cool. (I want one, I want one, I want one.) Dennis had impressive gear, right down to his titanium cutlery. And he was willing to share.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">We talked about all kinds of gear. It wasn’t long before we were on to bags. </span><span style="color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I have a fancy light weight sleeping bag designed especially for women. As far as I can tell this just means it’s short. My feet have no wiggle room. To make matters worse, the zippers at each shoulder only go one third of the way down the bag, leaving a flap that folds down, much like the </span><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/38469122@N00/3217700557/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">backside of a union suit</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">. I told him as much.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">In my old bag, if I got too hot, I’d unzip to loll one leg out. Now I had to wriggle both legs up to my chin to free them. Inevitably I grow chilly again, knees back up to the chin, reinsert in cocoon.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The ridge runner recommended buying a </span><a href="http://www.westernmountaineering.com/index.cfm?section=products&page=sleeping%20bags&cat=ExtremeLite%20Series&viewpost=2&ContentId=19"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Megalite bag by Western Mountaineering</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> and checking out gear reviews in </span><a href="http://www.backpacker.com/videos_find_the_perfect_sleeping_bag/videos/6"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Backpacker Magazine</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">. (Apparently you should try a bag on before you buy it. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">That might have been a good move before I bought the bag I have.)</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">It was a yummy cup of tea, but nothing in life is free. Now I have new list of </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">expensive </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">wants. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:black;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">[The events recounted above occurred Sunday August 8</span><sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">th</span></sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> 2010 during my 5</span><sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">th</span></sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> outing on </span><st1:place st="on"><a href="http://www.appalachiantrail.org/site/c.mqLTIYOwGlF/b.4805401/k.8865/About_the_Trail.htm"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Appalachian Trail</span></a></st1:place><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">. I was making my way from </span><st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on"><span class="apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><a href="http://www.berkshirehiking.com/hikes/beartown.html">Beartown</a></span></span></st1:placename><span class="apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><a href="http://www.berkshirehiking.com/hikes/beartown.html"> </a></span><st1:placetype st="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><a href="http://www.berkshirehiking.com/hikes/beartown.html">State</a></span></st1:placetype><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><a href="http://www.berkshirehiking.com/hikes/beartown.html"> </a></span><st1:placetype st="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><a href="http://www.berkshirehiking.com/hikes/beartown.html">Forest</a></span></st1:placetype></span></st1:place><span class="apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> to the northern crossing of Jerusalem Road, 11 miles up the trail.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> Hear about my wild and reckless behavior in </span><a href="http://sundayhiker.blogspot.com/2010/08/breakin-rules-at-section-5-part-1.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">part one</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">. Learn about my strong feeling on oral hygiene in </span><a href="http://sundayhiker.blogspot.com/2010/08/i-love-my-toothbrush-at-section-5-part.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">part two</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">. And have no fear, the saga will continue.]</span><o:p></o:p></span></p></span></span>anniemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12762867807246831445noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6044523013230692041.post-24503993038589289802010-08-29T21:29:00.002-04:002010-11-22T11:19:42.423-05:00I Love My Toothbrush: AT Section 5 Part 2<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizKH0WNt26mmS7cMAoPH7P7yPeXWffGcavkkqrIlnrTMQVyS7Lo60NCom8VivEmd3SOvxdcDp4nzIcC86IMTbVvo3L3sF3OmbYa14r_MCo84KzGn7YeYS2QT4HBi3IMLihU3BDMQhXEOr0/s1600/Toothbrush+Sunday+Hiker+Annie+Parker+Light+Weight.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizKH0WNt26mmS7cMAoPH7P7yPeXWffGcavkkqrIlnrTMQVyS7Lo60NCom8VivEmd3SOvxdcDp4nzIcC86IMTbVvo3L3sF3OmbYa14r_MCo84KzGn7YeYS2QT4HBi3IMLihU3BDMQhXEOr0/s400/Toothbrush+Sunday+Hiker+Annie+Parker+Light+Weight.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510990683195935106" /></a><p class="MsoNormal">Some people will do anything to shave a few ounces of weight from their packs. Myself, I am a light weight, except when it comes to packing. <a href="http://sundayhiker.blogspot.com/2010/02/elves-etiquette-at-section-2-part-2.html">Previously I’ve struggled</a> and failed to leave my packrat tendencies at home. <a href="http://sundayhiker.blogspot.com/2010/06/porcupine-prickly-and-red-eft-angry-at.html">Rickety knees</a>, however, inspired a great leap of faith. A few weeks ago I went hiking without a tent or stove. <a name='more'></a><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I’d arrived at the <a href="http://www.whiteblaze.net/forum/vbg/showimage.php?i=19002&catid=member&imageuser=6216">South Wilcox lean-to</a> at dusk, woofed down a few avocado rolls and got ready for bed. Since I wouldn’t be heating water in the morning, I put a pouch of green tea in water to steep overnight at ambient temperature. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Setting up sleeping accommodations did not include wrestling rain flies or poking stakes into inevitably rocky ground. I just rolled a deluxe Therm-a-Rest, my sleeping bag and a sarong onto the bunk.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span> A sarong is <a href="http://sundayhiker.blogspot.com/2010/06/mosquito-ghost.html">amazingly versatile</a>.</p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal">I smiled to myself, relishing that I didn’t have to check in with anyone about anything. I slipped into bed and was soon snoozing. <span style="color:black">In my dreams the lid on a giant garbage dumpster was repeatedly slammed shut.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:black">I slept with a fine gauze shirt over my head to deter mosquitoes. If there had been hoards, the noise alone would have driven me to regret my tent-less status. But I was left in relative peace. Drought conditions are hard on all animals, even mosquitoes. It is not a glass half full, but it’s something.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:black">I awoke in the morning to find that on the whole, ridge runners are good people. "Did you hear the thunder last night," he asked. It took a second to realize there weren’t any giant dumpsters nearby. “Yes, I think I did." <o:p></o:p></span></p><p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:black;">I took a sip of my cold tea. For breakfast I finished off the leftovers from dinner. Then I did what any self-respecting young woman does in the morning, I brushed my teeth.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:black;"> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPd8U9Hwt6hDTaCmO4o7Ikydl3dlETvO2mhyphenhyphenwq74v1vVWYiyQzMECubmVw7fGWQg94CZx-cICwviBDKES2RbrgUBnyshse5UTefZvXIlLf2PezdTrgKu4fexvCmMTsjQJU6tM-NXy5GJXR/s1600/Tooth+Powder+Light+Weight+Back+Packing+Sunday+Hiker.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 87px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPd8U9Hwt6hDTaCmO4o7Ikydl3dlETvO2mhyphenhyphenwq74v1vVWYiyQzMECubmVw7fGWQg94CZx-cICwviBDKES2RbrgUBnyshse5UTefZvXIlLf2PezdTrgKu4fexvCmMTsjQJU6tM-NXy5GJXR/s200/Tooth+Powder+Light+Weight+Back+Packing+Sunday+Hiker.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510992597359357154" /></a> Rumor has it some unscrupulous heathens cut the handles off their toothbrushes, to save a few ounces. There are certain things that should never be done, toothbrush mutilation foremost amongst them. </span>Get rid of the liquids, if you want to shed weight, use tooth powder instead of paste.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:black;">I may go into the woods prepared to drink my tea cold and battle the elements sans-a-tent, but I have my standards. Proper oral hygiene requires proper oral implements, namely, toothbrushes with handles. I would never do that to my toothbrush. I love my toothbrush.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:black;">[Beartown State Forest to the northern crossing of Jerusalem Road is an 11mile hike. The events described occurred on the evening of August 7th and the morning of August 8th, 2010. This was my fifth installment on the <a href="http://sundayhiker.blogspot.com/2009/12/just-2134-miles-to-go-section-strolling.html">30 year plan</a> to section hike the <a href="http://www.appalachiantrail.org/site/c.mqLTIYOwGlF/b.4805401/k.8865/About_the_Trail.htm">Appalachian Trail</a>. Find out how I got to the lean-to, foot loose and fancy free in <a href="http://sundayhiker.blogspot.com/2010/08/breakin-rules-at-section-5-part-1.html">Section 5 Part 1</a>. The saga will continue, stay tuned for part 3.]</span></p>anniemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12762867807246831445noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6044523013230692041.post-24081470029410610752010-08-22T05:44:00.009-04:002010-11-22T11:22:19.428-05:00Breakin' The Rules - AT Section 5 Part 1<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqOXlOOoubKHamO1lZVgDr66h4eD5D1ZW5QJvDNaU2JeEa3TLG9MVHn01URcIQoFbJKFLTuRrdhjblLs3fk6BReAMH3Lhv6jBU9dUYqShUz7xegalmzXNiRa5BrQEhdBSrbe3LTNxYzSjt/s1600/Sunday+Hiker+Benedict+Pond+Annie+Parker.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 319px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5507365954608641746" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqOXlOOoubKHamO1lZVgDr66h4eD5D1ZW5QJvDNaU2JeEa3TLG9MVHn01URcIQoFbJKFLTuRrdhjblLs3fk6BReAMH3Lhv6jBU9dUYqShUz7xegalmzXNiRa5BrQEhdBSrbe3LTNxYzSjt/s400/Sunday+Hiker+Benedict+Pond+Annie+Parker.jpg" /></a>It was August again and I was knocking off another eleven miles on the <a href="http://sundayhiker.blogspot.com/2009/12/just-2134-miles-to-go-section-strolling.html">AT</a> in Massachusetts. I had just enough time to get to the shelter before dark, I hoped. <a name='more'></a>I'd intended to get on the trail by two that afternoon. I was four hours late and it didn’t matter. I wasn’t meeting anyone. No family, no friends, just narcissistic me.<br /><br />The signboard at the trailhead had two pieces of particularly pertinent information. </div><br /><br /><div>First it said, "hike with a friend." That gave me little chills. I was disregarding a safety guideline and breaking my own rule. Chills are important. They let us know we're alive. Sometimes we need a modest dose of adrenaline.<br /><br />Second, the sign said camping was prohibited except at official campsites. Drat. The fallback plan had been rolling out my bag and sleeping next to a log if I didn’t make it by dark. That was still the fallback plan. </div><br /><br /><div>Alone, foolish and free, I was throwing caution to the wind, doing it my way, no compromise, no negotiation.<br /><br />The sun was at forty five degrees in the west as I left the parking lot and information board behind. </div><br /><br /><div>A few steps into the trees I realized the shadows were deeper than I thought they'd be. Focus on forward propulsion, I told myself, only three miles to go. Sunset wouldn’t be until eight.<br /><br />The trail started steep. <a href="http://sundayhiker.blogspot.com/2010/02/elves-etiquette-at-section-2-part-2.html">Naturally I huffed and puffed and questioned my sanity</a>. In time, the path flattened out. </div><br /><br /><div>One hour on the trail and I knocked out two miles. The light open sky above <a href="http://www.berkshirehiking.com/hikes/beartown.html">Benedict Pond </a>reassured me that sunset was still an hour away. The water was beautiful and still. The urge to strip down and slink in was powerful. I couldn’t expose myself to such temptation, I trudged on.<br /><br />Just one more mile. The trail climbed again up. Pushing on, just another half mile. I must be almost there. Cue ominous music and scary sounds. It is men. Men with beer and fire. </div><br /><br /><div>What else do I hear? Low quality speakers, screeching frightfully cheerful 1970s pop. These men morph instantly from ominous to annoying. Conveniently their campsite was a good deal off from the old, dingy lean-to where I would rest my head. Eiuw, it was icky. Sometimes being free is a dirty thankless job.<br /><br />But further down the trail near the outhouse, another structure came into view. A brand spankin’ new lean-to, yippee! Clean, pristine and empty but for a lovely ridge runner. Just enought time to eat before dark. Score one for fly-by-the-seat-of-her-pants-girl. </div><br /><div> </div><br /><div>[I took that picture above, sky reflected on the waters of Benedict Pond August 7, 2010.]</div>anniemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12762867807246831445noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6044523013230692041.post-23481550230785820172010-08-15T16:30:00.001-04:002010-11-22T11:23:45.317-05:00The Rodent King<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXYN2uVioRYikE0P9CIoNbRy3rX3CnGrnnGQ__ePKrRuU2CLOQ4mDnktO10_ILbmgHcgr4tg-WF-hx_0zUCn5TUmgQm9M8KunmAG0nv1I_ghkrmoa5svy-ik8DkV8WNmg7j5olEd35CZyy/s1600/Beaver+marked+tree+annie+parker+sunday+hiker.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXYN2uVioRYikE0P9CIoNbRy3rX3CnGrnnGQ__ePKrRuU2CLOQ4mDnktO10_ILbmgHcgr4tg-WF-hx_0zUCn5TUmgQm9M8KunmAG0nv1I_ghkrmoa5svy-ik8DkV8WNmg7j5olEd35CZyy/s320/Beaver+marked+tree+annie+parker+sunday+hiker.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505728969791786338" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Strictly speaking, rodent is a neutral term for any member of the order Rodentia. Let's not kid ourselves though, there is a distinct negative connotation. Rodents may simply be mammals whose teeth grow for life but the term brings to mind rats, mice and other vermin. Historically rodents are unpopular for two reasons, peskiness and pestilence.<br /></span></span> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Until recently I thought of rats as the big rodents and mice as the small ones. Wrong. Apparently beavers are the King of Rodents.<a name='more'></a> At least they’re the largest rodent in </span></span></span></span><st1:place><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">North America,</span></span></span></span></st1:place><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">weighing between thirty and sixty pounds. Personally I don’t think size is everything but who am I to argue with the author of North American Mammals?</span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">As with all kings, the beaver has its detractors, naysayers on the sidelines who criticize or even plot against them. I’m not talking about the squirrels here, I’m talking people.</span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Fittingly the charges leveled against the beaver, king of rodents, are the same as those leveled at his smaller cousins: <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color:black;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">1. Pesky Pests</span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">According to some, beavers rain down environmental degradation on innocent forests continent wide. Beavers create ponds and canals to get to the best trees. Understandably landowners may be dismayed, not thankful that their property is flooded just so beavers can float about in relative safety while snacking on alder, willow and poplar bark. Moose though appreciate beaver bogs, as aquatic plants are their diet of choice. I myself have fallen into an<a href="http://sundayhiker.blogspot.com/2009/12/slow-hiking-at-section-1-part-1-hubris.html"> inconvenient beaver bog.</a> They are wet. But it's part of the natural balance, isn’t it? It’s a return to how things were before beavers were hunted to near extinction, right?</span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Maybe their numbers are getting out of hand, but I haven’t read that anywhere. Actually I’ve read that beavers are an important part of a wolf’s diet. Beavers also fall prey to coyotes, bobcats, lynx, bears, mink, wolverines, river otter and people. It’s no wonder they like to stay in the water.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color:black;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">2. Pestilent Pests</span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Hiking behind some loud guys complaining vehemently about beavers, I overheard, “They cause giardia. They shit in the water. That’s why they call it <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Giardia_lamblia">Beaver Fever</a>.”</span></span></span></span></p> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin3Sc3pjIBUm2t4Q2Wjbs8kwRBF1FMC3inYeFAaCvN7Ol3O8tbDYjkKYU1TyrIgocp-5yQNN4Yvt_lpnkFL0IihnXV25b6nVZjVKJyIaVwLUXYc_UvFZayu3VR3jW4Piv3NL1JN5R6XfOn/s1600/beavers+annie+parker+sunday+hiker+giardia.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 184px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin3Sc3pjIBUm2t4Q2Wjbs8kwRBF1FMC3inYeFAaCvN7Ol3O8tbDYjkKYU1TyrIgocp-5yQNN4Yvt_lpnkFL0IihnXV25b6nVZjVKJyIaVwLUXYc_UvFZayu3VR3jW4Piv3NL1JN5R6XfOn/s200/beavers+annie+parker+sunday+hiker+giardia.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505728376863186994" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Beavers do defecate in water, they also <a href="http://sundayhiker.blogspot.com/2010/03/eat-shit-and-live-beaver.html">eat their feces in winter</a>, but beavers aren’t the only ones spreading giardia. Cows, sheep, deer, cats, dogs and children readily transmit giardia too. Sure kids are supposed to wash their hands, cows and sheep are supposed to be fenced far from streams, but really people get lax about these things. </span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Deer and beavers on the other hand, roam free of rules and regulations. </span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium; ">There isn’t much you can do about it, outside hunting season, so beware. Treat your water. These nasty little flagellated protozoan parasites called giardia can live in water for months, even if it looks clean.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color:black;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">[To learn more about beavers I consulted several books, all of which sang only the praises of beavers (t</span></span></span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">hey are clever, industrious and they have the most beautiful luxurious fur). </span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color:black;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Most helpful were Tracking & The Art of Seeing 2nd Edition by Paul Rezendes,</span></span></span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> who talks about wolves eating beavers on page 87. And North American Mammals by Roger A. Caras, Galahad Books NY 1967. The beautiful giardia photo above I </span><a href="http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=gakked"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">gakked</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> from the blog </span></span><a href="http://www.wormsandgermsblog.com/2009/07/articles/animals/dogs/giardia-and-highrisk-households/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Worms and Germs</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">.The other photo I took myself this summer at <a href="http://www.broadbrookcoalition.org/fitzgeraldlake.html">Fitzgerald Lake</a> not far from my home in Florence Mass.]</span></span></p><p></p>anniemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12762867807246831445noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6044523013230692041.post-89668990350769701252010-08-08T00:45:00.006-04:002010-08-15T16:53:10.570-04:00Super Power Time<div style="text-align: center;">“If you could have any super power, what would it be?”</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimXLun5CaS1YqDz3Nqe87qtIe43ToZgYByWyNwVSB63wCKP1vwziIpYFAVRw_gN_KkGLfg9VvPcxynsziUOG7XN5Vm2P2Dln4H668M6q6SYC5LyfZcqWZM3mhAnwtLsALx5Ou-NM1cOigF/s1600/annie+parker+sunday+hiker+persistence_of_memory_1931_salvador_dali.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimXLun5CaS1YqDz3Nqe87qtIe43ToZgYByWyNwVSB63wCKP1vwziIpYFAVRw_gN_KkGLfg9VvPcxynsziUOG7XN5Vm2P2Dln4H668M6q6SYC5LyfZcqWZM3mhAnwtLsALx5Ou-NM1cOigF/s320/annie+parker+sunday+hiker+persistence_of_memory_1931_salvador_dali.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502713620376103106" /></a>It's a good question if you have to do one of those group let's-get-to-know-everyone-real-fast things, though I don’t generally care to sit in a circle of strangers trying to sum myself up with abstract witticisms. Alright, I enjoy it a little bit, if the question is good and something witty comes to mind. In general the super power question is an entertaining one.<br /><br />For years my answer has been a time machine. I wouldn’t go see Marie Antoinette or Aristotle. I don’t want to change the date or prance through the calendar. I want to stretch the calendar. I want a machine that manufactures time. More time, right here, right now<a name='more'></a>, please.<br /><br />Think of all the things that could be done. Ok, I might just watch vampire TV shows and read more paranormal romances but… there would still be plenty of time.<br /><br />Lately I've been obsessing about needing more time. It's like my mind is on a treadmill. I dream of hikes I could take, the physical prowess I could achieve, and other things, instruments to play, wine to sip, sunrises to watch, the house being clean. I know that last part is a pipe dream. What can I say? I suffer from unlimited wants.<br /><br />But greater physical prowess should be achievable. Just add exercise, right? Currently I take two dance classes a week. That’s good. I mean those three hours are good. Unfortunately the other 165 hours are spent sleeping, sitting and occasionally getting up to eat and go pee. This is not proper training for long hikes with a 30 pound pack.<br /><br />It’s a problem I’m been mulling over for awhile. Back in January I joined a gym but out of solidarity with <a href="http://sundayhiker.blogspot.com/2010/01/on-new-years-resolutions-winter-hiking.html">New Year’s resolution traditionalists</a> I haven’t been since March. Really getting to the gym takes too much time.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlvQP1mzT5g4GyUOjHgQzHqJGjXk-yXfzdEiPNrNFm_YOZfl8xdUuEo19DOgAqD08JDax9TxKVfg40kVCIxRyQDLE8AdVXD7xbvgTnRU0J3UMzKJ-vhkcWHNNNAq_zHKxNgQ9lv9ERc_jr/s1600/annie+parker+sunday+hiker+Signature+Treadmill+desk.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 197px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlvQP1mzT5g4GyUOjHgQzHqJGjXk-yXfzdEiPNrNFm_YOZfl8xdUuEo19DOgAqD08JDax9TxKVfg40kVCIxRyQDLE8AdVXD7xbvgTnRU0J3UMzKJ-vhkcWHNNNAq_zHKxNgQ9lv9ERc_jr/s200/annie+parker+sunday+hiker+Signature+Treadmill+desk.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502728635910815938" /></a><br /><br />Lucky for me, someone has invented the time machine of my dreams, the treadmill desk. It’s the wave of the future; it’s <a href="http://sundayhiker.blogspot.com/2010/02/food-sex-extreme-single-tasking.html">multi-tasking</a> nouveau. <div><br />Unbelievable, isn’t it?<br /><br />I know there are skeptics out there who will say walking one mile per hour while chatting on the phone, checking my email and typing this blog won’t be enough training either. To this is say two things. One, it’s a hell of a lot better than slouching at the computer while my butt falls asleep. Two, I can put rocks in my pack and wear it.<br /><br />[I first heard about the treadmill desk on <a href="http://www.alternativeradio.org/">Alternative Radio</a>. It has apparently gone mainstream enough to be on <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CPjN07JyVjo">Good Morning America.</a> I <a href="http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=gakked">gakked</a> the melting clocks (Salvador Dali's painting <a href="http://www.moma.org/collection/object.php?object_id=79018">The Persistence of Time</a>) from a blog called <a href="http://berto-meister.blogspot.com/2008/12/time-machine-world-shaped-by-time.html">Berto: Philosophy Monkey</a>. The treadmill desk photo came from the <a href="http://www.treadmilldeskinc.com/treadmilldesks.html">manufacturer</a>. I also found a <a href="http://www.treadmill-desk.com/2007/12/49-treadmill-desk.html">Treadmill Desk</a> blog with do it yourself tips. And finally, the super power question came from volunteer training aboard the sloop <a href="http://www.clearwater.org/category/latest-news/">Clearwater</a> which does environmental action and education on the Hudson River. It's a good question. Thanks to whatever crew member brought it aboard in the annals of Clearwater history.]</div>anniemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12762867807246831445noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6044523013230692041.post-85185568359320851282010-08-01T14:02:00.003-04:002010-08-15T16:55:12.059-04:00Late Breaking News<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib3I282T8PnwB49wuHvJlwiM7_RXDDDiVZYy9Xoju4k61Yf3FeXAzAAAJPMuBvyRvEGEZmWrvB6GNTn7eTE0LaZTPlK4eoA7CE2C1daaEl6ZDvLP0HveiTAFLQb0nQ60QtJvsaqKzYS_m9/s1600/A+Walk+In+The+Woods+Sunday+HIker+Annie+Parker.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 206px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib3I282T8PnwB49wuHvJlwiM7_RXDDDiVZYy9Xoju4k61Yf3FeXAzAAAJPMuBvyRvEGEZmWrvB6GNTn7eTE0LaZTPlK4eoA7CE2C1daaEl6ZDvLP0HveiTAFLQb0nQ60QtJvsaqKzYS_m9/s320/A+Walk+In+The+Woods+Sunday+HIker+Annie+Parker.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500511191637018642" /></a><div style="text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal">First you get an idea. The second step is research. (Warning: step two can, and often does, lead to more ideas, putting you right back at step one. It’s a vicious cycle.)</p> <p class="MsoNormal">In this case the idea was hiking the <st1:place>Appalachian Trail</st1:place>. I’d been infected with the idea by a thru-hiker <a href="http://sundayhiker.blogspot.com/2009/12/just-2134-miles-to-go-section-strolling.html">who hated brussel sprouts</a>. When, after a day or two, the idea hadn’t evaporated, I sauntered over to the bookshelf and began rummaging about.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">A few years back I’d picked up an audio book for a dollar thinking it might come in handy for a boring road trip someday. No such road trip had materialized. I found it, popped it in the stereo, turned up the volume and started washing dishes.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">A smooth voice announced, “Bantam, Doubleday Dell Publishing presents, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">A Walk In The Woods: </i><i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Walk-Woods-Rediscovering-Appalachian-Official/dp/0767902521">Rediscovering America on the Appalachian Trail</a></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"> </i>by Bill Bryson.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Osmosis being my preferred method for acquiring knowledge, I expected to be a happy camper. I was more than happy.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The first descriptive phrase the author inflicted upon himself, in reference to his life, was “waddlesome sloth.” The second was "cupcake." <a name='more'></a>He had me.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Splashing about in the dishwater quickly turned to spilling dishwater down my front. Unable to give full expression to the hilarity with a mere vocal laugh, my body was taken with spasms of mirth. Bryson requires full body expression.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Laughter, though seemingly innocuous, is nearly <a href="http://sundayhiker.blogspot.com/2009/12/taking-on-wilderness-alone.html">as dangerous as ideas</a> are. As I listened, I found myself not only wanting to hike the AT, but believing I could.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">It may seem redundant or even ridiculous to recommend a book that was on the New York Times bestseller list a dozen years ago, but let me assure you, there are folks out there who haven’t read it. Folks like me who have to tiptoe real slow and get comfortable, familiar with a thing. Before they try something new, it has to feel old... or be old. </p><p class="MsoNormal">For those slightly more wary than myself, perhaps the time has come. It’s never too late to pick up a good book. Ok, sometimes it’s too late, but only when you’re dead.</p><p class="MsoNormal">[I first listened to an abridgment read by the author, though until quite recently I didn't realize it was abridged. I also have the print version whose copyright is dated 1998. An unabridged audio recording is <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Walk-Woods-Bryson-William-Roberts/dp/0754054535/ref=tmm_abk_title_0">also available</a>.]</p></div>anniemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12762867807246831445noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6044523013230692041.post-16142148191842456452010-07-25T07:48:00.001-04:002010-08-01T14:42:29.172-04:00Left Behind<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMYdWCFqFqvjoAEwIxptn8yYVgGvCBQyt7U5srlkY7EP_vJw8VXN1XLlmJiEiRlmSOC__6213BLs_dOeZcfyeuR6jEe3NQ6CC1ouDF14mkFQaYQxg9bv3m3rHPRAQY4xc3GPnZlLGZa_p9/s1600/artichoke+annie+parker.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMYdWCFqFqvjoAEwIxptn8yYVgGvCBQyt7U5srlkY7EP_vJw8VXN1XLlmJiEiRlmSOC__6213BLs_dOeZcfyeuR6jEe3NQ6CC1ouDF14mkFQaYQxg9bv3m3rHPRAQY4xc3GPnZlLGZa_p9/s400/artichoke+annie+parker.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497658160531900194" border="0" /></a> <p class="MsoNormal">"Are you kidding?" I asked frozen in disbelief. <span style=""> </span>No, she wasn't kidding. <span style=""></span>"Leave No Trace," I’d heard that somewhere before.<span style=""> </span>Through a fog of incredulity I tried to imagine how the phrase might be applied to me.<br /><br />“Some people even carry out their solid waste."<br /><br />Shit. Solid waste? “As in, they shit in a bag and carry it out with them?" I asked.<br /><br />Tara nodded. <a name='more'></a> <!--[endif]--></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“But this isn’t shit,” I protested, “it’s vegetal matter.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“The point is how seriously hikers take ‘Leave No Trace.’”<br /><br />Eyebrows pulled together, I considered. <span style=""> </span>Luckily privies sat strategically located at every lean-to along this stretch of trail. If timed right, you'd never have to pull out a trowel before <a href="http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=drop+trou">dropping trou</a>. My mind jumped to stories of shit left behind by past expeditions up Everest literally lining the trails, frozen permanently into the landscape. <span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">"It's not like it won't decompose," I protested staring down at the sodden artichoke petals. I’d thought bringing them had been a stroke of genius. We were going to be trapped in the wilderness for days, surviving on dehydrated beans and "organic" top ramen. Fresh cooked artichokes were supposed to be a first day treat, not a semi-permanent burden.<br /><br />What was I going to do, carry them around, festering, hopefully well sealed in a zip lock? The goal was to eat our way to lighter packs, not carry compost. And yet, she was right. What if everyone left something behind? </p> <p class="MsoNormal">There I stood, hands full of nibbled petals. My favorite vegetable turned instrument of ethical dilemma. Anger welled at the injustice of it all. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>I made my decision. "I won't do it again." </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Justifications are required in equal measure to the moral weight of the dilemma, so I added "Just this once," and "I didn't know.” It was a serious matter. <span style=""> </span>Shame faced, I glanced sidelong. Only Tara and I would know. <span style=""> </span>I pulled up a rock and dug a hole. Only the beetles would be the wiser, we hoped. <!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--> <!--[endif]--></p> <p class="MsoNormal">[Checking the statistics later I learned that there are <a href="http://www.appalachiantrail.org/site/c.mqLTIYOwGlF/b.4805579/k.DA92/2000Milers_Facts_and_Statistics.htm">millions</a> of people hiking on the AT annually, must be why <a href="http://www.appalachiantrail.org/site/c.mqLTIYOwGlF/b.4805479/k.9780/Leave_No_Trace.htm">"Leave No Trace"</a> is the official policy.]</p>anniemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12762867807246831445noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6044523013230692041.post-90779043410186029092010-07-18T14:22:00.003-04:002010-08-01T14:45:20.360-04:00A Well Marked Trail: AT 4.1<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGkZ0Rf2WonvJlRhVO8qKcwIxaLSHWRaM7TqZN1FUzknGbl6ou2p60icrBlDUGqAVv1d0yuc8rFtGgDAUSmsW4YjkmQo7D3KQ4Q9xWTKcJ_okWu-l9_C0h9vtB27QzH9jZZ31kqaYP7B7b/s1600/Hiker+Trail+Only+Sunday+Hiker+Appalachian+Trail.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 196px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGkZ0Rf2WonvJlRhVO8qKcwIxaLSHWRaM7TqZN1FUzknGbl6ou2p60icrBlDUGqAVv1d0yuc8rFtGgDAUSmsW4YjkmQo7D3KQ4Q9xWTKcJ_okWu-l9_C0h9vtB27QzH9jZZ31kqaYP7B7b/s400/Hiker+Trail+Only+Sunday+Hiker+Appalachian+Trail.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494979187106901826" /></a><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Georgia;">We tumbled out of the car, clicked a picture of ourselves and headed for the wide beaten path. It had been a while, and by golly, we were just happy to be out on the trail again.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;color:black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;color:black;">“Huh," I told Tara, "they've switched to plastic trail markers."<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>A hundred yards later the trail butted up to a chain link fence running north to south. We pulled our hats over our ears against the mid-October chill and headed north. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family:Georgia;color:black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;color:black;">“This doesn’t feel right,” said <st1:place st="on">Tara</st1:place>, “there aren't enough trail markers.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;color:black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;color:black;">We back-tracked nearly all the way to the parking lot. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;color:black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;color:black;">“Well there aren’t as many blazes as we’re used to, but the AT marker is plain as day,” I said. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;color:black;">*Note to self, never listen to me. <a name='more'></a><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;color:black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;color:black;">Frowning, <st1:place st="on">Tara</st1:place> accepted my reasoning. We turned north again and hiked. The fence was kind of ugly and we were uneasy but it was a beautiful, light hearted day. Perhaps this was due to our being light-backed. We’d opted out of an overnighter and were thoroughly enjoying the novelty of a day hike.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;color:black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;color:black;">“Geez, this really is a poorly marked trail,” I complained. It was time to split up again and scout ahead at another fork in the trail.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;color:black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;color:black;">“The trail's over here,” I hollered, finding the remnants of plastic trail sign. Just little white pieces remained pinned under large flat nail heads. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;color:black;">We <o:p></o:p></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Georgia;">discussed the merits of plain painted blazes and our disappointment at seeing them replaced with plastic placards. We didn't get lost in discussion. The n</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Georgia;">avigation was just too taxing as was a growing unease until we saw another sign that jogged <st1:place st="on">Tara</st1:place>’s memory. (There was nothing in my mind to be jogged. Had we been depending on me we would have had a more “interesting” adventure.)</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;color:black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;color:black;">“We’re following the perimeter of the trail!” she said, “There’s a corridor of protected land on either side of the trail. These mark that boundary.” <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg73joy8EyNMUr1C-0tLDDwx4mZTTYMw0ZtUDssffLaEx7tFv3G1Exaa7euZtsKF6g04V3mb8e9fislBYlUaE1Svp888Xri16hiKSuOYIO28vUslRzSlPoo9lJ3JzBVxJCZ7y8Tg2q7Dz0_/s1600/Sunday+Hiker+Appalachian+Trail+White+Blazes.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 188px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg73joy8EyNMUr1C-0tLDDwx4mZTTYMw0ZtUDssffLaEx7tFv3G1Exaa7euZtsKF6g04V3mb8e9fislBYlUaE1Svp888Xri16hiKSuOYIO28vUslRzSlPoo9lJ3JzBVxJCZ7y8Tg2q7Dz0_/s200/Sunday+Hiker+Appalachian+Trail+White+Blazes.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5495071208137579490" /></a><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;color:black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;color:black;">As appealing as back-tracking is, we decided to bushwhack. Logically we’d been running parallel to the real AT, if we set our course perpendicular we’d cross it. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;color:black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;color:black;">We held our breaths... Actually we didn’t hold our breaths, but we used our eyes extra hard. In the end it worked out, we found the trail and the rest of the hike was lovely.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;color:black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;color:black;">While retrieving the car in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Cheshire</st1:place></st1:city>, we looked to see where the trail really began.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>That morning we’d snapped a picture of ourselves standing in front of the trail itself and then we walked away.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitzw9F63a-9fw7Jo65djaBAQDsbB1OnzajwSYoVnvYTXuEhR8VTT7-9QD1hZf4j5x4DTofKmYGQsSxadQpI0lfObF2kIsjGmGwI2MyAf5oabuMkXLXzG2QLNZ1ymcC3MATc5FxOOrSe1CD/s1600/Hiking+Dalton+to+Chesire+w+Tara+Oct+09.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitzw9F63a-9fw7Jo65djaBAQDsbB1OnzajwSYoVnvYTXuEhR8VTT7-9QD1hZf4j5x4DTofKmYGQsSxadQpI0lfObF2kIsjGmGwI2MyAf5oabuMkXLXzG2QLNZ1ymcC3MATc5FxOOrSe1CD/s400/Hiking+Dalton+to+Chesire+w+Tara+Oct+09.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5495300954256735730" /></a><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;color:black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;color:black;">In our defense the “other trail” was bigger. We learned something though, if there aren’t white painted blazes… it ain’t the AT.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;color:black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;color:black;">[<st1:city st="on">Dalton</st1:city> to <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Cheshire</st1:city> <st1:state st="on">Massachusetts</st1:state></st1:place> is a 7.4 mile hike. This hike on October 12th, 2009, was my fourth payment on </span><span style="font-family:Georgia;color:black;"><a href="http://sundayhiker.blogspot.com/2009/12/just-2134-miles-to-go-section-strolling.html">my 30-year plan</a></span><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;color:black;"> to section all 2,178 miles of the <st1:place st="on"><a href="http://www.appalachiantrail.org/site/c.mqLTIYOwGlF/b.4805401/k.8865/About_the_Trail.htm">Appalachian Trail</a></st1:place>.] <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p></p>anniemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12762867807246831445noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6044523013230692041.post-52665966910792024272010-07-11T07:44:00.003-04:002010-08-01T14:47:04.465-04:00Pink Piss & Mosquito Mystique<p></p><p class="MsoNormal">I thought I knew it all. Mosquitoes bite. They annoy. They carry disease. In their larval state, they wriggle about in puddles. And the vicious little beasties are found worldwide. Sound about right?</p><p class="MsoNormal">Wrong. As it turns out I knew very little about mosquitoes.</p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0kAIOM5qD-QRhHP7YdGCHPgsO6PKdSUjBNYX409y3A5YUyqi16IOVtBtC1nWwdRF37uviLX6izcmAIwWg_EqfajURX6t-fc4cPAGPOY_eyUHRIUxNIHdROo7z6eJb1xmDajGCu_HsgyVk/s1600/Mosquito+on+Zipper+Sunday+Hiker.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0kAIOM5qD-QRhHP7YdGCHPgsO6PKdSUjBNYX409y3A5YUyqi16IOVtBtC1nWwdRF37uviLX6izcmAIwWg_EqfajURX6t-fc4cPAGPOY_eyUHRIUxNIHdROo7z6eJb1xmDajGCu_HsgyVk/s400/Mosquito+on+Zipper+Sunday+Hiker.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492457356482907650" /></a><p class="MsoNormal">Have you ever seen a mosquito sipping nectar? I thought not. It is, however, the meal of choice for most mosquitoes. Their diet is quite similar to that of the butterfly.<a name='more'></a></p><p class="MsoNormal">Knowledge is a <a href="http://sundayhiker.blogspot.com/2009/12/just-2134-miles-to-go-section-strolling.html#more">dangerous thing</a>, but nothing can pry the hate from my heart. <a href="http://sundayhiker.blogspot.com/2010/06/mosquito-ghost.html">Mosquitoes are the enemy</a>. Perhaps, though, alongside the hate could lie fascination, respect or even begrudging admiration.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Mosquitoes drink blood only to produce eggs. That’s right. All these years, you’ve only been fending off half the population.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Male mosquitoes are vegan. (Sometimes rare hermaphroditic mosquitoes bite too but let’s not go there.) In general, it’s the females that are the voracious vixens we know and love. Um, I mean hate, know and hate.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Female mosquitoes suck blood until they blow up like big bloody balloons and can hardly fly away. Their meal is so huge they have to land as soon as possible to excrete extra fluids. Yes, their piss is pink. It takes about 45 minutes to consolidate the nutrients enough to fly off in search of a safe place to hole-up and make eggs for a couple days.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">That’s right, you’ve got it. We are the last meal before the little beasties mate and die. Actually she doesn't die, but she probably will soon. There are lots of mosquito predators out there. "Mate and die" isn't actually the best phrase, she's already mated too. Yep, she mates before she bites and stores the sperm to use at her convenience. Ingenious. </p><p class="MsoNormal">Really, wouldn’t you like to say, “Don't mind me, I'm just going to store up some of this sperm for later." Or, "Let’s have sex now and I'll get pregnant when I'm ready. First I think I’ll go out for an exceedingly rich, dangerous and gluttonous meal!” </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Damn, I don’t want to like mosquitoes, but I have to admit I see a certain appeal in the femme fatale mystique… don’t worry this delusion will wear off next time I get bitten.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">[Personally I haven’t witnessed any of this (except for the biting and the wriggling) but I read it all in “<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Mosquito-Natural-History-Persistent-Deadly/dp/0786867817">Mosquito</a>” by Andrew Spielman (Harvard scientist) written in cahoots with Michael D’Antonio, Hyperion 2001. The part about the pink piss is on page 15. Facts provided are generally true of mosquitoes. There are, as always, exceptions and there are zillions of kinds of mosquitoes. Finally, thank you to “bilgik” for posting this awesome pic on <a href="http://www.sxc.hu/browse.phtml?f=search&w=1&txt=mosquito&p=3">stock.xchng</a>.] </p>anniemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12762867807246831445noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6044523013230692041.post-37850499428947230552010-07-04T06:29:00.004-04:002010-08-17T18:01:46.051-04:00Wild Wandering Efts<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8uz0FKcTHeroctzM_nMCD2j8cvj5xxj4Hm5oHk79j0EpykGDjD60gecsfsduAAYynXhBkmaypR__8g5Od2schhJZ2_OzZJORoJsEW14PSXP-nFNmMSAWZhVuIqM46HmzJP-f5Z7cZ-vZ6/s1600/Red+Eft+The+Sunday+Hiker.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 358px; height: 336px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8uz0FKcTHeroctzM_nMCD2j8cvj5xxj4Hm5oHk79j0EpykGDjD60gecsfsduAAYynXhBkmaypR__8g5Od2schhJZ2_OzZJORoJsEW14PSXP-nFNmMSAWZhVuIqM46HmzJP-f5Z7cZ-vZ6/s400/Red+Eft+The+Sunday+Hiker.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5489997998799535122" /></a><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal">There is nothing more American than a little rebellion. In honor of Independence Day, I’m protesting the misuse of the word red.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">There seem to be two definitions of red, the standard, “red, white and blue” and the more troubling red as in “red head.” This second use of the word is wrong.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">In a wave of patriotic fervor, let’s clean up our language starting with a name change for the Red Eft. Let’s call it like we see it. I hereby declare the salamander formerly known as the Red Eft is now the Explosively Orange Eft.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Whatever you call it, this eft makes an arresting sight on drab rainy moist days in the woods. Neon orange is more than striking against the backdrop of browns, grays and greens of the forest. Even their slow side-winding walk is deliciously alluring. It draws you in, but don’t do it. Don’t kiss the “Red” Eft.<a name='more'></a> No, not even one little peck. Don’t lick it either. They’re poisonous.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Likely that’s why you get to see them, being poisonous makes them bold. With their bright warning system they have no need for speed. They take their sweet time going about their business unabashed, more active during the day than your average salamander. For all this the Explosively Orange Eft is fairly commonly known, at least back east (they can be found roughly from <st1:state st="on">Michigan</st1:state> to <st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">Florida</st1:place></st1:state>).</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Red Efts are Red-Spotted Newts (aka Eastern Newts). The eft stage is all about terrestrial migration. For humans it’s the most visible phase of the life cycle. For the eft, it’s a few years of throw-it-to-the-wind carefree wandering. It’s a time when newts, who haven’t reached sexual maturity, hang around rotten mushrooms and chomp maggots. It’s a time of solitude, struggle and personal discovery. Efts will ramble alone, curling up in rotting logs for a cheap place to stay and breakfast in bed, termites, worms or whatever comes by. It’s idyllic. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">But all good things must come to an end. After years of freedom these little newts return to their natal ponds to procreate. They trade in their screaming orange pigment for the same muted green brown that they crawled out of the pond in.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">But don’t feel bad for them. They keep their spots. Little orange dots forever mark what they are and who they’ve been.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal">[Super special thank you to Jim McCormac for the use of his fantastic Red Eft pic. Check out his blog <a href="http://jimmccormac.blogspot.com/">Ohio Birds and Biodiversity</a>. It is full of gorgeous photography. I became aware of <a href="http://sundayhiker.blogspot.com/2010/06/porcupine-prickly-and-red-eft-angry-at.html">Red Efts on a three day family hiking adventure in </a><st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on"><a href="http://sundayhiker.blogspot.com/2010/06/porcupine-prickly-and-red-eft-angry-at.html">Vermont</a></st1:place></st1:state>. I learned more about them from “Red-spotted Newt” by Doris Gove and “Salamanders of the <st1:country-region st="on">United States</st1:country-region> and <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Canada</st1:place></st1:country-region>” by James W. Petranka.]</p><p></p><p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>anniemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12762867807246831445noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6044523013230692041.post-67332054949609326292010-06-27T18:01:00.006-04:002010-08-01T14:51:57.156-04:00Stay Puff & Other Trail Names<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe0skX2UplNr4JPTOE8qlHAIrPee98om5K7ba8O5Rbx5mlA3ZVJVrG1OeNWzF8O6fcTAMvR1hjBQIvdkIpu9KCaV8jDrTq3nOphehh0eyo84Q6sbHlLbSHrLnAKzMj4WhkODJKRA4H5MRR/s1600/stay-puft-marshmallow-man+Sunday+Hiker.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 397px; height: 331px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe0skX2UplNr4JPTOE8qlHAIrPee98om5K7ba8O5Rbx5mlA3ZVJVrG1OeNWzF8O6fcTAMvR1hjBQIvdkIpu9KCaV8jDrTq3nOphehh0eyo84Q6sbHlLbSHrLnAKzMj4WhkODJKRA4H5MRR/s400/stay-puft-marshmallow-man+Sunday+Hiker.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5487579194814842754" /></a><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;color:black;">Names are important... even when hiking. On the <a href="http://www.appalachiantrail.org/site/c.mqLTIYOwGlF/b.4805401/k.8865/About_the_Trail.htm">Appalachian Trail </a>(AT) it’s customary to choose a trail name. Perhaps this is true on other trails as well, but it seems to be especially true on the AT. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;color:black;">Signing into the logbook our <a href="http://sundayhiker.blogspot.com/2009/12/slow-hiking-at-section-1-part-1-hubris.html">first trip</a>, my hiking partner Tara, pen in hand, asked what my trail name was.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;color:black;">"Trail Name?" I asked right back. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Arial;">I had no idea. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Arial;">“I don’t have one. I don’t think I need one,” I said.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><st1:place st="on"><span style=" ;font-family:Arial;color:black;">Tara</span></st1:place><span style="font-family:Arial;color:black;"> gave me a look and convinced me that I did indeed need a trail name. Everyone does you know. In situations like these it is best to cave in to peer pressure. I looked myself up and down. I was dressed head to toe in white (<a href="http://sundayhiker.blogspot.com/2009/12/hikers-dress-code.html">anti-tick regalia</a>) and the Stay Puff Marshmallow Man popped into my head.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;color:black;">"That's awful," <st1:place st="on">Tara</st1:place> said, catching the implied out-of-shape clumsiness and does-not-belong-on-the-trail vibe.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;color:black;">I searched my soul, fished around for other ideas and after very little further deliberation decided to go with it.<a name='more'></a> I took masochistic delight in my new handle. If anyone else had come up with such a nick-name for me I’d have been mortally offended, but since I came up with it myself I could enjoy the negative undertones, none of which seemed to have effected <a href="http://sundayhiker.blogspot.com/2009/12/strolling-at-section-1-part-2.html">the trip</a> at all. We had an absolutely lovely time of it.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;color:black;">Usually one sticks with a trail name. I, however, like to fancy myself unbound by convention (though jay-walking is at times excruciatingly painful). After a few trips, I was ready to leave “Stay Puff” behind. My cocky-self had reemerged and the white outfit faded. Again I plumbed the depths of my soul. Once more I found a name that suited me, "<a href="http://sundayhiker.blogspot.com/2010/05/sending-messages-at-sec-3-part-2.html">Caboose</a>." On that particular trip I was always bringing up the rear.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;color:black;">On the next trip I decided "Cat-Up-A-Tree" was the trail name du jour. Like a cat, I was having no trouble getting up but coming back down… my knees were being <a href="http://sundayhiker.blogspot.com/2010/06/porcupine-prickly-and-red-eft-angry-at.html">oh-so-disagreeable</a> that trip, especially on the downhill sections of the trail.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;color:black;">I stuck with the self-deprecating theme. One has to vent one's insecurities somewhere. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Of course that’s not the only way to find a trail name. It’s just the best way. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;color:black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;color:black;">[Just kidding, all ways of finding a trail name are perfectly legitimate, hobbies, interests, place or origin, physical attribute, favorite food or superhero – it’s all fair game, just be prepared to tell the story… right now. I’m serious, what’s your trail name? </span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;color:black;">PS I gakked the <a href="http://cyclingwives.wordpress.com/2009/04/23/skinsuits/">Stay Puff photo</a> from</span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-family:Georgia;color:black;"> </span></span><a href="http://cyclingwives.wordpress.com/">http://cyclingwives.wordpress.com/</a> a site by and for women who love cyclists. I kid you not. PPS thank you to <a href="http://www.gbfans.com/">Ghost Busters</a> for a lifetime of inspiration.<span style="font-family:Arial;color:black;">]<o:p></o:p></span></p></span></div>anniemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12762867807246831445noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6044523013230692041.post-45150400851476681712010-06-19T06:50:00.001-04:002010-08-01T14:53:11.977-04:00The Mosquito Ghost<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH1ttQubKcgGq_dmDXXJxp-AmujYSGUiYS5uNJX-Ymc3mcCfIdROBK5x5VSyK5ggHcz3myRVd09NlMyzHii2lpQHJHTzTkVZeM9kHlQILGwV9YfG7ol0TTqSAK_iKz30qhDXS-H7-Ba9DN/s1600/the+Mosquito+Ghost.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH1ttQubKcgGq_dmDXXJxp-AmujYSGUiYS5uNJX-Ymc3mcCfIdROBK5x5VSyK5ggHcz3myRVd09NlMyzHii2lpQHJHTzTkVZeM9kHlQILGwV9YfG7ol0TTqSAK_iKz30qhDXS-H7-Ba9DN/s400/the+Mosquito+Ghost.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484295861134182882" /></a><p class="MsoNormal">I’ve been waiting for this all year and finally it is here – mosquito season! [Insert maniacal laughter here.] I’m not kidding. All winter there has been virtually nothing to struggle against, no adversaries worthy of a good fight. A little cold and snow? Bah! The mosquito, however, lends just the sort of challenge to keep a girl on her toes, to make her feel alive… <a name='more'></a>even if she’s hiding under a hunk of cloth.</p><p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I’d packed this tropical print fabric thing to be used as a multi-purpose sheet/towel/picnic blanket. Little did I know how truly useful it would become. If only it hadn’t taken me so long to figure it out. </p><p class="MsoNormal">After having been used as a sheet and then as a towel, it was draped over my shoulders to dry. I pulled it tight on the back of my neck and flapped it about like wings making an anti-mosquito breeze. It helped. [Insert beatific smile here.] Unfortunately my arms got tired before the mosquitoes did. I would have tried to outpace them, create my own breeze, but this was the first trip upon which my knees rebelled.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">If necessity is the mother of invention is adaptation her bastard son? Don’t answer that. I’m not interested in the marital status at the time of conception. In this day and age it’s irrelevant. Anyway… having found one way to foil those blood thirsty little bastards, more ideas followed. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBgATJV8_as5evA-cizdABaa9Tw10cv8FqMb6fstjCrsptQEFUIYDEw4ZRzlFaEWiKnzrh5CjUCbgX_aFDvZ88g2imEjBxk4tfoGPo_TRsxO3hUVKmuKeHI1220lbXQ1CZzPFQInV6tKUz/s1600/mosquito+wrap+the+sunday+hiker.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 162px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBgATJV8_as5evA-cizdABaa9Tw10cv8FqMb6fstjCrsptQEFUIYDEw4ZRzlFaEWiKnzrh5CjUCbgX_aFDvZ88g2imEjBxk4tfoGPo_TRsxO3hUVKmuKeHI1220lbXQ1CZzPFQInV6tKUz/s200/mosquito+wrap+the+sunday+hiker.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484295215307784882" /></a>Next I wrapped my head – stroke of genius that was. No mosquitoes could get at the back of my neck or at my ears. I was in hiker’s heaven. A few minutes of flapping hadn't dried the towel/sheet/picnic blanket/mosquito guard sufficiently, so it was a little stinky and sticky but hey that’s what we go in the woods for right? Too suffer, to tough it out, to appreciate that we have large temperature controlled boxes with window screens waiting for us at home.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">My knees, being the treacherous beasts they were, required a short rest. With my handy dandy no-nonsense mosquito foiler I sat right down where I pleased and pulled the damned thing over my head. Didn’t need to see the trail just to sit there. </p><p class="MsoNormal">With the verdant greens of summer under my rump and the hot sun shinning through the tropical hues, drying the musty cloth on my head, I could hear the mosquitoes angrily buzzing about me in a small swarm but I couldn't feel them biting. I must admit I was feeling more than a little smug.</p><p class="MsoNormal">[You noticed did you? Very perceptive. Ok, I admit it. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6YOMzZIwBe6U2OkVUZA6CxaoLxcaWPbay231V3NBX18IfHTAsQGCoeLrzBH1ZIjWV1gmw0WtIxa9nWBrwSGuUrOVcNj9vT21zXw54wAD9qtWZ7YRmMaeWsFGJZXOp0XVifthk0YH5hoig/s1600/mosquito+fashion+plate+sunday+hiker.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6YOMzZIwBe6U2OkVUZA6CxaoLxcaWPbay231V3NBX18IfHTAsQGCoeLrzBH1ZIjWV1gmw0WtIxa9nWBrwSGuUrOVcNj9vT21zXw54wAD9qtWZ7YRmMaeWsFGJZXOp0XVifthk0YH5hoig/s200/mosquito+fashion+plate+sunday+hiker.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484299634902338050" /></a>I did not take these pictures on the trail. Camera trouble. Besides who wants to post photos of their sweaty selves that scream, "I haven't slept well or showered in days"? It's best for everyone really that I did a little dramatic reenactment. This last shot just shows the utter extreme versatility and never ending usefulness of the tropical print wrap-thing. See, if the mosquitoes tuck tail and run you can use at as a fashionable accessory.]</p>anniemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12762867807246831445noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6044523013230692041.post-88274677541173595982010-06-13T20:45:00.002-04:002010-08-01T14:55:15.109-04:00Porcupine Prickly and Red Eft Angry - AT 3:3<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoInIBsi3V81ii6wwOJsmsD07MOKnZCH8-hulBtrCBLjn7-6ILdOV_IUfbZWFWI0kvbpAjgID80g519xdZg0LaQILyUnoog1wUKP5TjtJKaK_Eoa84fVYNdyvUQ_X7QPsufKhN5_FsxH5_/s1600/Porcupine+Quills+Sunday+Hiker.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoInIBsi3V81ii6wwOJsmsD07MOKnZCH8-hulBtrCBLjn7-6ILdOV_IUfbZWFWI0kvbpAjgID80g519xdZg0LaQILyUnoog1wUKP5TjtJKaK_Eoa84fVYNdyvUQ_X7QPsufKhN5_FsxH5_/s320/Porcupine+Quills+Sunday+Hiker.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482380637549182658" /></a><p class="MsoNormal">I left early, out of spite. Grumpy thoughts clinging hard even in the midst of the beauty and bounty of nature. Six thirty in the morning and I trudged along, stepping over one Red Eft after another, listing my justifications.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Three days running, I’d brought up the rear. In all likelihood I’d be last again today. Getting a head start made sense. They’d all pass me and my lame leg before long anyway; it was only a matter of time. <a name='more'></a>With a combination roll of the hip and an outward swing of the leg, I could avoid a stabbing pain in the right knee four steps out of five.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">After a hasty breakfast and slamming one cup of tea, I’d swung on my pack and left. They didn’t need me. I pulled the cloth draped over my shoulders tight and flapped my arms like wings to stir an anti-mosquito breeze. I wasn’t going to let anger ruin the day. I’d keep it tucked away ready for when my husband caught up with me. For now I was going to enjoy the morning, damn it.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Something shifted off to the right. I froze. There, maybe twenty feet off the trail, a porcupine was shuffling up a tree. It froze too. A porcupine up a tree? Wished I had a camera ready. The porcupine decided it didn’t want to go up that tree after all. It shuffled down and disappeared.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I stood suspended in wonder. It was like a sign from God. The porcupine was a little reward for good behavior – or in this case bad behavior. God approved of my wrath and anger. (Really God isn’t into sickening sweet. He’s all about substance and grit.)</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The hare caught the tortoise, myself being the tortoise, my husband the hare. He knew he was worse than in the <a href="http://sundayhiker.blogspot.com/2010/05/sending-messages-at-sec-3-part-2.html">dog house</a>. Bless him. The sight of him made me smile but I did my best to squish it. I was mad for a reason, having a hard time remembering the reason, but there had been one. I turned my face away, pretending to ignore him, so he wouldn’t see my smile. Didn’t want him to think he was forgiven. A smile after the storm, even when hidden, is the most delicious delight.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Epilogue</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The kids overtook us soon, caught up in the count. They’d already seen over thirty Red Efts. Another twenty or so efts later we made it to the end of our fourteen mile adventure. Plunking our packs in the dirt we dug out some grub and picnicked by the suspension bridge over <a href="http://sectionhiker.com/long-trail-trip-report-clarendon-gorge-to-bromley-mountain/">Clarendon Gorge</a>. The water was loud rushing past on the rocks below, and everyone was smiling.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal">[My camera wasn’t working on this trip. Above is a picture I took in <st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on"><a href="http://sundayhiker.blogspot.com/2010/01/strap-something-to-your-feet-part-1.html">Quebec</a></st1:place></st1:state><a href="http://sundayhiker.blogspot.com/2010/01/strap-something-to-your-feet-part-1.html"> last January</a>. It is a small canister of porcupine quills hung next to an educational placard on a tree. It fit the theme of my cold-hearted prickly anger. The Little Rock Pond to Clarendon Gorge trip in <st1:place st="on"><st1:state st="on">Vermont</st1:state></st1:place> took place in August of 2009. The rest of the trip is detailed in <a href="http://www.appalachiantrail.org/site/c.mqLTIYOwGlF/b.4805401/k.8865/About_the_Trail.htm">AT</a> Section 3 Parts <a href="http://sundayhiker.blogspot.com/2010/05/sound-of-silence-at-sect-3-part-1.html">One</a> and <a href="http://sundayhiker.blogspot.com/2010/05/sending-messages-at-sec-3-part-2.html">Two</a>.]</p>anniemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12762867807246831445noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6044523013230692041.post-51154908016522644602010-06-06T16:05:00.002-04:002010-06-13T17:53:31.335-04:00Vacation, Excuses and Inspiration<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDHDNIqcuTvT0Kh9lf1e92UDWe_JxIbrF2c3N-mGrnTd2YIPPzB2yt7BAR-FmJxmZ9SA5J3rsKPym2sGuWLmc7maCA8aTSoXV3fYkvEzAvAbiyjDhzMPwUJY6BOBkzhE8NifMWCnc-G69f/s1600/Cape+Cod+Rose+Sunday+Hiker.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDHDNIqcuTvT0Kh9lf1e92UDWe_JxIbrF2c3N-mGrnTd2YIPPzB2yt7BAR-FmJxmZ9SA5J3rsKPym2sGuWLmc7maCA8aTSoXV3fYkvEzAvAbiyjDhzMPwUJY6BOBkzhE8NifMWCnc-G69f/s320/Cape+Cod+Rose+Sunday+Hiker.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479722258071044274" /></a><p class="MsoNormal">Confession: I went on vacation and did not hike. It’s my mother-in-law’s fault. She’s quite a temptress. She dangled free beach front lodgings in front of us. We salivated, nodded and said something nearly as articulate as, “yeah, uh huh, that sounds good.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">So last weekend I found myself on the Cape (that’s <st1:place st="on">Cape Cod</st1:place> for you non-New Englanders). The weather was fantastic and I spent most of my time under a beach umbrella smelling the roses. Their sublime scent was strong enough to carry across the patio on the ocean breeze. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">But my vacation was not all sun and roses.<a name='more'></a> Nope. There is nothing like sitting around for three days to make you feel like a slug. I am not complaining; it’s just an observation. It felt like I gained two pounds a day. I told myself I could find a trail and hike but I was just talking to myself. I didn’t budge. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Not that we didn’t do <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">anything</i>. We did swim. OK that’s an exaggeration. Our aquatic experience would be more honestly described as splashing, suspending and bobbing about. Swimming implies exertion. I did no exerting.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Don’t worry about my body mass index. One does not gain two pounds a day subsisting on microwaved oatmeal and burritos. There is a plus side to budget vacationing. But after four fun filled days of reading, getting wet and waiting for the microwave to go ding, I was completely exhausted. Resting really wipes a girl out. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">That’s what too much rest will do. You've got to earn physical laziness or it will lead to a downward spiral and you’ll end up a slug. It nearly happened to me. You could say The Cape Slug Incident was inspirational in it's way. Next year I’m going to hike to the <st1:place st="on">Cape</st1:place> instead of drive. Or perhaps I’ll spend four days hiking the Appalachian Trail and three days recovering on the <st1:place st="on">Cape</st1:place>. I like that plan.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0GLlmQA5fjSFwIgDOkdw1YNEty8nUA2K20KrzNtUOp4QSEC_7Jq6CddNcvbi_X30onpQ1CXO8yt4eTQp6IC95QLzjU1mt8Gk9ZShAR-sEqVPXQlJ0PrvDFlQS84K9SstgOxKta6m6CIHk/s1600/Cape+Cod+Express+Sunday+Hiker.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 353px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0GLlmQA5fjSFwIgDOkdw1YNEty8nUA2K20KrzNtUOp4QSEC_7Jq6CddNcvbi_X30onpQ1CXO8yt4eTQp6IC95QLzjU1mt8Gk9ZShAR-sEqVPXQlJ0PrvDFlQS84K9SstgOxKta6m6CIHk/s400/Cape+Cod+Express+Sunday+Hiker.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479740002194905426" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">[<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal">Facts:</b> The above pictured rose is actually one I snurfed on the beach, it's not some random flower. On our way to the <st1:place st="on">Cape</st1:place> we were lucky enough to get stuck behind the Cape Cod Express for the extra hour we spent in Memorial Weekend Traffic 2010. FYI foreigners, Cape Cod is in the great state of <st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">Massachusetts</st1:place></st1:state>. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal">Excuses:</b> Sorry I’m late in posting. The power went out this morning. It was as it turns out highly convenient inclement weather.]</p>anniemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12762867807246831445noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6044523013230692041.post-61657157862764870062010-05-30T09:20:00.001-04:002010-06-05T15:22:04.174-04:00Sending Messages - AT Sec 3 Part 2<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHWMC8XvF0uqZGo7AEPUjJs7DJyvvzKotJk6DXpiYrZ8y1v1JQH93Lek0xRgr6ipB6DMA_nsGhOK6kh3zoLXD3tDannkwY8Te9_q_3zitbmPrBNjJ_zW59jwqzrGbQuSwOkROQx3wpcAC1/s1600/photo+(12).jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHWMC8XvF0uqZGo7AEPUjJs7DJyvvzKotJk6DXpiYrZ8y1v1JQH93Lek0xRgr6ipB6DMA_nsGhOK6kh3zoLXD3tDannkwY8Te9_q_3zitbmPrBNjJ_zW59jwqzrGbQuSwOkROQx3wpcAC1/s200/photo+(12).jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477032083147445682" /></a><p class="MsoNormal">We were a hiking party of seven. No surprise I soon fell to the back of the line and then a little further back. Lest anyone worry, I sent a message ahead with other hikers. In general fine and friendly folk hike the AT, happy to deliver messages and such.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“If you see a bearded man with a slew of red heads please let them know I’m thoroughly enjoying my dawdling. Tell them I’m fine and will be along eventually.”</p><p class="MsoNormal">The delivered message did not deter my sweet husband from worry.<a name='more'></a> After depositing his pack and our daughter at the shelter with our friends he hiked back a half a mile to find me. He offered to carry my pack and deserves a standing ovation. Note, however, I was doing fine on my own.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I felt good and wanted to keep it that way. His worry was unnecessary. I was just pacing myself trying to learn from my mistakes. I needed to find a balance somewhere between <a href="http://sundayhiker.blogspot.com/2009/12/slow-hiking-at-section-1-part-3-puppy.html">puppy pacing</a> and my delusions of... what? Invicibility? Grandeur? Sportsmanliness? Getting close... overconfidence based on a single small success? Whatever we call it, I'd since <a href="http://sundayhiker.blogspot.com/2010/04/dimension-hopping-at-section-2-part-4.html">been humbled</a>.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">In retrospect it was smart to pace myself. Unfortunately it wasn't enough. Perhaps my backpack was too heavy. Perhaps my joints had been underutilized too long. Whatever the reasons, the next day my knees hurt. Again, I found myself taking up the rear. This time unwilling and none too pleased. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">As I sat, hikers passed with a smile and a few kind words. I tried to fit in. I admit it, the peer pressure was getting to me. I tried not to let on about my shame, frustration and discomfort (pain) to those friendly hikersby. So I devised a subtle message to send down the trail. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Tell them I’m taking my time, resting my knee. It’s giving me some trouble but I’m drawing and observing nature while I rest.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Nothing alarmist or whiney but a statement of my predicament. Surely they’d pick up on the difference? Or not. </p><p class="MsoNormal">Bedraggled and in pain I arrived to indifferent disinterest. “Did you receive my messages?” I asked my husband all innocence.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Yes, they said your knee was bothering but that you were doing fine.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Ah, foolish husband. Insert snarling Wildcat Wife here and feel very sorry for the husband.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Next time I won't let the opinions of others sway me. I'll whine, I'll let that stiff upper lip melt into a petulant pout. Or maybe I'll send a ridiculous message for amusement’s sake. I could test what it takes to get looks of incredulity on the trail. Any suggestions?</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(51, 51, 51); line-height: 20px; font-size:13px;">[These events unfolded over the second and third days of our trip from <st1:street st="on"><st1:address st="on">Danby Rd</st1:address></st1:street> to Clarendon Gorge VT. It was a 3 night trip and my third excursion onto the <a href="http://www.appalachiantrail.org/site/c.mqLTIYOwGlF/b.4805401/k.8865/About_the_Trail.htm" style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153); text-decoration: none; ">Appalachian Trail</a>, an installment so to speak on my <a href="http://sundayhiker.blogspot.com/2009/12/just-2134-miles-to-go-section-strolling.html" style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153); text-decoration: none; ">30 year plan</a> to slow-hike the whole thang.]</span></p><span style="font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-ansi-language:EN-US;mso-fareast-language:EN-US; mso-bidi-language:AR-SAfont-family:";font-size:12.0pt;"></span>anniemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12762867807246831445noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6044523013230692041.post-61661476213021014772010-05-22T23:00:00.004-04:002010-05-30T09:22:05.048-04:00Doodles Of Loons<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Look, there is something wrong with this picture. No it's not just that the loon has no feet. It's that the loon lacks looniness.</span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6V6LbfqCXWMNVfPL4bWm67O1jzLZb-BFfDr7F1Zm-0LaBrE2CBzrXwjS71yoFpdRoykrxBM5dmHCl3gc_lrJBkNYNleffTXf9SFxTYf3aRaOoBnQEPdZh63YGqyNF2lYxKxFs5y6c1MKS/s1600/Loon+Crayfish+AT+Sunday+Hiker+Cropped.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 119px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6V6LbfqCXWMNVfPL4bWm67O1jzLZb-BFfDr7F1Zm-0LaBrE2CBzrXwjS71yoFpdRoykrxBM5dmHCl3gc_lrJBkNYNleffTXf9SFxTYf3aRaOoBnQEPdZh63YGqyNF2lYxKxFs5y6c1MKS/s400/Loon+Crayfish+AT+Sunday+Hiker+Cropped.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473375618667081058" /></a><a name='more'></a><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Taking notes is good. Taking doodle notes is even better. Opening my journal I realized how faded my recollection had become. But these little black lines revived my memories and restored them in Technicolor. Wading in the cool water, catching crayfish for my daughter. The just-before sunset tranquility, stillness as I swam. </span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The heart rending call of the loons as I floated in the middle of the lake.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I'd been pretty surprised to find loons on a lake. I’d thought they were seabirds. Apparently they’re more commonly thought of as lake birds. They are in fact both. They summer on northern lakes from southern</span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><st1:country-region st="on"><st1:country-region st="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Canada</span></st1:country-region><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="apple-converted-space"></span></span></st1:country-region><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">to</span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><st1:place st="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Greenland</span></st1:place><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> to reproduce, and winter on coastal waters or the </span><st1:place st="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Great Lakes</span></st1:place><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">My doodles brought back in vivid glory my experiences on Little Rock Pond in VT. But it couldn’t capture what I didn’t experience. I’ve never seen a loon up close. My blatant ignorances are duly reflected in my doodle. As it turns out though some level of ignorance is good. Blundering people can scare birds off their nests or pester them into exhaustion and even death. If they’re sounding an alarm or trying to intimidate with their dance, they aren’t eating. Eating is what they really need to do. Eat and preen. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">As much as I love the idea of dancing birds, I never want to see a loon dancing, at least not unless binoculars are required. I’m not like a sadistic fairy queen from a </span><a href="http://www.blackholly.com/tithe.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Holly Black</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> or </span><a href="http://www.cassandraclare.com/cms/works"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Cassandra Clare </span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">story. </span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Whether out of ignorance or sadism, there are lots of unfortunate YouTube videos of people chasing loons with their canoes and camcorders. This YouTube video shows loons as they are meant to be observed.</span></span></p><p></p> <object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/kiXjCifQn0w&hl=en_US&fs=1&color1=0x2b405b&color2=0x6b8ab6"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/kiXjCifQn0w&hl=en_US&fs=1&color1=0x2b405b&color2=0x6b8ab6" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">[FYI for you Trivial Pursuitists, the loon is the state bird of</span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on"><st1:place st="on"><st1:state st="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Minnesota</span></st1:state></st1:place></st1:place></st1:state><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">.</span></span><span style="color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span style="font-family:Georgia;color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Today’s other fun facts came from “The Loon” by Judith P. Josephson 1988 and “Loon Magic for Kids” by Tom Klein 1989. </span></span><span style="color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">For more Loon info check out Cornell’s </span><a href="http://www.allaboutbirds.org/guide/Common_Loon/id"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">All About Birds.</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span style="font-family:Georgia;color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The YouTube video was taken 9/6/06 by "cancer239" on Flying Pond in </span><st1:place st="on"><st1:state st="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Maine</span></st1:state></st1:place><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">.]</span></span></p>anniemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12762867807246831445noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6044523013230692041.post-11021394503266676222010-05-16T21:55:00.002-04:002010-05-17T11:54:23.603-04:00The Sound of Silence - AT Sect. 3 Part 1<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii3cvRO8gfDZCPh_2vBs6bpPL20pp7dEEbHFTi1cAF5cvCUq5bY9DEGdy6A5I5_almY5HM3mamsDjd582_TVYBGMiPdGsN4d9HBCzYTDWGjF9qrqhmx3I6tM07OVlTWwVprgjokp-vpfVB/s1600/Little+Rock+Pond+AT+VT+Sunday+Hiker+Cropped.jpg"><br /><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 202px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii3cvRO8gfDZCPh_2vBs6bpPL20pp7dEEbHFTi1cAF5cvCUq5bY9DEGdy6A5I5_almY5HM3mamsDjd582_TVYBGMiPdGsN4d9HBCzYTDWGjF9qrqhmx3I6tM07OVlTWwVprgjokp-vpfVB/s400/Little+Rock+Pond+AT+VT+Sunday+Hiker+Cropped.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5471131416248497282" /></a><div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;font-size:9.5pt;color:black;">Everyone knows the woods are where you get away from it all but this time my <a href="http://sundayhiker.blogspot.com/2010/01/finding-right-partner-in-crime-part-1.html">hiking buddy</a> Tara and I were trying something new. We were bringing it all, kids, husbands, the whole <a href="http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/shebang">shebang</a>.<a name='more'></a> Actually the husbands would catch up with us after they dropped a car off at<span class="apple-style-span"> Clarendon Gorge </span>14 miles north. <span class="apple-style-span">We'd left them in the dusty parking lot and followed the children up the shady path. </span>Eager to prove themselves the kids raced ahead.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;font-size:9.5pt;color:black;">I'd never been in the <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Green</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">Mountain</st1:placetype> <st1:placetype st="on">National Forest</st1:placetype></st1:place> before. It didn't feel too different from the forests of <st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">Massachusetts</st1:place></st1:state>. These woods were cozy, warm, peaceful and quiet - nothing like the intimidating grandeur of <st1:city st="on">Washington</st1:city>, <st1:state st="on">Wyoming</st1:state>, <st1:state st="on">Colorado</st1:state> or even <st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">California</st1:place></st1:state>. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;font-size:9.5pt;color:black;">I was greatly relieved and somewhat surprised at the gentle warmth of the day. Mind-baking, will-leaching heat can generally be depended upon in August in <st1:place st="on">New England</st1:place>. We started out light, just two miles to get the kids warmed up then we’d pitch a tent at Little Rock Pond. They'd never been backpacking before. I was fully prepared to deal with miserable whining whelps but the kids were gone. They disappeared into an imaginary world of adventure and fantasy, blending seamlessly with the fern strewn surroundings. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;font-size:9.5pt;color:black;">Following the faint whispers and giggles ahead we arrived before we knew it. Little Rock Pond is not little. It is beautiful, crystal clear and simply irresistible.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>There was no choice. We had to swim. By “we” I mean me. My husband is rarely so fool hardy but some of the others were lured in by my example and we had frolicking fun, found crayfish and spied loons.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Georgia;font-size:13px;">Loons are my favorite bird, simply for their name. “Is that a loon?" someone asked once when I was a teen. I knew loons existed and imagined them to be vaguely duck-like. That was the extent of my knowledge. I shrugged. My nonchalant expression belied a gentle tug at my heart as I thought, “The loon must be a crazy bird, just like me.” It was one of those melodramatic teen moments that scar you for life.</span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;font-size:9.5pt;color:black;"><o:p> Shrouded in deep melancholic resonations from the past I stumbled up to our campsite to pitch the tent when I was rescued from my reverie by the scratchy baseline pumping out of a little boom box at the adjacent campsite. Like a teenager I was immediately filled to the brim with venomous roiling angst. I wanted peace and quiet! Who let the people with a different conception of fun in to play in my sandbox?!? Ok, maybe I was feeling like a toddler. Either way, I wasn’t happy.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;font-size:9.5pt;color:black;">I hadn’t expected to find quiet in the woods, hell I’d brought the whole family and then some, but I guess that didn’t mean I’d left all my expectations behind. </span></p><div>[Photo taken by Tara Schatz Aug 8th 2009 Little Rock Pond VT. This was the first day of our trip from <st1:street st="on"><st1:address st="on">Danby Rd</st1:address></st1:street> to Clarendon Gorge VT. It was a 3 night trip and my third excursion onto the <a href="http://www.appalachiantrail.org/site/c.mqLTIYOwGlF/b.4805401/k.8865/About_the_Trail.htm">Appalachian Trail</a>, an installment so to speak on my <a href="http://sundayhiker.blogspot.com/2009/12/just-2134-miles-to-go-section-strolling.html">30 year plan</a> to slow-hike the whole thang.]</div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><u><br /></u></span></div><br /></div></div>anniemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12762867807246831445noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6044523013230692041.post-58471866792251681072010-05-09T07:31:00.004-04:002010-05-20T11:23:36.767-04:00To Buy Or Not To Buy<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLtYS5exXAR7Qzhvf5-MdoQap5icYLs24KwCNgpdbySCw_JEcnoJ_CNeZ6y9nDsG_Z8QUnyuAWX_gFkDXPEgFLypjpL-rtZjnZ6WecEnpgj4FQuIHjLoU1I4t6fPlSvHo6URy639q6qWFs/s1600/Tango+Shoe+Sunday+HIker.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLtYS5exXAR7Qzhvf5-MdoQap5icYLs24KwCNgpdbySCw_JEcnoJ_CNeZ6y9nDsG_Z8QUnyuAWX_gFkDXPEgFLypjpL-rtZjnZ6WecEnpgj4FQuIHjLoU1I4t6fPlSvHo6URy639q6qWFs/s320/Tango+Shoe+Sunday+HIker.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5469070044393939586" /></a><p class="MsoNormal">When someone says “hiking” the next word that pops to mind is invariably “shopping.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">For my first hiking trip, I bought long underwear tops and bottoms – bright white. White long underwear was the foundation of my anti-tick defense system. I wasn’t stepping foot into the wilds of <st1:place st="on">New England</st1:place> without them.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Ouch, I could have bought a candle-lit dinner for two for the same price. At least the word <st1:place st="on">Patagonia</st1:place> was embroidered on the waistband. It makes all the difference in the world to ticks. <a name='more'></a> </p><p class="MsoNormal">For that<a href="http://sundayhiker.blogspot.com/2009/12/slow-hiking-at-section-1-part-1-hubris.html"> first trip</a> I borrowed all other necessary hiking paraphernalia. Plagued with a need to prove myself, I had to show stick-to-it-tiveness and earn the right to spend. I’ve always been this way. Frugality laced with guilt forced me to tango in cowboy boots for a year before buying suede soled shoes. That was over a decade ago. Though they no longer fit, I keep them around to torture myself with. I always think of them when trying to answer the age old question, “To buy or not to buy?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Like <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prince_Hamlet">Hamlet</a> I’m haunted by the past. I agonize over purchases that proved pointless, teetering at the edge of insanity, afraid of repeating mistakes. But after a couple of hiking trips I’d earned a few essentials, sleeping pad, sleeping bag, backpack, liner socks, knife, tick key and head lamp.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Of these purchases only the sleeping pad and the head lamp were free of regret. The special order light weight women’s sleeping bag was so silky it felt slimy and made my skin crawl. I gave it to my daughter and snagged my mom’s old bag. Why is it that everything is more special if it was your mother’s first? Don’t answer that. Just wish your mother a happy Mother’s Day. Then buy her some wool socks. That’s what mothers the world over want. You can buy them at your local camping store but don’t succumb to the temptation to buy anything for yourself, lest my shopping disease be contagious.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">After I bought the tango shoes, I danced for less than another 6 months. It's been the same ever since. It's like a curse. After buying the sleeping bag and backpack, our next two trips were cancelled. It was over a year before I used my brand new pack. I count myself lucky that I hiked ever again. To make so many large purchases was tempting fate. Think twice before you do the same.</p>anniemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12762867807246831445noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6044523013230692041.post-58401408371561555622010-05-02T07:49:00.001-04:002010-05-17T11:58:06.063-04:00Red Trillium, Poison Ivy<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq118RkAloxR8z02KFiefJbV8TDZwksU7zOvCJlftqJFnN2GCibGMwZa1_djTYI8l9xr0wHqOLRFcE59QEiQnC0pXxI3Wckr52sK-nwBZz_cpVp0NUJ6yl8kgbm-OpwF5cLEtWE7j-DyNC/s1600/Red+Trillium+Sunday+Hiker.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq118RkAloxR8z02KFiefJbV8TDZwksU7zOvCJlftqJFnN2GCibGMwZa1_djTYI8l9xr0wHqOLRFcE59QEiQnC0pXxI3Wckr52sK-nwBZz_cpVp0NUJ6yl8kgbm-OpwF5cLEtWE7j-DyNC/s400/Red+Trillium+Sunday+Hiker.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466320484245507586" /></a></div><div><p class="MsoNormal">After <a href="http://sundayhiker.blogspot.com/2009/12/taking-on-wilderness-alone.html">leeches</a> and ticks, the scariest thing in the woods is poison ivy. That I’ve never had a case of poison ivy makes no difference. I strip down as soon as I get home from a hike, put everything I’m wearing in the washing machine and get in the shower.<a name='more'></a> I like to imagine any ticks will wash away too, ridiculous but nice to imagine.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I’ve heard ticks are active even early in the spring but I try to push their presence out of my mind and not think about them until it’s tick-check time when I get home. Not so with poison ivy. My gaze constantly grazes the edge of the trail. Hiking early this spring, before the poison ivy leafed out, I’ve had the most delightful feeling of hiking with impunity. I’ve wandered about freely exploring places off the trail usually made highly unattractive by the poison ivy.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwNcXpOAQKPGVPp9WpTeoKxOSMpbtBe8j39UuNZHcvGGIhrkiEddizUi9NkNqMiME7680tF2BLn2O82IT-4QHxXn2vZnPiDLwaC8hTWyl9X-NQNCN3wImUdSeniOWSasvctYLagfe4pGn4/s1600/Poison+Ivy+in+Spring+Sunday+Hiker.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 226px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwNcXpOAQKPGVPp9WpTeoKxOSMpbtBe8j39UuNZHcvGGIhrkiEddizUi9NkNqMiME7680tF2BLn2O82IT-4QHxXn2vZnPiDLwaC8hTWyl9X-NQNCN3wImUdSeniOWSasvctYLagfe4pGn4/s320/Poison+Ivy+in+Spring+Sunday+Hiker.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466321634821672418" /></a>Actually, poison ivy is very attractive, especially in spring as it leafs out, so much so that I wanted to learn a little more about this infamous plant. I found a book at the library. Guess what, poison ivy is at its peak just before it leafs out. I still can’t keep myself on the trail though. “If I just step in that one spot and don’t move I won’t accidently brush against those baby leaves two inches away, really.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">What could possible induce me to such reckless behavior? Red Trillium. It lured me in. I couldn’t resist. Red Trillium may be common to you (it ranges from <st1:state st="on">Pennsylvania</st1:state> to <a href="http://sundayhiker.blogspot.com/2010/01/porcupine-for-breakfast-lunch-dinner.html">Quebec</a>) but being a west coast girl, it’s new to me. I’d heard the flower was beautiful when it was described to me last fall, yet I wasn’t prepared for its stunning hue. I ran home to confirm its identification and read up.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Lo and behold, I learn that I’ve fallen in love with another stinking plant. Red Trillium has several common names, “Wake-Robin,” “Wet-Dog Trillium” and “Stinking Benjamin.” Really, I had no idea. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIysEeinz1i1KiSVB-mL0vPCR8dxgpamd8uVszYYjtg47VFSzvINcdlQq3ZHZeMzCtA_GthsxMqXsKOf3tNXoz_eNF5wbVw50G58iESDEUXASYHEWehyQBAYXCfodaTVvTFNOl1j52D8J1/s1600/Two+Trillium+Sunday+Hiker+Cropped.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 253px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIysEeinz1i1KiSVB-mL0vPCR8dxgpamd8uVszYYjtg47VFSzvINcdlQq3ZHZeMzCtA_GthsxMqXsKOf3tNXoz_eNF5wbVw50G58iESDEUXASYHEWehyQBAYXCfodaTVvTFNOl1j52D8J1/s320/Two+Trillium+Sunday+Hiker+Cropped.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466483917825859538" /></a> It was just the color that drew me to idle off the path. Actually you have to really hunker down to see it properly. The single flower flops over.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">What is it with me and the odiferous plants? First<a href="http://sundayhiker.blogspot.com/2010/04/easter-skunk-cabbage.html"> skunk cabbage</a> and now “wet-dog trillium?” I smell a theme. Apparently they both attract flies whose usual preferences run toward carrion. I’ve become completely enamored of two plants this spring, one stinks like a skunk and the other like rotting meat. And to admire them I’ve been playing in the poison ivy. It’s enough to make a girl wonder about herself.</p><p class="MsoNormal">[Books Consulted: Is it Poison Ivy? by Joan R. Darlington; A Pocket Guide to the Common Wild Flowers of Massachusetts by John E. Klimas, Jr.; Edible Wild Plants by Lee Allen Pterson; Eastern Forests by J. Kircher & G. Morrison. Photos: April 2010 <a href="http://www.broadbrookcoalition.org/fitzgeraldlake.html">Fitzgerald Lake</a>, Florence, MA]</p></div>anniemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12762867807246831445noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6044523013230692041.post-58938679767853936832010-04-25T07:35:00.003-04:002010-05-17T12:00:12.123-04:00Tarrying With Tadpoles<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">“I love everything about you,” said the caterpillar. “Promise you’ll never change.” <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">~ from Tadpole’s Promise by Jeanne Willis</i></span></i></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK0zQrAUO_rOQi3mVBZW7_T-Gh9bZejAkqVXbPqVIrBZ5s24WKWQ0u8Sudj2GnZTOhsZU2A5Robmz-XjwZKmth3oHsnkTddCtpvpsvHB2wrIwvmAhLhGZOYdWxkXti9igi1_n-hljhyF-x/s1600/Wood+Frog+Tadpoles+2+Weeks+Sunday+Hiker.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK0zQrAUO_rOQi3mVBZW7_T-Gh9bZejAkqVXbPqVIrBZ5s24WKWQ0u8Sudj2GnZTOhsZU2A5Robmz-XjwZKmth3oHsnkTddCtpvpsvHB2wrIwvmAhLhGZOYdWxkXti9igi1_n-hljhyF-x/s400/Wood+Frog+Tadpoles+2+Weeks+Sunday+Hiker.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5463883721890833522" /></a>“It’s Thursday,” I said, “We have to go to the lake."</p><p class="MsoNormal">"Why?" my daughter asked.</p><p class="MsoNormal">"We have to visit the tadpoles I’ve adopted,” I said.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“You’ve adopted them?” She smiled. “That means I have brothers and sisters.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Even with the promise of amphibian siblings, she was reluctant to hike. <a name='more'></a> It was spring break -- she wanted to watch DVDs. Luckily I’m the adult. I was hell-bent on tarrying with tadpoles. That’s what we did.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Over the last month I’d been <a href="http://sundayhiker.blogspot.com/2010/04/wet-feet-and-strangers-in-wood.html">watching wood frogs</a> progress from fresh clean eggs, to algae covered goo-gobs, to tiny twig-like brown squiggles and finally, burgeoning tadpoles. I didn’t want to miss anything. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I’d been surprised to find the cute little brown tadpole babies hanging out by their egg sacks after they’d hatched. I wondered how long they'd do that. I wouldn’t have guessed they’d do that at all. I kind of thought they’d hatch one at a time and swim away until there was one last Leo Lionni type tadpole left swimming lonely by himself and pondering why.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Observing tadpoles squelched my picture book conceptions of nature. I hadn’t even realized my knowledge of these sweet little <a href="http://thepursuitofanurans.blogspot.com/">anurans</a> had ceased to grow past picture books. I'd had a pursuit-of-knowledge hiatus. A little observation filled me with questions, I was eager to see what had changed this past week.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The tadpoles were now swimming about in the shallows, after two weeks hanging out on top of their old egg sacks. The eggs were now gone. I was surprised at how close to the surface the tadpoles stayed.</p><p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyCjz_Lzry9-eTRf7NVoGDWnqgR9yGkDIUz3lHHdC46phBr9dCyDYibEUcQHfZFfN5W-usvY2DbZJNFCIzhJQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><div>At the library, I learned that swimming close to the surface is unusual for tadpoles, most frog larvae swim deeper for safety. Wood frog tadpoles stay at the surface eating algae and other detritus, it makes them easier to observe and easier to eat. That is why wood frogs only lay their eggs in vernal pools without fish.</div><div><br /></div><div>Discovery! The tadpoles in <a href="http://www.randomhouse.com/kids/lionni/author.html">Leo Lionni’s </a><i><a href="http://www.randomhouse.com/kids/lionni/author.html">Fish is Fish</a></i> and <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Tadpoles-Promise-Ribbon-Picture-Awards/dp/0689865244">Jeanne Willis’s <i>Tadpole’s Promise</i></a> are not wood frogs aka <i>Rana sylvatica</i>. I know this because the illustrator shows fish in the pond in both books. Regardless of species, though, the same foundational tadpole quandaries apply. Tadpoles make great allegories for personal change. These picture books are must reads for anyone who has ever grown or changed. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>[To expand my knowledge beyond picture books, I read bits of <i>Vernal Pools Natural History and Conservation</i> by Elizabeth A. Colburn; <i>Summer Wold A Season of Bount</i>y by Bernd Heinrich and <i>Wood Frogs</i> by Doug Wechsler. Video taken April 4/22/10 at the vernal pool near the narrows of Fitzgerald Lake in Florence Massachusetts.]</div>anniemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12762867807246831445noreply@blogger.com4