Mom with my sister on a trip to St. Pierre and Miquelon, France
“A little rain never hurt anyone,” my mother always used to say when my sister, Greta, and I complained about not wanting to hike or bike on a rainy day.
“Why can’t we stay home and watch TV like everybody else?” we used to whine when our parents dragged us out rain or shine on weekends to hike in the Pine Barrens or bicycle through the countryside of Southern Jersey.
On a recent overcast Saturday morning, I thought of Mom when I decided to ride my bike to Crane’s Beach. I’d heard about a group of runners at the Ipswich Y and thought I’d try to meet up with them. It started drizzling when I arrived at the beach just past 9 o’clock and I never found the runners, who likely cancelled their run that day. Rather than run alone, I decided to join a team of volunteers for the Trustees of Reservations, picking up trash on the beach.
Out on the beach, the wind picked up and within ten minutes I felt chilled from the gusty wind and rain now steadily falling. Figuring I would work up extra heat exercising, I wore only my water resistant wind breaker and nylon wind pants. A poor decision. Rather than calling it quits, I put up my hood for warmth and sucked it up. A little rain never hurt anyone, right?
While scouring the beach, I found a tangled ball of string from a kite, a designer ball paddle, a green plastic sprouting lid, and a plastic bag along with plastic pieces of many sizes that accumulate in unsettling abundance in our oceans causing problems for aquatic life. For an hour, I slowly walked a mile up and down the beach, beside a vast expanse of tall golden grass cowering in the wind amidst the dunes. On the mostly clean beach where waves lapped on the wet sand, I filled only a fraction of my garbage bag as a few other volunteers carried out their heavier bags.
The cleanup was scheduled until 12 noon, but the wind and driving rain chased most everyone off the beach by around 10:30. After dropping my bag at the volunteer station near the pile of other bags, I quickly gobbled a granola bar, guzzled some water, then hopped back on my mountain bike, eager to work up some heat. As I peddled through the rain, my eyes open only a slit, I recalled the days I had spent on the back of a bike as a toddler in a rain poncho, while touring Germany and Denmark on bicycles, and later riding my own 10-speed derailleur bike in France when an occasional rainstorm sent rain dripping down my nose. Occasionally I hit puddles that sent an arc of water droplets from my front fender-less wheels up to my face and, from the back wheel, a line of gritty sand up my back.
By the time I arrived home, my hair was mostly wet despite wearing a hood under my helmet and much of my jacket and wind pants had soaked through. Even for a dinky 15-mile ride, I pledged always to remember to take my rain gear along. A little rain never hurt anyone, my mother always used to say, but I prefer to stay dry, especially in the cooler months!
So when was the last time you got soaked on an outdoor adventure?
Preparing to Summit Mt. Garfield, Photo by Lisa Cook
Last Sunday I joined the New Hampshire Chapter of the Appalachian Mountain Club for a hike up Mt. Garfield. (4,500 ft) in the Whites. After weeks of holiday preparation and family gatherings, I was ready for a New Year’s climb! Leaders Barbara Audin and Norm Michaels originally scheduled an ascent up Lincoln (5,089 ft) and Lafayette (5,260 ft), but predictions of 55 mph or higher winds and severe cold above tree line required a last minute change of plans.
Our group of eight departed on our 12.5-trek at 7:50 a.m. in 28 degrees F after putting on microspike traction devices. I was chilly in the parking lot, but wore only one thin layer of fleece over my hiking shirt, knowing I’d quickly work up heat on the way to the Garfield Trailhead. On past winter hikes in similar temps, I’ve set out wearing my waterproof shell and thicker fleece only to get the stink eye from hiker friends when I had to stop to delayer after the first bend in the trail.
Winter hiking is about planning ahead, keeping everything organized in your pack so you can find what you need in a flash, and avoiding delays since no one wants to get cold waiting while Joey digs for her bag of gorp that slipped into the bottom of her pack. Keeping my pack organized has never been my strong suit, but I’m improving. This time I put my snacks and lunch items in the hood of my pack (leaving out a couple items to tuck into my my pockets), rolled my jacket and rain pants before inserting them vertically next to my crampons, and stuffed my warm mitts and balaclava on top for quick access before the final climb to the summit. I even practiced putting on my crampons to avoid fumbling while my hands get cold.
On our ascent in a few inches of new powder snow covering the thick ice, we stopped on the hour for short water breaks and snacks, keeping a moderate, steady pace.
“I’m not a fast hiker, which is why I like glacier climbing,” says Barbara Crane, as I nip at her heels, wishing she’d pick up the pace in the last steep stretch before the junction with the Garfield Ridge Trail. But she tells me she’s summited Mt. Rainier so I bite my tongue and get really interested in knowing about that trip. Before long I’m moving at her steady pace grateful I’m keeping my reserve of stamina and not drenching my shirt with sweat from overexertion. The temperature is dropping into the teens and I know a wet shirt in sub-freezing temps can lead to hypothermia. Not a good idea.
Within the hour, we summit Mt. Garfield where the stunted fir trees look like they are covered with thick white cake frosting. Those of us wearing crampons sidestep about 60 ft on an icy ledge toward the foundation of an old fire tower at the summit. With hand assists, we help each other up over the last ice-glazed granite rock between gusts of wind before celebrating our success.
AMC book time for summiting Mt. Garfield is 3 hr 45 min, but we have arrived in 3 hr 5 min. Pacing ourselves has made a difference.
At a holiday party for the Newburyport Writers Group, I spotted a footbridge through the kitchen window of the Norwegian-inspired farmhouse where we were merrymaking. The sun had set, leaving the bridge mostly in shadows. This made me curious to go out and see the structure before driving home.
“Would you mind if I went out back to take a look at the bridge?” I asked Donna Seim, the lady of the house, after a young dark-haired fellow reentered through the glass doors from outside. “Of course,” she chimed back.
After sliding open the heavy door, I slipped out and made a beeline for the bridge, stepping onto a large green area that to my eye looked like synthetic turf for sports. As I began imagining our host couple playing tennis on this vast green expanse, I suddenly felt my feet sinking into the soft, cushy surface.
“Whoaaah, “ I hooted in a high-pitched distress cry, a sissy female reaction I wish I could erase from my neural pathways. Cold water filled my shoes and socks as I took a few springy steps across what felt like a soggy trampoline.
As I landed on firm ground feeling relieved to be off the water, Donna’s husband emerged to check on his bewildered guest.
“Are you OK?”
“I had no idea this was a pool,” I said feeling embarrassed. “You know that scene from It’s a Wonderful Life where the dancers jump into the pool?” He nodded and we laughed together by the pool as I tried to make light of my gaffe.
My wet socks squished as he guided down a few stairs and through the shadows to the banks of a stream where a red Japanese bridge crosses to the other side. I would have enjoyed walking across the elegant arch bridge he designed, but my wet feet were cold and before long he led me back to the house. While he ran upstairs to fetch a pair of dry socks, Donna apologized for not realizing I was not in the room (or perhaps I was jabbering with someone else) when she warned others about the pool out back.
I was grateful I had forfeited a pair of stilettos for a more comfy but much less fashionable pair of old Born clod-hoppers with flat soles. Had I worn those high heels, I might have punctured the cover and sunk ever deeper into the cold water that night. Oh well, no damage done and now I know how it feels to walk on water, or almost…!
Tina Sylvia, 46, a Blount Boats’ master welder, chatted with me at a recent unveiling of the Rhode Island Fast Ferry crew transfer vessel now under construction at Blount Boats’ shipyard in Warren, R.I. The vessel is the first U.S.-built offshore wind vessel that will service the 30-MW, five-turbine offshore Block Island Wind Farm scheduled to begin operation by December 2016.
How did you get into welding?
I got kicked out of home ec in high school. I didn’t like the teacher and she didn’t want me in the class. I had a choice between welding and carpentry so I tried welding first and liked it.
Had you ever tinkered at home?
No. My dad was a doughnut maker, but my mom brought us [three kids] up on her own and taught us to be independent. When something needed to be fixed, I changed my oil and sparks and everything that needed to be fixed, I did it myself. I couldn’t afford not to.
What do you like most about welding?
It’s cool you can make metal stick together and build things. And you can take pride in your work when it’s done.
How many boats have you worked on over your decade working at Blount Boats?
About 31 boats.
What project are you most proud of?
This wind farm boat. It’s very cool that we’re building the vessel for the first wind farm in the U.S.
What were the challenges of welding the aluminum cabin?
Welding is all the same no matter what kind of boat you’re building, but I like welding aluminum better. It’s a lot cleaner than welding steel. For the wind farm boat, they want the least amount of welds and no marks. The welds have to be small with little warpage. They don’t want it to look like other tin can boats.
What will you work on next?
The next one will be a steel party barge. Once we’re finished, I hope we get to go out on a family boat ride.
Read the Providence Journal article about the wind farm boat with a great photo of Tina welding!
“The French have a saying: the days go slowly but the years go fast,” says Dr. Saadollah Ghaussy, as we whiz toward Washington, D.C. on the George Washington Memorial Parkway. It’s mid-May and he’s taking me back to Washington, D.C. from Vienna in his shiny blue car on my four-day visit to the city.
“So true,” I reply, as he brings me up to date on what brought him to Washington from Tokyo after living and teaching in Japan for more than three decades. We dart like pond skaters through time, filling in the gaps that have developed since we were last in touch.
It has been 35 years since I last saw my professor when I was a student at Sophia University in Tokyo. One night, a small, close-knit group of my classmates and I joined him for a farewell dinner before I returned to the U.S. to study journalism at Columbia. We had passionately studied International Relations with him, huddling in each others apartments between classes to study together. I vividly recall his acerbic lecture about superpower politics in December 1979, following the Soviet invasion of his native Afghanistan. We were witnessing history unfolding.
We exchanged holiday cards for a number of years, but eventually lost touch. Then in 2008, a chance meeting while standing in a queue at Penn Station in New York City reconnected us in the most surprising of ways. That afternoon, I’d had trouble leaving work and missed a train for a business trip to Philly. After racing up a set of stairs from the lower train level, I jumped into line and caught my breath while staring at the briefcase beside the tall figure before me. Then, like in a dream, I noticed the name “Ghaussy” on the name tag.
“Are you Dr. Ghaussy?” I asked with no inhibition, addressing the man as if he were my Afghani professor. In that illusory moment, it seemed time had stopped and he had never aged. Then, the man swiftly turned his head in my direction to reveal a face with a striking resemblance to my professor. “No, I am not Dr. Ghaussy,” but I am Dr. Ghaussy’s son, he said, smiling.
“Would you like to speak to my father?” At once, he whipped his cell phone out of his suit coat pocket and handed it to me. In a flash, I was chatting with Dr. Ghaussy from his home in Northern Virginia, enjoying the crisp, staccato rhythm of his speech.
While Dr. Ghaussy, now 83, and I had only a brief visit in Washington over coffee, it was wonderful to see each other and we pledged to meet again when next I visit Washington. Time is precious.
Courtesy of Nicole Watson
In the forest behind the house, two whitetail fawns are chewing on pine needles and bark, their heads bobbing up and down as they tug at the branches, snow dusting their noses. Beneath the tree, depressions are visible in the deep snow. They must have taken refuge there last night as the wind howled and snow fell heavily into morning. Twenty inches of new snow has fallen on top of the six feet from three prior storms in this region’s snowiest February on record.
But now the sun is breaking through the clouds as the fawns search for any kind of sustenance. One fawn navigates down to a large fallen pine limb, moving slowly on spindly legs, the lower half of its body hidden in the deep tunnel-like herd path. Their mother is nowhere in sight.
More about whitetail deer
Photo by Flickr’s moonlightbulb
“You CLUMSY fool,” I blurted to myself the other morning when my bulky sweater brushed a hand-painted Japanese bowl, hurling it to the pine floor where it broke into pieces. Frustrated with myself, I began to wonder if studying an art form like tea ceremony years earlier might have actually helped me slow down and move more gracefully. Problem is, while living in Japan, I never had much patience for the tea ceremony. I was told young women often studied the it before marriage to refine themselves and learn to move gracefully. That made it even less attractive to me.
In the fall of 1976, I attended a tea ceremony at a private teahouse in Tokyo that made the old teahouse I was living in at Koenji Temple look like a shack. Seated at one end of the half-circle M-sensei, picked up a shiny black tea bowl in her right hand, shifted it to her left and placed the bowl next to the tea container before the water jar exquisitely glazed with yellow and orange maple leaf designs. My American friend, Kris, introduced me to M-sensei soon after I arrived in Tokyo from Boston. She was in her early seventies and though actively teaching tea ceremony, had agreed to teach me Japanese brush calligraphy.
Only a few minutes into the ceremony, my toes began tingling beneath my fanny from sitting still in zazen, knees tucked beneath me, on the tatami. The ceremony included a litany of rituals comprised of small movements and this was only just the beginning. I found myself trying to appreciate the sanctity of the moment in the Buddhist tradition of the ritual art form. I took in the sweet scent of the new tatami, the beauty of the rustic handmade tea bowls, decoded a few elegant sosho grass-script characters on a scroll in the alcove and reveled in the soft light filtering through the paper fusuma windows that afternoon. But the rest did not draw me in.
M-sensei picked up the ladle in her left hand, held it directly in front of her, extended her right hand to touch the end of it before she picked up the ladle and placed it exactly three tatami stitches from the edge of the mat before bowing to all of us guests. Each little movement or turn of the body was directed by a carefully prescribed framework of rules. Let me outta here, screamed a little voice in my head. But all I could do was wiggle my numb toes and bow in unison each time the teacher bowed.
Once M-sensei began untying the bow on the silk drawstring tea pouch, I figured we were coming close to the climax when she would whip up the powdered macha tea and each of us would enjoy the frothy, aromatic experience. But it seemed like eternity until that moment arrived. First she untied the bow on the green brocade drawstring pouch with the tea container, spread the drawstring gathers first on the far side, then on the near side with the precision of a plastic surgeon. After closely inspecting a bright orange chakin cloth, she wiped the tea container before picking up the bamboo tea whisk with her left hand. We’re in the home stretch, I mused when she scooped water from the kettle, blending the tea slowly and rhythmically with the whisk.
Before receiving tea, each of us received sweets, maple-leaf-shaped candies on crisp, white paper squares. “O saki ni—Excuse me for receiving before you,” I said as the sweets were passed my way, following tea ceremony etiquette. When the tea bowl arrived, steaming with thick, sweet smelling tea, I bowed to the guests to my right, feeling I had reached the promised land.
Cradling the thick-walled bowl in my hand, I took a sip of the aromatic tea. In that meditative moment, I was sure I was close to reaching nirvana before my left foot began to cramp and I began unfurling my leg for relief as everyone stared at me the clumsy gaijin—foreigner. “Daijobu—I’m fine,” I reassured everyone, wanting to crawl into the tatami work.
Though I never formally studied the tea ceremony, I was fascinated by its history, loved ceramic tea ceremony ware and enjoyed quiet afternoons when my friend Kris would pull out one of her hand-made tea bowls and whisk up macha tea that we enjoyed with sweet bean candy. Trouble is, that never slowed me down enough to move more gracefully. Maybe I should try ballet?