The Gravy List

I don't know what I think about bucket lists. I'm not sure that life needs to be judged like a list, just checking things off and then determining happiness or success, or how good a life lived was based on check marks. But I do make lists. And my mind seems to function more efficiently when I've created and am working from a list.

I was thinking the other day about a "gravy list," a list of those things that don't determine whether you've lived a good life--let's leave that to things like character and family, legacy, satisfaction--but a list that we each create to say, you know, life is cool, but it'd be even cooler if I was able to do some of these things.

So I present, 10/11 items, in no particular order, that comprise my gravy list.

1. Complete a rim-to-rim trail run of the Grand Canyon. Running one way it's a little more than 20 miles. It's been done as an out and back run, 40+ in a day. That's great, but I'm just looking for the basic. Here are some details and helpful training tips. In my experience, the natural world, and cities for that matter, are best experienced on foot. Trail running stirs my soul as few other activities have. I'd love to cross the Grand Canyon, on foot, with some running peeps, in a day.

2. Attend Washington Nationals spring training games. I've written here a number of times about our family's fandom for the Nats. I've been following baseball since I was a kid, collecting baseball cards, pouring over statistics. Our girls don't like watching football in the least, but they love going to Nats games. I've always thought it would be cool to go to a few spring training games, warm weather, laid back, getting to see the team as they gear up for the season. I don't need to go to all the games, just a couple.

3. Complete a book-length manuscript. I'm a writer. It's what I love, it's what I spend much of my time doing, or thinking about, or working on, etc. To this point, my writing has taken the form of essays, reflections, articles, stories, aphorisms, fragments, poetry, etc. I haven't wrapped my head around a big, book-length project. I've got some ideas I'd like to explore.

4. Buy/drink a beer with a living writer whose work I dig, but who I've never met. Maybe this is a fan boy thing, but it's also wanting to talk shop, pick the brain, hear stories from someone I've read and enjoyed, someone who is doing the kind of stuff I'd like to do. A way to say thanks and to learn. There is not one particular person I have in mind, but I can think of a number of them.

5. Take a hut-to-hut family hike in the White Mountains, via the Appalachian Mountain Club. The White Mountains were a game changer for me. I've written about it on here and our hut-to-hut adventures became part of a Trail Runner Magazine feature I wrote on fastpacking. In this case, I'm not talking epic in terms of miles, but expanding the notion of epic with our girls. Something easy, starting at Pinkham or the Highland Center, going to the nearest hut for the night and heading back. Something to let them know what is out there. We live on the panoramic Eastern Shore of Maryland. It is beautiful, but flat. The girls get excited for the hills of western Pennsylvania. I'd love for our family to imbibe the whole AMC experience.

6. Attend a Liverpool Football Club game at Anfield. I've been bitten by the English Premier League soccer/football bug to be sure. I've also never left the United States--I've been from the Florida Keys to Maine to California, but never had a passport. My life won't be incomplete if I never get a passport. But hearing Reds fans singing "You'll Never Walk Alone" in unison would be a different kind of sports spectating experience. And the writer in me, and the beer drinker in me, would want to add to the trip with pub life and a day hike through the Lake District, in the footsteps of Wordsworth, maybe a stop through the Eagle and Child Tavern, a la Tolkien, C.S. Lewis and Charles Williams.

7. Complete a full arm tattoo sleeve of personal images and symbols. I'm on my way with my right arm sporting an elemental heron and an image form a rune with St. Patrick and snakes. My tattoos have been slower going, based on finding an image/symbol with deep, personal meaning, and time and money to get it done. But, as folks with tattoos know, the scheme digs in, the feeling, the result, walking around as a personal art gallery, yeah, sign me up.

8. Attend a Sonny Rollins concert. I prefer old school jazz to contemporary. The legends I dig listening to are mostly gone. Rollins is still touring at 82 years old. If you want some more background, Men's Journal ran a great story on Rollins in September. When Rollins was thought to be one of the top saxophone players out there, he pulled back and spent three years playing on the Williamsburg Bridge just to get even better. There is only one Saxophone Colossus.

9. Deliver a Sunday sermon. I'm not fully sure why this is on here. Part of it is an embrace what you fear approach. I'm not big on public speaking. I don't pretend to know anything profound that I could impart by means of a sermon. But I like the idea of exploring an idea, history, humor, personal experience, stories, and life with a group of folks in that way. Maybe I might even come up with something to say.

10. Create a recurring comic strip/series/story, working with an artist/illustrator. Through middle school, I devoured Marvel Comics, mostly Daredevil, The Avengers, The X-Men. Comic strips such as Calvin and Hobbes, Peanuts and Pearls Before Swine, condense humor, wonder, compassion, hard knocks and friendship into memorable images and turns of phrase. We live in a visual age. I love the idea of visual storytelling. I've been reading graphic novels of late and digging the work of Matt Fraction, Frank Miller, Rick Remender. I'm not sure how, where I/we'd start, but I've been formulating some ideas. And we live in a digital age where many things are possible.

So there are ten. If I included 11, the next would be learning to play the piano. But let's stick with ten. This is above and beyond kids' field hockey games and days at the beach or park, making time for date nights and time with friends and family. Those things are the framework. The meat, with apologies to vegetarians. These ten things, they're the Gravy List.

A Woody Sighting

Wood Frog explains the quirkiness of a a draketail workboat to our boy Woody, the AT thru-hiker, who made a detour to Bay Hundred.

Returning readers may recall that Wood Frog and I encountered a southbound Appalachian Trail thru-hiker on Crawford Path during our White Mountain adventures. Attentive returning readers may further recall that said thru-hiker, James "Woody" Woodring, had grandparents who lived in St. Michaels; had a deep-routed interest in sailing and wooden boat building; and anticipated a stop-off in Maryland.

This week, we got a call from Woody as he was making his way from Annapolis to St. Michaels. After a tour of the Chesapeake Bay Maritime Museum (aka my place of employment), a meeting with our Boat Yard Manager Richard Scofield, a tour of Higgins Boat Yard and log canoes from Mike Keene, a sandwich from Lighty's, a tour of the Keene boat shop in Wittman, a quick boat ride aboard the draketail workboat Dora, and a feast of a dinner at the Keene residence, our pal Woody is picking back up where he left off in Harpers Ferry. He anticipates finishing the AT in December, and who knows, we might see him back in St. Michaels again after. Great to catch up and hear about his adventures in thru-hiking. If you are curious to follow along at home, you can check in at Woody's online journal.

In other news, the Baltimore Marathon is tomorrow morning, with kindly running weather in the forecast. Pierre Bernasse, Jim Richardson, Mike Keene, and I went up for the expo and packet pick-up this morning. I have no idea what tomorrow holds--hopefully something good! And to all, a good night.

Tucks and Frog, Part III: Return to Pinkham

A view of Madison Springs Hut on the way up Mt. Madison. A group of nurses who treated Wood Frog's head-butting scar were on their way up Mt. Adams, next door.

The only thing harder on your feet than climbing mountains is descending mountains. Particularly when the descent is largely hopping from rock to rock. To avoid the day-long journey to the land below treeline, the first thing we did was summit Mt. Madison via the Osgood Trail, which is also the way of the Appalachian Trail.

I've read Bill Bryson's book A Walk in the Woods, and there are stretches of the Gulfside and Osgood Trails that left me scratching my head as to how the self-described hapless Bryson traversed the rock fields. You do indeed pass people of all shapes and sizes in the Whites.

The Wood Frog prefers to do his hopping above treeline. Since our trip, he has been back to the Whites and stayed in Lakes of the Clouds hut with his daughter Olivia. You simply can't bring him down to sea level at times (seen at left on the summit of Mt. Madison), which makes for a great hiking attitude.

The last day's descent was the foot killer for me, despite lacing the Hardrocks tight and sporting two pairs of socks. Osgood shoots over to the Madison Gulf Trail, which put us onto delicious wooded single-track with falls and stream crossings, and I bolted down the trail, in part to redeem myself for being slower on the rocky downhill early.

The stream crossings were highlighted by an awesome swinging bridge, followed by more twists and turns through the woods. We hit the Old Jackson Road (the self-same road we did our trail run after arriving at Pinkham) after 4 hours on the trail.

We both remembered the speed of the pack-less run, and somewhat remembered the trail.

"Think we can do it in under half-an-hour?" posed the Wood Frog.

"I don't know, man, we've got packs on this go-round." Note to self: if you lean downhill with a pack on your back, it is akin to a rolling boulder picking up steam. We trucked down Jackson, arriving at Pinkham Notch 25 minutes later, with nary a drop of water left between us. Total time on trail for the day was 4 hours, 25 minutes, total distance covered was 7.8 miles. Pack weigh in showed a net loss of 7-ish pounds (water and food), giving the Frog a 23-ish pound load, and Tucks 16-ish.

The three-day fastpacking odometer reads 32 miles (plus 4 trail running), a couple summits; food consumed in Lakes, Mizpah, and Madison Huts; and one of the greatest pay-by-the-minute showers known to hikers at the Pinkham Visitor Center.

That's the short version chronology of the White Mountain adventures of Tuckerman and Wood Frog, now complete online. There has been much introspection since, and several threads followed, but those will make for another tale.

After taking about a week off of running, due to some Achilles tendon pain from the hills and rocks, I resumed running with a 13-mile slow run up St. Michaels Road this past Sunday. Though therapeutic to legs unaccustomed to altitude and mountains, Route 33 needs the assistance of an i-pod to jazz it up. The soundtrack of the Whites is not something that you can download from i-tunes.

Tucks and the Frog, Part II: The Longest Day

Tucks (better known as Valliant) on his way up the Dry River Trail, during the zombie day--a 13.7 mile day, which included waterfall swimming, orienteering, climbing above treeline, and brutal ridge-walking for speed against the dinner bell. Photo by Wood Frog.

On a day in the mountains, if you find yourself descending a good bit, chances are it means there is a bigger climb waiting for you. Wood Frog and I left Mizpah Hut at 9:00 a.m.--much later than advised for the day we had planned--and started our descent into the green goodness of the Dry River Wilderness Area. From the DR Cutoff, the trail is fast, and fun to run, even carrying a pack. I learned during White Week that I am not the fastest cat on the trail when "trail" means traversing rocks and steep climbs, but turn me loose on wooded single-track and it's game-on.

We flew through the woods, mindful of moose, crossed a few streams and rivers, until we could hear the Dry River Falls just off the trail. We followed a lightly blazed trail to the falls and a crystal clear (and c-c-cold!) pool at the base of the show. Swimming holes are not made any nicer, nor much colder to a couple tidal boneheads from the Bay.

A swimming hole with a view. Dry River Falls. Photo by Wood Frog.

One thing we learned about wilderness areas: wilderness declarations trump trail maintenance. Coming across a girl and her husky on my way back to the trail from the falls, she gave fair warning that the DR Trail became tough to find and follow after a major river crossing. She, dog, and boyfriend had camped nearby (no dogs allowed in huts), and had done their share of stumbling.

Even forewarned, we managed to lose the trail. A few false starts, adept map reading (NEVER hike the Whites without the White Mountain Guide book), and some sleuth work, landed us back on the trail and beginning our ascent back toward Lakes of the Clouds Hut. One more detour from forward progress came when Wood Frog lost a head-butting match, and consequently his glasses, with a head-level branch from a fallen tree. Glasses were recovered intact, and the Frog picked up the trip-winning "tough guy" mountain scar down his forehead.

It's one thing not to do much in the way of trail clearing. It is quite another for nocturnal trail elves to fell trees at exactly waist height--where you can neither go easily under or over them--across the trail every hundred yards. Despite, or because of, its untamed difficulty, the Dry River Trail is among the most rewarding to hike. Other than the dog couple, we passed no one as we pushed above tree line. The ascent was like a shedding of earthy trappings headed up into rock-ville. We arrived at Lakes 4 hours and 52 minutes after departing Mizpah, covering 6.9 miles, and spending easily more than an hour between swimming, looking for glasses, and looking for the trail. We sat down to soup and brownies at a little after 2:00 p.m, and were out the door and headed up Crawford Path toward Madison Springs Hut towards 3:00 p.m.

Wood Frog explains to White Mountain hikers how Baltimore Orioles fans like to embellish a certain line of the Star Spangled Banner. Towards the top of Dry River Trail.

One thing to note about the huts: they serve dinner at 6:00 p.m. That time is not arbitrary or negotiable. It is 6.8 miles from the Lakes hut to Madison. Damnit, man, we're going to miss dinner!

On our way up Crawford, we pass a speed-hiking mother and daughter, with whom we'd had dinner and breakfast at Pinkham Notch. We re-greeted each other and told them what we'd been doing, where we were headed, and noted that we were concerned about making it to dinner on time. Speed mom (who had come from Madison to Lakes) thought it over and decided, "No, you guys should be able to make it, no problem."

We hooked into the Westside Trail from Crawford, and the long and ROCKY Gulfside Trail from there. Despite the urgency for our dinner date, my legs are slowing down. At the same time, the Wood Frog is hopping. We are encountering any number of hikers, as Gulfside is again part of the Appalachian Trail, with many summits and springs, as well as the Mt. Washington Cog Railroad dissecting the trail. We both come to the same unspoken realization, that the Frog's legs are our dinner reservation. He hops down the trail ahead of me, stopping at the top of a ridge to check-in with a thumbs-up. I am grateful that he is in high-gear.

Wandering into the desert or the mountains, figuratively and/or literally can expand the soul. I have had these desert experiences (also known to some as "Come to Jesus" moments) in long races, where suffering and perseverance do this self-defining jitterbug of a dance. The outcomes of those dances are inked directly into the story of your being. The Gulfside Trail to Madison has its place in my story. I had tired legs; I had wet socks; I am marginally afraid of heights; and mountain miles seem to measure on a scale which renders road running times completely meaningless.

"Cairns" are piles of rocks stacked along trails in the Whites to tell you where the hell you are supposed to be going. There is something primitive and spiritual about wandering after rockpiles through the mountains, particularly when you are stumble-drunk trying to aim yourself from one to the next. The cairn builders are not nice people. Probably they were beaten up by hikers on their grade school playgrounds, and cruelly strewing cairns over mountains is their chance at revenge. If I find one of them, I'm leaving with lunch money.

Just because you stack piles of rocks in a line, doesn't make it an actual trail. If you get lost in the White Mountains, you don't have a cairn in the world. Sorry, had to say it.

As a follower of cairns, you come to realize that when you look up at the next mountain, you can always find a cairn up near the top, then trace them right back down to you. This went on for many mountains, until I looked at my watch and realized that I hadn't eaten anything since the Lakes hut, 2 hours and 45 minutes ago. I found a rock (tough to do), sat down, housed down some gorp, then got cranking again. Gorp is good.

I finally spotted Madison Hut, tucked behind a mountain, and made my way down a winding section of trail to arrive, having covered the 6.8 miles in 3 hours and 42 minutes (still well short of the recommended hiking time). As I arrived, Wood Frog hopped out to greet me and direct me to our table. He had made it in just over 3 hours, checked in, and put my name in the pot for dinner. God Bless Wood Frog and the croo at Madison. I sat down to soup, salad, chicken casserole, peas, and a kick-arse dessert of some sort. Total mileage for the day was 13.7 miles. Mountain miles, that is!

Tucks and the Frog, Part IA: Interlude (before the long haul)

Mornings at Mizpah begin with song, grub, then a weather report to get you on yer way. The dude with the raisins in his hand looks hungry. Photo by Wood Frog.

Water, food, shelter/rest, and weather. Those factors dictate the rhythm of life above and below treeline in the Whites, on the AT, or any sustained outdoor adventure. Trekking through the White Mountains, hikers are lucky to have a series of full-service huts, run by the Appalachian Mountain Club (AMC). You can refuel and stockpile knowledge on each of said factors, which is what the plan was as we popped out of the woods to Mizpah Springs Hut.

The cats that man the huts are truly remarkable folks--a gauge against which I will probably measure customer service for the rest of my life. The huts are a study in conservation, self-reliance, and community. Toilets are composting, energy/refrigeration are fueled by propane tanks, supplies are hiked in and trash hiked out by the "croo." There are no napkins--that would mean more trash. Lights are out at 9:30 p.m., and you will be waking up to songs at 6:30 a.m.

We had the great fortune of having an "all-alum" croo, return to their posts from the mid-1990s, from their new roles as teachers, parents, etc. They were riotously funny, helpful, accommodating beyond belief. As we were getting ready for dinner, they announced we had an Appalachian Trail thru-hiker with us, who was working in exchange for food and bed, and who would talk about his south-bound journey after grub.

Turns out that "Woody," was the happy hiker who cruised by us on Crawford. Talking to him, he had a wonderful simplicity to his approach. He had a modest budget he was sticking to; he gave himself six months to get from Maine to Georgia, and he carried nothing he didn't absolutely need with him, including opting for no tent. He mentioned he was from Texas and that he started in Maine with a friend, who was now a day or two behind him.


W: "I'm thinking of stopping for a week or so around Washington, D.C., to visit with my grandparents, who live in Maryland."

MV: "Sounds like a sweet plan. Where do they live in Maryland?"

W (looking doubtful): "It's just a small town on the Eastern Shore, I doubt you would know it."

MV: "Try me, you might be surprised."

W: "St. Michaels."

MV: "No sh#$!"

Turns out Woody (above, real name James Woodring. You can follow his AT adventures in his online trail journals by clicking on his name) knows and digs the Maritime Museum, and is actually more than casually interested in the boatbuilding apprentice program at CBMM. Remind me to expense the trip to the Museum--apprentice recruiting.

Dinner featured the best split-pea and ham soup known to humans; bunk arrangements featured the most musi-comical snoorer (a woman) ever heard; and breakfast was carb-a-licious, followed by a weather report, and the veteran croo pulling off a skit complete with the rare Chinese blanket folder.

It's not the Village People, it's da Croo! I am almost afraid to comment farther. Photo by Wood Frog.

So that's interlude one, and puts the number of story installments at about four now. The morning of August 1 called for great weather, and we lined up our longest day of the trip. We asked around, but didn't get the full scoop on the Dry River Trail, cutting through the Dry River Wilderness, care of the Dry River Falls, which sounded worth the roundabout route. We had no idea what we were getting into, how long a day it was going to be, or the different terrain we would encounter, and certainly not the soon-to-be compulsion to crank out fast miles for food. All that and more, in the next chapter of the Adventures of Tuckerman and Wood Frog... TO BE CONTINUED

The Adventures of Tuckerman and Wood Frog - Part I

(L-R) Mikes Valliant (Tuckerman) and Keene (Wood Frog) in search of lunch on Crawford Path after summiting Mt. Washington of the first full day of their adventure.

I take it back. I have never run hills. At least not until this past week's trip to the White Mountains. When moving forward requires your hands to be pulling you upward, along with your legs, then you are running up a hill. That's a lesson I learned. Several times.

Sunday night/Monday morning, Mike Keene and I loaded clothes, gear, water, and gorp into Keene's Expedition and drove 12 hours to Pinkham Notch in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. We arrived sleep-deprived and slap-happy, checked in to the "Wood Frog" room of Pinkham's "Joe Dodge Lodge" and did what sleep-slap combo takers do: went for a 4-mile trail run.

Mike K., a Whites veteran, suggested Old Jackson Road for our run--a 2-mile stretch of the Appalachian Trail, that holds mostly runnable. If you are an idiot, that is, a moniker for which I am qualified. On the way up, the trail rose quickly, and consequently fell just as quickly on the return. It was a glorious run--difficult, scenic, and freeing, especially given that we ran it carrying only a single hand-held water bottle a piece. The White Mountain Guide recommends hikers give themselves two hours to walk the trail, one way. We managed the 4-mile, round-trip in 58:07. A sublime prelude to the next three days, we then dined, family style, at Pinkham for dinner and breakfast the next morning, before leaving clock and cell-phone based comforts and reality behind and below.

To fully appreciate the beauty and simplicity of trail running, I recommend throwing a 20-pound backpack onto your shoulders. We did the math and packed what clothing, gear, food, and water were deemed necessary for the next three days and two nights, knowing we would be having meals and be able to refill water at the Appalachian Mountain Club's huts. On the way up Tuckerman Ravine, pack weigh-in put Keene's at 29-ish pounds, and mine at 23-ish.

Never underestimate having a hiking partner who knows the lay of the land. After a clear sunrise, and a good weather report, Mike recommended we re-route the day to head straight up Tuckerman (known as "Tucks" to the short-of-breath) to summit Mt. Washington. Tucks was my holy-crap, world-bending, reality check-in to the mountains. We climbed past waterfalls, over bridges, up rocks, and we climbed past hikers, shelters, and a ranger station. Then the real climbing began. Bodies of weary, but stoked hikers adorned various break-worthy stretches of Tucks' higher parts. We summited into the parking lot (aka buzzkill) at the top of Mt. Washington in 3:08:55. Other hikers we met and chatted with along the way were impressed with our speed-themed summit time. Emerging from their cars, photo-op tourists looked askew at the lot of us, asking, "did you really just hike up here?"

Wood Frog working his way up the higher stretch of Tuckerman Ravine. Fielding a question from a group of hikers a couple hundred yards below, the Frog replied, "It gets much worse."

After a quick fill of the hustle atop Washington, we descended down Crawford Path to the Lakes of the Clouds Hut, in search (hope) of soup. We walked and talked for a time with Katherine (whom we met on the way up), an ER nurse and mother of 20s and teen-aged kids, recently returned from hiking in Switzerland, and was backpacking the Whites solo. The off-handed consensus of the Mikes is that she may well be one of the coolest moms on the planet, and certainly an inspiration to (us and) her children.

The Lakes Hut, and the masterful Minestrone therein did not disappoint. Note for dinner parties: combine voraciously hungry dinner guests, with a panoramic view of the mountains from your dinner table, with hearty bread and vegetable-based soup, and you will have the happiest guests possible, and lifetime fans.

With sodium and carb tanks topped off, we continued down Crawford Path, ridge-walking along the tops of mountains, stopping for the occasional jopped draw (sic) from the view and photo-op of the same. En route, we were passed by a jolly, bearded, walking stick-wielding hiker, who spoke enthusiastically, and whom we would later meet at our common destination: Mizpah Springs Hut. Crawford Path is also part of the AT, and the young gent turned out to be a thru-hiker, but more on "Wandering Woody" in the next entry.

Crawford Path is a blast--runnable in stretches, scenic, and after its ridge-walking reputation, not afraid to plunge head-on into the woods to take its travelers to the AMC Hut known as Mizpah Spring. The end of the first full day of our adventure (total miles, 10.5) and the scene for the beginning of the next act...(To be continued)

This is Your Brain on the Whites...

Summer haze over the White Mountains in New Hampshire, August 1, 2006. Photo by Mike Keene.

Hills are relative. I think Einstein would agree. When your frame of reference is largely based on running Oxford Road, Tuckahoe State Park offers challenging hills. When you take off on a 72-minute trail run in western Pennsylvania's Alameda State Park, Tuckahoe begins to look Kansas-flat.

Working with some seemingly brutal hills this past Sunday, made for a fantastic, scenic trail run. As of Monday, Alameda's hills will be relegated to foothill status as Mike Keene and I arrive in New Hampshire's White Mountains. We have a 4-day, 3-night, AMC hut-to-hut fastpack planned, hopefully with some trail running thrown in for good measure.

Our plotted course includes Tuckerman Ravine Trail, Crawford Path, Mt. Washington, Gulfside Trail, Mts. Adams and Madison, Osgood Trail, and Madison Gulf Trail. Our accommodations will be made at the Pinkham Notch Visitor Center, Mitzpah Spring Hut, and Madison Spring Hut. Keene is a White Mountain veteran, and has plotted our course based on great routes and hut availability.

Light, fast, and fun are the operating principles for the trip--not forgetting to just enjoy the experience. There are a few companies worth mentioning to say thanks for making great gear that encompasses trail running and fastpacking, and have been staples for my own trail running already. I am using a GoLite Multi-Sport pack, which is light and functional; Montrail Hardrock shoes which kept me blister-free through the Holiday Lake 50K++ and winter and spring trail running; and Ibex clothing, who pretty well has me covered from the waist-up with base and mid-layers for all conditions. I am hoping to send Ibex a report and photos after the trip.

There are any number of reasons why I am pumped for this trip. One is because I've never been to the Whites before and can't wait to savor it all. Two is to brutalize my legs a bit with rocks and mountains to help get ready for a moderately hilly Baltimore Marathon in October and the JFK 50 in November, which starts with a 14-mile section of the Appalachian Trail. Three is having a training partner and friend looney enough to languish through 5-hour training runs, a 12-degree 50K for a first ultra, one-upsmanship for entering longer trail and distance races, winter runs, and other zaniness, to finally get something slower and more low-key to enjoy. And the bonus, is to try to find a home for one or more magazine stories from the trip.

Look for a trip report on the next post here.

Covering Ground

View of the Lakes of the Clouds hut, White Mountains.
Photo by Mike Keene.

I am an impatient hiker. I have heard other trail runners describe themselves similarly. Running trails synthesizes life-giving activities for me--the activity and high of running with being outside and taking in beautiful places. Admittedly, toward the end of a 20 -30 mile run, the aesthetics can be a bit lacking--pain and suffering can trump a Patagonian sunset, I would guess. In those cases, the mind's eye is where the landscape lives. And post-long run, on Wye Island, eating and unlacing running shoes among the geese, dwells in the sublime.

You read inspiring accounts of hikers and backpackers covering 15 miles in a day, which is considered cooking in many circles. Running trails, those miles cruise by in 3 hours, and then you've got the rest of the day to spend with family, friends, or getting up to speed on the impending March Madness this time of year. I've often thought at Tuckahoe, how much I enjoy being able to see so much of the park without having to be there all day to do it.

All this is a factor as we consider and map out routes for a summer fast-packing excursion to the White Mountains in New Hampshire. The trek looks to be four days and three nights, staying each night in one of the Appalachian Mountain Club (AMC)'s great huts. This allows us to carry packs with just water, easy-to-pack and eat food for the days (the huts provide dinner, lodging, beds, and breakfast), minimal clothes--windshirt, rain gear, etc.--and not have to sweat hauling tents, sleeping bags, stoves, etc. Light and fast is the name of the game.

Mountain miles are not the same as Eastern Shore miles. This will be my first trip to the Whites, though Mike Keene knows the terrain and trails well. Having just read David Horton's experience in the slow-going White Mountains in his record-setting thru-AT run in A Quest for Adventure, I know we've got to be realistic in what we can accomplish in a day. Hut reservations depend on it! But the point will also be to push the pace, acclimate to the terrain, and work on tired legs, knowing that the JFK will creep up on us in the fall.

It is a blast to think about it all. Anyone with thoughts, experience, suggestions as to White Mountain routes, speak (comment) now or read what we come up with.

In other news, I had a great phone interview with Don Marvel last evening--a true ultra-running legend, who is under our noses in Easton. In high school, where Don taught for many years, we knew him as the insane teacher who would run from Easton to Salisbury, roughly 50 miles along Route 50. I have seen Don from the back and near turn-arounds in 5 and 10K races in the area for a few years. It wasn't until talking with him last evening--in the light of having ultra-marathon aspirations of my own--that I got a sense for the truly remarkable accomplishments he has logged on his legs. Stay tuned--Don's story is going to be a topic all its own.