Passing Shades

How does nature do it? As I walked home tonight, I notice the hundred year old oak in my back yard has begun to turn. It is a lovely old tree with long sweeping branches and a thick covering of full leaves. I pause, admiring the pretty shade of light orange and while musing upon its uniqueness my eye is drawn to two pots of identically shaded party mums sitting in clay pots upon my neighbor’s doorstep.

Could it be that these two remotely related species one spiraling inevitably towards sleep and the other in prime form of wakefulness—both on a sliding scale of color change—might have paused to compliment one another as old oak goes a-browning and the bright little mums strive to shame the sunset hue? I realize that this is life. In our old age, we often reflect shades of youthful splendor, if only in one passing day. While in youth, we seek to reflect those few elders in whom we have seen a spark of greatness.

The sun sinks and all things turn to gray as I round the corner. The moment fades, but another little piece of nature’s infinite balance has found its niche in my mind.

Cellphone-itis

I am sitting, staring at three cellphones arranged on the table before me--and that isn't even all of them, my ex-wife has one too--thinking, "I must be rich." As a father of teens, I am amazed at the level of complication these little devices can cause, correction, that kids can cause, with so little effort. When the phones reside in the various pockets of my children, they are a source of infinite distraction, yet when I commandeer them, I am left stunned by what I find in the text traffic and plagued by the lack of connectivity I have with them.

"How did I become so dependent?"

Ordinary Misery

Carter Hill Orchard beckons locals with two outstanding reasons: Proximity to Concord and plump, red apples. The second may behoove any orchard, but after a day there, I was skeptical of even the apples. A gorgeous bird blind dominates the hill top orchard, and draws many birdwatchers (hawks, specifically) to the place. Beware the "walking trails," though. A fine kiosk displays the network of walkways, but it is not so...My family took the trails only to find downed trees, locked gates and a mile and-a-half loop back to the entrance. We licked our wounds with free fruit and over done cookies that left a poor taste.

Trophy Bass

The slow wandering canal that connects the stump field of the Hopkington Dam to the dam itself is nearly current free. Only the slightest ripples march away from the spillway confluence into the lower lands-the whole area is low and really does not appeal to my anglers sense. I paddle under the wind, down a long watery way and emerge at the lower pool. I fo not expect much, but a small earthly, bush covered island catches my eye. With the open pool the wind navigates for me, but I lob a line just short of the outcropping. A snag...frustrated, I paddle over to free the snarl. Liftiing the line I feel a jerk first. A mangled clump of pond weed greets my net first-then I see him:
3.5 pounds and close to 22 inches, the king is on.

Bass Delivery

Though the bike is cankered, the fishing gear is absolutely in order. I took half a day late august and put the canoe into the "stump field" at Hopkinton Dam. The wind heaved the prow over constantly, but I pushed with a will and made a wave line over to the western pools. A few casts netted naught, but the sense of silent scales filled my mind. I casted near a stump and - Bang! - the line downed hard. A little slow reflex saw me set the hook a second late, but sure. Bringing in the prince of the pond at 17 inches and a pound and a half, he kicked without feet and spat lipless curses- but he was mine. More to come...

Biking with Laura

Ok, the chains become rusty and I sometimes drive...This blazing summer has nearly squeezed the ride right out of me. Last quest was two weeks back, a return to Sewall's Falls with teenaged daughter. Laura is 15 and has complained of the same lethargy that I am enduring. We hit the road at 8:30 and got up a good wind; 6-7 miles of street riding only made me hungry. Slicing into the riverside dim brought the scent of hot summer/low river deep into my sinuses. We did the nominal trail shots, but must mention the killer whoops about 1/3 mile in-Laura was very poised and handled the roots well, I barely avoided a throw. The bomb was yet another trail-blaze on the way home, ended up climbing and circling the same rugged hill-Laura was not amused! Beat back the undergrowth and followed a narrow stream-bed back to State Street. It was a good ride.

Whiplash

Back on the bike today...whole new set of rules: Kids field day--in city riding with luggage. The first piece, my outstanding little son, Mr. Peter; his post is dangling from a seat-pole mounted RomerJockey Kindersitz. It is a garish green press molded plastic kid-horn, probably maxed out by his near thirty pounds-but rugged, sturdy and a great puddle-fender none-the-less--perfect observational perch for a curious 4-year old. Next up from him is young GooG, my 18-month old, top heavy, crystal clear-eyed boy, hunched over my upper back like a baby gorilla in an LL Bean aluminum framed kid tote (real name Grady). Being so laden, I drift down the small home-hill ands gingerly edge into traffic on South St.

The distribution of weight is such that spontaneous wheelies can occur with a strong pedal thrust, and sharp turns often pinch the leg of the Kindersitz against my rear tire. The "buzzing" scares off any urge to press the limits of riding. I ride atop my trusty trek with a new, sharper awareness of the moving shapes around me. All of my motions are spongy, like soft car brakes or deflated tires. An urge to stick to the sidewalk is probably quite healthy, but it's pitted and pocked surface warns me away early.

We travel the miles out to Rollins Park in South Concord and greet the throng of 1st through 5th graders and a host of teachers, aids and the full elementary paramedic squad (two schools nurses camped at the gazebo). Riding into the play area does not recall any trail conquering thrills, but a wave of relief that we are all safe and here--we join into the games and groups.

Time slips by and we gather under a truly gnarled red oak for a lunch break. My littlest is showing signs of an approaching nap, and Mr. Peter has been made an honorary member of his big Sister's "Stripe Team". We chow down cold dogs, chips and fresh fruit, and It falls to me to break the news to Mr. Peter--we can't stay the day. He is sad, and considers a pout, but his winning smile overcomes and he readies himself to go with Dad--must love the wind in his hair like the old man.

Our course home includes the pedestrian obstacle course around the state capitol buildings and legislative annex; a peculiar lunch time crowd, distinctly divided by class: Well-dressed--almost glamorous-- senators, mingling with state workers and occasional citizen petitioners. The break in the morning gray has clearly lightened everyone's Friday mind. We chase down a couple of green lights by alternating between two parallel streets and swing onto the calm shade of Union st. A few strokes from home, I feel the heavy head of my little gorilla plunk softly onto my neck. It is warm and furry and a sweet feeling that for now, we belong together crowds my heart and I pull into the drive for the de-quip. Life is good, even when tame--the trick is modulation: always forward-- keep it new and remember the little people are always watching.

Thrashing Through the Woods

Q: How many times must I set out on an aimless morning ride and end up blazing new trails, climbing unnamed hillocks and thrashing through thickets of underbrush before I become tamed to the allocated trails?

A: Every Time! What is an unexpected terminus, but a new beginning? What is a river but a quest for a ford? What is a right, but three subsequent lefts?

Take today, for example, I grabbed a water bottle (this is key...), rode with my second grade daughter to her school. Was required to dismount at no less than two stop guard crossings, and was asked to step back until the "all Clear" was sounded, at the last. After successfully delivering my little girl into the dry decorum of the Walker School...I was free.

I had previously explored the west side of the Merrimack River, near Concord NH, as far north as Sewall's Falls but had not yet landed the east. I set my bars northward and threw three miles behind me as I made for the Sewall's Falls crossing. An easy plunge greeted me to the left of the old one-lane bridge over the falls and I ditched the stark, bright pavement for the dappled-dim of the riverside undergrowth. Soon back on the trail I had not had the time to complete before, I geared high and cut a fine breeze through the cool, river laden morning air--turning, bouncing and hopping it up.

A sudden, sharp left-hand hook dumped me way too soon onto the old rusty track of the disused Boston and Maine, leaving me twitching for more grind. Now I have logged many miles of track riding over the course of time, and not one foot of it brings a smile to my mind. Looking what seemed a straight two miles through an enshrouded gravel and track covered path did not sate the burn of the last mile of great New Hampshire trail riding.

At this juncture, a decision was presented, simple and true: Go on or back. There is no shame in retracing a good trail from it's end, I just don't willingly do it. I hitched up my seat and set a course for a hoped short shot to an underpass. This was a good day, within a mile a dirt path swung in from a corn field and I left the rear bashing endurance for the cool field-side run. Within minutes I heard automobile sounds and recognized the the terrain: Exit 17 off 93 North, the trestle, and Hannah Dustin Memorial statue. Riding the rickety old train trestle was unnerving but do-able and I left Hannah standing westward watch over the graves of the braves she slew.

Now committed to threading my way some 8 miles southward toward Concord I gladly forded the river by bridge and was leaf-slapping and grit-toothing within minutes. My location was the east bank of the Merrimack river, southbound from exit 17, west of the freeway. A narrow corridor exists or varying widths from this point all the six miles down to exit 16, east Concord, NH. I was greeted by another set of train tracks almost instantly, but my trail veered away from them and cast me ever closer to the cool, quiet river's flow.

On other days, a white-tail deer, covey of partridge or at least a Blue Heron or two accompany me (at least within eye shot) on these bush treks, but today a deepening silence gripped the shore line. To my disappointment the next three westward trail spurs terminated in sheer cliffs, deep cloven chasms or jungle-like thatches and re-tracing became common place. after the third abrupt donut-hole, I resigned myself to the mile or two return to the bridge and a long, if hotter southward ride down Mountain road, in Pennacook, NH.

Fact is, not every thrash is blessed--but I hold that there is a charm to be found--on a spur of the moment ride, and today's high was definitely the 3 mile race down the backside of Mountain Road and into Concord proper. I'll admit the write up is fun, the review sometimes lives before my eyes, but the clock is already ticking down until I shoot the overland route over to Bear Brook State Forest and spin some trails out that way...The call will never be silenced.

I ride the heck out of a TREK 8900, hardtail with Rockshox, and Shimano XTR components, a touch of style is captured in my ICON cranks, post and stubs. Fire-engine red with black and silver highlights. Best bike I have ever owned.