Punch List Day

59/365

Today was a day tasks. Some new tasks, like getting the horses in from the rain all by myself. Twice. Some ol' fashin work tasks, like drywall repairs in Stacey's bathroom. A few classic tasks I should always do anyway, like shoveling and doing the dishes. And an exciting task that few people can say they've ever done, like prepping my resume to apply for a job on Antarctica—the available jobs will start being posted online tomorrow.

It seems appropriate to be starting the Antarctica process on a weather canceled work day. That's how Madison began as well. Work was canceled because of weather so I sat at home drafting a cold e-mail to the AMC..."I am writing to enquire about the possibility of joining the AMC construction crew that will be renovating the Madison Hut this coming fall and spring..." A formal begining to what would become a very infomall application process. I had a lot to learn about the AMC, but it worked. Less than two months later, I was living and working at the hut.

I expect the Antarctica process to be much more formal. Many hoops to jump through, applications to fill out, background checks, drug tests, medical, dental and rectal exams. It will be exciting and I'll keep posting updates here.

For now, it's exactly a month, four weeks, until our scheduled airlift to Madison. I doubt we'll fly on schedule, we never do, but it's a date to shoot for. And I've been told that I might just get airlifted up myself, beer, tools and all (they said that last time too though).

Horse Around

58/365

Being around horses is new to me. 

Meet Netty, she's the one above and is also in this picture. She is sweet and seems to like me a bit. She'll put her head near my shoulder, sniff my hair and patiently stand while I pet her. Then there is Gizmo. He is more spastic; trouble to get in at night and is always a bit nervous—sweet none the less. They are both beautiful and apparently come spring I am going to be taught to ride them. It sounded easy at first, but I have been told "Don't worry if I fall off." Fall off? Maybe it wont be that easy. 

Being around animals larger and stronger than you is an experience. Think about it. When was the last time you were around a creature you could not physically move or verbally reason into moving? As an adult male, not recently for me.

In a way, it reminds me of what I always tell people who ask if I have seen a moose while hiking. I haven't, and the idea of it makes me nervous. Netty will chase Espresso out of the field, running up behind him while he scampers away and ducks between the bars of the gate. She wont hurt him, and actually slows down and turns away when she gets close. A moose, wouldn't be so gracious and there would be no gate to dive through, for me or Espresso.

Surfboard Sledding

57/365

Bright white fresh snow under a blue sky and warming sun. Breakfast was done and our schedule open for the day. What to do?

"Let's go sledding."

"We don't have sleds."

"Surfboard?"

She's more than a pretty face. Genius.

Long johns, jeans, hooded sweatshirts and wool sweaters. I threw my camera and a jacket in my daypack and stepped squinting out the door. After strapping on my snowshoes I slung an Al Merrrick, Channel Islands board under my arm. I was an oxymoron.

We trudged across the back field in a straight line, me breaking trail through the fresh snow. Stacey and the dogs bringing up the rear.

"Do you think it will work? There's fins on the bottom."

I slide the board across the snow in front of me, it glided along with ease, coming to a rest 10' in front of me. "It'll work."

"But with weight on it?"

"Don't worry. It's really steep." I grinned.

Stepping to the rim of the sandpit, we stared down the wall of frozen wave we were about to ride. "I'll go first."

I could barely stand on the slope, gravel at the top, but snow building in depth as it dropped to the bottom of the pit 100' below. I slid the board under my ass, sat, lifted my feet and Woooooosh! Instant speed. I held the fiberglass torpedo under me with both hands. Floating at first, I weebeled, woobled and then white.

Surfboard sledding. We're bad ass.

More pictures here.

Manual Focus

56/365

She's tough to figure out. Most of them are. Another one of those intimate things in life my camera can't capture. My words don't do that much better.  Growing pains. but things are better now, and in the end, we are better for it. I appreciate her more. 

You spend a lot of time trying to figure each other out. Blending the pasts that have made you who you are.  Gently trying to figure out what makes the other tick. And ticked off. I spend a lot of time trying to figure people out and I've slowly learned through life to spend more time accepting, loving, people for who they are. 

For example, on a lighter note: I no longer determine when I wake up and get out of bed in the morning. Her bladder does that now. 5:30 a.m. She has to pee. I'm still 7/8ths asleep, enjoying that morning comfort of semiconscious warmth and blankets. You know you're sleeping and you savor it. That feeling that makes it so hard to get out of bed. Or at least it used to. 

WHOOSH! Off with the covers. I mean, how can she get up to go pee without throwing the covers off like she's stripping the bed for laundry. She stomps into the bathroom and back. Is she getting back into bed? Please. No. Don't get back into bed! I get hit upside the head with a pillow. She has to adjust the pillows. Pillow-fight style. 

She's back. Wait, no she's not. She forgot to get water. Repeat the process. Covers off. Stomp. Water. Stomp. Pillow fight. 

She's back. No she's not. Covers off. Stomp. Turns the heat up. Stomp. Pillow fight. 

Back? Nope. Covers off. Stomp. Let the dogs out. Stomp. Pillow fight. 

Covers off. Stomp. Let the dogs in. Pillow fight. 

Okay! ENOUGH! I'm up. It's like a snooze button with nice legs and morning breath. Time to start the day. 

Char-Char Blankey

55/365

Charlotte has the right idea. It's that sort of a day. Wrap yourself up in a blanket while the snow falls. Although to be fair, everyday is that sort of day for Charlotte, and this was taken yesterday, as all my photos of the day are. Photo of yesterday wight be more appropriate.

I am sick of the snow. I've written about that enough. It feels cliche. Onward.

Progress

54/365

I stopped on the overpass over 295 in Portland yesterday. The setting sun gleamed off Back Bay as cars zoomed under me. 

What was Portland like before all this was here? A giant peninsula jutting into Casco Bay. Hills on both the East and West ends. A big circular back bay separating the peninusla from the rolling fields that gently spread away from the coast. The Mouth of the Fore River to the south. The Presumpscot to the North.

Portland is a beautiful city. Mainers are lucky that their largest city is so scenic. It doesn't stop me from wishing I could have seen it before it was. We can't go back. 

There was an article in the paper yesterday about post-recession Gorham, the then little-ish town I called home growing up. Development is starting to pick up again. Mosher corner is the site of Mosher farm, their little corn stand and Beal's Ice Cream, a local favorite after Little League games, win or lose. The area is surrounded by open fields, tall grass, corn.  Now, it's all being harvested away for money. 

Although the corner is the intersection of two major routes, there was never even a stop light. There is now. The area is being developed... "Vista Park Condominiums, which is approved for a drive-up business such as a bank or restaurant."

"I am cautiously optimistic," Duchaine said."

"We are pleased," said Tom Ellsworth, director of the Gorham Economic Development Corp.

Elsewhere in town, Barrows Green House, a family owned Greenhouse next door to my old elementary school is closing. The family is retiring—selling the land.

"Duchaine is buying 14 acres, now home to Barrows Greenhouses at 312 Main St., and plans to build 26 single-family houses and five duplexes."

Progress?

I know our world needs to grow but the world can't. Change is inevitable. I just wish more thought went into it. 

Mr. Reliable

Most days, taking my daily picture is easy. I like paying attention to my surroundings, the scenes of daily life, whether I'm holding my camera or not. Raising the lens and pressing the shutter is a minimal step. Loading the pictures, tweaking them on photoshop and rambling about them here are a nice routine when relaxing at night or with my coffee in the morning.

There are a few days though, that the whole process isn't as easy. The scenes aren't there, not even the symbolically depressing ones—those take effort too.  These are survival-mode days. Eating three meals, using the toilet and surviving 24 hours is a victory, albeit not one you feel much like celebrating. Taking a picture, loading it, photoshoping and writing a blog feels like an impossibly difficult and unnecessary task akin to playing a pickup game of basketball while trying to survive a trek across the Sahara. Impossibly unnecessary.

I haven't taken my daily picture yet today. As I am writing this, I have no idea what the photo above is going to be. Maybe I'll post it down below. That's a good idea. It's fitting. Chronological order.

The last thing I want to do right now is find my camera, think of a subject and snap a photo. It feels forced... but... here we go.

53/365

And there you have it. Mr. Reliable.

Faceoff

52/365

Another night of hockey coverage last night. Falmouth beat Greely...5-1...final regular-season game...yada yada....how the heck do hockey faceoffs work?

If it were me, I'd stand in the faceoff circle as shown above. Standing on my skates but leaning on my stick, I'd be ready for the puck. Sort of. The ref would throw the puck down—I think he is supposed to drop it, but he defiantly throws it. Then, in an attempt to hit the puck before the other guy, I'd knock my stick out from under myself, and end up on my face. Faceoff. On Face. 

This is why I write about hockey and never played it.

Here's my game story.

Finding Outdoors

51/365

Even for me, getting outdoors this time of year can be a challenge. I've already written about my disdain for late winter early spring. On any given day, the earth is either covered with solid ice, mushy slush or in a month, that mud that cakes to the bottom of your boots and makes you six inches taller. Its still cold, but without the obvious beauty of a coat freshly fallen snow. 

You can still hit the trails with the help of ice creepers, snowshoes or cross country skis, but by this time of year the novelty of such activities has worn off for most. It's a chore. Going outside becomes more of a challenge, with more time needed and less spontaneity. My solution, find the lightly worn path. Literally. Trails and paths that have seen a few snowshoers, walkers and skiers should be well packed and fine for boots. 

If you live near Portland, you've driven by it without realizing its there. Two miles north of downtown, just over the bridge in Falmouth, sandwiched between Rt. 1 and I295 is the Maine Audubon's Gisland Farm. 65 acres of quiet space, thankfully overshadowed by the Boulevard meatmarket loop and to a lesser extent the Mackworth Island trail.

After doing chores around the apartment all morning, Stacey and I headed into Falmouth for a few errands along Rt. 1. To rescue the trip from being nothing but a shopping expedition, we stopped at the Audubon for a walk. Considering its location, its amazingly quiet, other than the smorgasbord of birds and their songs. The parking lot was almost empty, and we saw one other person on the trails. As an added bonus there are currently sculptures scattered throughout the sanctuary, tangled piles of rusted steel bent and welded together into animals—wolves, porcupine, elk, deer and foxes.

Bonus Photos
Wolf & Photographer
Wolf Sculpture
Marsh River

30?! Walking the Tightrope

50/365

"I'm going to be 30."

I'm going to be 30?! It may have been my first time saying it out loud—it's less than a month away.

There's a line in a Jack Johnson Song. "We're a cross between our parents and hippies in a tent." The line implies progression, you start as a hippy in a tent and end up like your parents.

Walking the tightrope between carefree and responsibility. Can I balance the two? Nine to five, punching the clock, full benefits, cooking dinner, paying bills. Or carrying your world on your back, going where the wind takes you, take out to dinner, paycheck to paycheck, never answering your phone.

I feel like 30 is the crossroads. Which road do I take? For now, I say fuck the road and take the trails. Right down the middle. Not walking the right rope from one end to the other, but balancing in the middle. Teetering.

*For the record, being like my parents wouldn't be so bad. They're awesome and far from boring. It's just an unfair symbol implying boring and responsible. 

All my friends are getting older,

I guess I must be too.

Without their love and kindness

I don't know what I would do.

Oh the wine bottle's half empty.

The money's all been spent.

We're a cross between our parents

And hippies in a tent.

Oh, Love calls just like the wild birds

It's just another day

Spring wind blew my list of things to do away.

~Jack Johnson Spring Wind

My Own Two Hands

49/365

I'm hard on my hands and this time of year is the worst. They crack, split and wear down. The constant ache and sudden pains of the season are an annual reminder of how important a tool they are.

I feel a constant need to fix things. It stems from my inevitable ability to break things. For better or worse, I fidget. I'll fix your roof to prevent a leak, or I'll shoot a pipe with my nail gun and cause one. I'll bite my nails nervously, or relax and rub her shoulders. I've always wanted to work with my hands, whether pounding nails to punching keys, the fumbling challenge of synchronizing fingers and thumbs, 10 digits, into a choreographed set of movements that hopefully leaves the world a better place.

Early Spring

48/365

The tease of early spring, a glorious combination of mud, ice, slush, snow, standing water, brown snowbanks and road salt. Rain storms and Nor'Easters. Freeze and thaw. This stretch of Mother Nature's seasonal bipolar disorder is my least favorite time of year, only redeemed by the fact that my birthday falls square in the middle.

Heading home from work, I pulled into a muddy little turnoff near the Royal River in Yarmouth. I wandered around for a bit. There were a few holes opened in the ice that otherwise concealed the river. A colony of ducks were splashing in, jumping out, then accepting their fate and sitting on the ice. I shot them. Pictures. 

With the temperature over 40 and the afternoon sun casting long shadows on the frozen river, it felt like spring. I know it isn't even close to it, but I wanted a picture to capture the feeling. I rattled off 100 or so utopian spring photos; splashing ducks, running water, bright sun. None of them worked. 

Back to my truck I went, trudging through knee-deep crusty snow and ice. And there it was, surrounded by towering brown snowbanks, slowly sinking into the newly thawed mug bog, reflecting in the watery sheen of melt. Spring. I can't wait.

Girls Hockey, then and now.

47/365

I covered the East Regional Final for Maine girls hockey last night in Portland. I'll post the link to my story later.

It is fun to see how far girls hockey has come. A little over five-years ago I wrote a feature story about girls hockey. At the time it was not a sanctioned sport by the Maine Principals Association. Now, for the third year, it is. 

My old story (I hate my old stories) was written for Current Publishing and appeared in their chain or weekly papers, the American Journal, Current, Sun Chronicle, Lakes Region Weekly, Reporter and Weekly Observer. With the power of google, I found it. Here it is (sorry, it's kind of long):



January 11, 2007
Salchows to slapshots, girls hockey growing

By Keith B. Wehmeyer

When Ashley Potvin first put on skates they were of the figure skating variety, but at seven, to the chagrin of her mother, she began switching to hockey.

Now as a senior at Biddeford High School the figure skates are long gone. Potvin is in her fourth year playing for Biddeford's girls' ice hockey team. This year she has helped her squad to a 7-0 start.

She's not alone. Girls all over southern Maine are joining a growing number of high school girls ice hockey teams, playing a sport that may soon be officially sanctioned by the Maine Principals Association.

So where's Potvins' Mom now? Just over the boards, barking orders from the bench as Biddeford's head coach.

"When we started a girls program, I was the girls' director," said Marie Potvin, who has been coaching the Biddeford team since its inception four years ago. "I decided to take a coaching clinic because we were looking to start the next step, a high school program."

Marie's son Matt played hockey at Biddeford, helping peak his sister's interest in the sport. Ashley now plays on three teams - Biddeford's girls' team, the boy's junior varsity team and a girls' under-19 select team.

Still, she hasn't forgotten her roots. Ashley's teammates at Biddeford have witnessed her breaking out her figuring skating moves from time to time in practice.

"I can do waltz jump, salchow and some spins," she said.

But never during games.

"I don't pull out any Mighty Ducks stuff," she said, referring to the Disney movie.

While Potvin simply changed her skates, girls are transitioning to ice hockey in a variety of ways.

Scarborough senior Annie Bolton began playing as a freshman with an interest that stemmed from field hockey.

"I played field hockey with a lot of the girls on the ice hockey team and they suggested I try skating with them during fall and play with them on the ice hockey team," Bolton said.

Like a lot of girls who began ice hockey as freshman, Bolton had never skated before, setting up a scenario that's like learning to walk and play soccer at the same time.

"The coaches were great and all of the girls that had been playing awhile helped with techniques and what works best with them," Bolton said. "Now it's like riding a bike."

Bolton plays offense during ice hockey season, left wing to be exact, and defense during field hockey. She enjoys the transition between the two sports and the two positions and can't pick a favorite between them.

"I like them both the same," she said. "In ice hockey the shifts are a lot quicker; the way we work as a team on the ice is different."

Teammate Erika Schneller isn't as diplomatic.

"I definitely like ice hockey a lot better,' said Schneller, a junior. "I feel more involved with the team and in the sport itself. My whole family has been really into (ice) hockey since I was born. It's more natural for me I think."

Personally I like the speed of the game. It's a lot quicker than most sports and it can change so fast. I love that. Its one of the first sports I felt completely comfortable playing; everything flows."

Scheneller is the goalie for Scarborough's field hockey team; she plays defense when on the ice and hopes to play ice hockey in college.

There are currently 21 teams playing as part of the Maine Girls Ice Hockey Association, including teams from Gorham, Scarborough, Cape Elizabeth and Biddeford.

In order for the Maine Principals Association to officially recognize girls' ice hockey as a varsity sport, 10 teams need to be officially sanctioned by their school boards and have a letter sent to the MPA requesting the sport be recognized. That number is currently at eight.

According to Cape Elizabeth athletic director Keith Weatherbie, reaching the magic number of 10 is just a matter of time.

Teams throughout the area are at various stages of the process. Scarborough is sanctioned by its school board, receives funding and is by most accounts treated as equal to all the other sports.

"I have the best athletic director you could ask for," Scarborough coach Bre Fortiguerra said. "He is so fair to us, splitting things down the middle as far as ice time."

Biddeford is in its first year wearing school colors, but is not yet sanctioned by the school board and does all its own fundraising - no easy task.

"We fund all of our ice time, referee time, our socks, everything," Marie Potvin said. "We do what we can. We do a multitude of fund-raisers. Hockey is expensive with facilities and also the equipment. Sometimes we struggle with that."

Those expense issues are shown in one major difference between girls' and boys' hockey in southern Maine. The girls play three 12-minute periods. However, the games are limited to one hour with intermissions shortened and the ice not being resurfaced between periods - helping to cut expenses.

Cape Elizabeth's hockey team became officially sanctioned by its school board this year, but still does all of its own fundraising. According to head coach Cade Blackburn his team's ice bill alone was $1,700 in December.

The Gorham girls' hockey team is sanctioned by the school board, but a letter requesting the sport be sanctioned has not been sent.

"One of the reasons some of these schools aren't pushing for MPA sanctioning as much is because of a limited amount of ice time," Gorham coach Chris Bowring. "Once they have to be equal with the girls it's going to take time away from the boys. It's not going to increase the girls a lot but it is going to bring it down for the boys."

Bowring has a son on Gorham's junior varsity team; his daughter Kate, a junior, is on his team.

Kate is another converted figure skater. When her Dad, Chris, agreed to coach Gorham three years ago he did not do to so until his daughter agreed to play.

With the success of womens' hockey in the Olympics and the growth of the college game, girls' hockey is becoming more mainstream.

"There is a little bit of a feeling of not being equal with other sports, especially boys' hockey, but it is changing a lot." Bolton said.

When asked about how girls' ice hockey players are viewed, Biddeford senior goalie Alexandra Hennedy recalled a bottle drive her freshman year.

"We asked 'Do you have any bottles for girls' ice hockey?' And the guy said 'Girls playing ice hockey, what a joke," and slammed the door in our faces." Hennedy said. "You get mixed responses but I think now it is becoming more positive."

Tonight, I had my equipment on my back and this man comes up and grabs me by the elbow and says 'Do you girls play hockey?' That's so cool."

Tale Of A Badass Photographer

46/365

A train has been on my imaginary list of things to photograph (not to be confused with my list of imaginary things to photograph—anyone seen a unicorn?).

Today on my way home from work, I drove over a train. On a bridge. The end was just passing below me. I missed my railroad photo-op. Or did I...

*Que James Bond Music*

I gunned my beastly four-cylinder Nissan, freshly turbo charged. Downshifting from fiftth to fourth, black smoke poured from under my hood. Feel the power. Tires squealing, I hooked the wheel onto Rt. 9 and raced the mile to the next overpass down the tracks, sending women and children diving off the road with my heroic driving. Slamming my brakes, I parked sideways across the road. Out the door, dive-rolling over the guardrail, tumbling down the snowy embankment, gun camera in hand, just as the train arrived with its whistle brailing. 

Damn it! Wrong side of the tracks. Too much cover. Shade. The boxcars were speeding by. Bad light. I was going to miss my chance! 

The ground shaking, I only had only seconds to act. What's a badass photographer to do?

*Suspenseful Pause*

*Flashbacks of my life*

I dove under the train to the other side, just missing being cut in half by tons of steel, wheel and rail. 

Snap. Perfect photo. Hero! Roll the credits. 

Okay, fine. The train was hardly moving. I drove slowly to Rt. 9 and the next overpass. My truck had been turbocharged—with 5 quarts of oil since I had run it dry. The black smoke was because I left the oil cap off and it was spewing out under the hood. I got stuck in an icy driveway turning around to park, then waited 15 minutes in the freezing cold. My hands went numb. I ended up on the shady side of the embankment and couldn't get to the other side because the slow moving train was in my way.

But I got a decent photo. I'm happy. 

Banff Film Date

45/365

Inexperienced kayakers paddling 50-plus days across the Tasman Sea, unsupported; A Swiss speed climbing the North face of the Eiger in under three hours; Mountain biking; Extreme sport pioneering; Sherpa training; Wild Animals in their element.

Lots of adventure at the Banff Mountain Film Festival last night. Not bad for a Valentines Day date. Here's the trailer, but just a warning, it's only worth watching until the two-minute mark when they start naming sponsors.



And on a personal adventure note: 40 days until our tentative airlift date on Madison. Last night the Presidential Range had a 117 mph wind gust, and this morning when I checked the temperature on the summit of Washington, it was -18 with a windchill of -60. I can't wait to be back. Maybe its a bit egotistical, but I think they could have made a film about us up there. Lots of breaking tools and dick jokes, but adventurous nonetheless.

Spilled (or Spilt?)

44/365

Yesterday was one of those days. I woke up still sick. It felt like an awful hangover, but wasn't.  Not a headache, my head just ached. If I moved too fast, I had to sit and once I sat, I had to lay.

Then came the spills. Espresso knocked over my iced tea in the bedroom. I kicked my ice tea off the coffee table in the living room. Carrying my growler of beer from the Moat (their food the source of my sickness, I think), I slipped on the ice in my driveway, knocking the the cap off the growler and sending $16 worth of brew soaking into the snow and ice. I think there were more blunders, but I lost track.

Stacey followed me around with some rags and a spray bottle of resolve carpet cleaner. That, and a tray of ice cubes and mango ice tea mix to make me more spill-mmunition.

Today is better though, but I called out from work, still feeling a bit weak due to my diet of Ice Tea (I'd drink half a glass, spill the rest and repeat), and Rice Chex. I woke up this morning feeling better and pounded two homemade Pumpkin Whoopie Pies courtesy of my Mom, which clearly set my stomach back about 12-hours.

Onward though. We're headed to the Banff Mountain Film Festival World Tour in South Portland tonight. Full review tomorrow.

Oh-So-Close

43/365

Stacey and I (plus the doggys) headed into the mountains yesterday for what was mostly a driving tour. She wanted some context to the places I talk so much about, and since the news of Madison getting back underway late next month, I had to make sure the mountains were still there. 

They are (click).

We stopped at AMC headquarters in Pinkham Notch and headed into the Construction Crew Office. At first it looked deserted but Jeremiah was on facebook working hard in front of one of the two computers. He was was head of the crew opposite mine, affectionately known as the B-Team, and a character (everyone at the AMC is a character) that has grown on me a great deal. 

We headed over to the AMC trading post and sat down for some coffee. It was lunch time for employees and familiar faces began to stream in. I felt like I had never left, which seems to be the norm once your associated with the Club. 

We eventually made our way to Appalachia and headed up the Valley Way trail towards the Madison Hut. We had no intention of going the whole four miles, but did stroll up the trail a bit to within 2.9 miles of job site.

South on 302 and through Crawford Notch (click) completed the tour and we headed to the Moat for a beer and dinner. It tasted good at the time, but my stomach didn't agree. By 9:30 last night my innards had pressed the evacuate button... I'll spare you the rest of the details for once.  

Meet the Parents

42/365

Dinner at Mom and Dad's last night, something I don't do nearly often enough.

I have such an appreciation for my parents. To be able to sit down with them, as adults, introduce them to Stacey, have a few drinks, chat and laugh, is priceless.

Realizing your parents are human and then having them become good friends, is a process that takes time, but is entirely worth it. I dropped them off at the airport this morning, they're heading west to visit Michael, and they couldn't be happier. Both their boys in one day.

Stacey and I are off to the mountains today—a little tour of my playground. Hopefully there will be a worthy photo tomorrow.

Roof Capped

41/365

When your job isn't the greatest, all you can do is take pride in your work. That's what I've been falling back on. 

Monday I ripped the all the south-facing roofing off this house, a 34'x18' section of near-flat roof and a 34'x16' semi-steep section. Over 1,100 sq. feet of roofing torn off in the middle of winter. Tuesday I worked alone redid all the metal flashing in leak-prone areas. Wednesday a helper and I rolled out roofing on the flat section and yesterday we did all the shingling on the steep portion. 

The roofs done without a drop of water coming inside. Let's hope it stays that way. It wasn't quite the same as nailing wood shingles on the roof of Madison, but what is...

A side note: this is my first photo-of-the-day not taken on my digital SLR. This one was from my phone. It does a decent job. Click here to see my favorite phone photo. I slept in my truck along a dirt road in Randolph, N.H. so I could get an early start heading up to Madison. I rolled out of the bed, started my engine and snapped the shot on my way to the trailhead. 

Mountains Viewed

40/365

Painted by a friend, its my one original piece of art, unless you count the masterpiece (click) that hangs over my toilet. 

This one hangs over my bed, representing my views on hiking quite well. It's not from a summit, instead showing a hiker admiring the peaks, rather than standing on them. Sure, I climb to the tops, but it's more about seeing them from afar than it is about seeing them under my feet. I don't stand atop a mountain to admire a the mountain I'm on, I climb for the view along the way.

Way Back Home

39/365

The concept of returning to Madison never seemed real. How could it? The place didn't seem real even when I was there. 

I got two e-mails yesterday, three minutes apart, from two totally separate people. Both were about returning to Madison. The first was from Marc, who I worked with doing the time-lapse photo project at the hut. You can view the video from the fall here (click). Marc was wondering when construction was reopening for the spring and when I would be going back up. 

I didn't have the answer because I had not yet heard from Charlie, the AMC construction supervisor. 

Until three minutes later. 

I got a simple e-mail from Charlie, asking if I was going to be able to return and letting me know there was an airlift tentatively scheduled for March 28. Airlifts are very tentative (click). I immediately called him and discussed my return. It's all set. The same role, the same job.

So there we have it, I am going back. It was never really in doubt, but now it feels much more real. Come late March we'll be waiting for a weather window to get tools, personal gear and food back up to the hut. We'll be digging out, chipping ice, melting snow for water and fighting to get generators and air compressors started. We'll be checking forecasts, spring skiing out our front door, watching the sunrise over Madison and set over the Durand Ridge of Mt. Adams. We'll be cooking scrambled eggs and prosciutto in the morning and drinking crappy coffee that taste o-so-good. We'll be stoking the barrel wood stoves, staying warm, drying out clothes. 

And then there is the work. Finishing the interior wood paneling, doing the wood floors and trimming the windows. We'll be knocking down the old bathroom, and rebuilding it into what will become the third bunk room. Finally, we'll be turning each room into what it is supposed to be: a kitchen, a crew room, a pantry, bunkrooms, dinning room, bathroom. 

And for good measure, these are the Mt. Washington (similar to Madison) summit conditions as I was writing this post this morning. 

I can't wait!

Casco Bay Sunrise

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I've seen a lot of beautiful sunrises this winter. Maybe my perspective has changed, but it's probably just my schedule.

I usually drive south on I295 towards Portland around 7 a.m. The mouth of the Presumpscot pink and steaming from the sun and and cold. Driving the highway I can see the bridge from Portland to Falmouth, Casco Bay beyond lighting up for a new day.

I always want to stop and take a picture, and never do. It's 295 during the morning rush and I'd like to live to see another sunrise. Yesterday morning I found a similar spot, one with a speed limit under 65, to snap this shot.

If you missed yesterdays entry because of its late posting, you can find it here: Dog Mobile. And Shit. 

Dog Mobile. And Shit.

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I could live here. With them. And her. And be happy.

Unless the following happened:

We pull into the driveway. It's dark. The Super Bowl is about to start. I flip open the truck cap. Shit. Literally. I could smell is as though it were right under my nose. I reach towards my duffel bag to grab my head lamp. And find the shit in the process, gooey and slightly cold to the touch. It was right under my nose.

Its on my duffel bag at one end of the truck, and smeared on the window to the cap at the other end. It was everywhere in between too.

My duffel bag got thoroughly rinsed in the shower with my laptop charger still inside an outer pocket. That my friends, is why I had a dead laptop battery and was unable to have a post ready for this morning.

You're welcome for sharing.

Technical Difficulties

Sunday 2/6 7:04 p.m.

If you are seeing this post Monday morning, it's because my laptop battery died and I am without a functioning charger. I'll catch up on posting as soon as I can. In the meantime, I am going to go back to watching the Super Bowl while Stacey makes me homemade mac 'n' cheese.

Browse the archives to the right. Leave some comments. And check out all the photos so far, neatly organized on Flickr. Click Here.

Finally, something to look forward: I bought a new lens for my camera today. A 50mm 1.8 Canon Prime lens. It will make for some even prettier pictures.

Cheers!

Windows to the World

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Sitting here looking into my own eyes, trying to write this blog feels a bit uncomfortable. Windows to your world. Impossible to look through from the other side.

How powerful the eyes can be. They can focus and they can drift away. A stare can threaten and can sooth. They can convince you, and leave you with a million questions. Mysterious. Reassuring. 

Update 11:53 a.m. - Here's my story from last's nights hockey game. 

Buried

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Alright, that's enough snow.

I am not one of those faux-Mainers who complains about winter—all winter. I seek out the cold, track storms, hike in the snow, camp in it. I'll move to the South Pole if given the chance. If it is going to be winter, I want winter. Tall snowbanks, white fields and those cool, crisp, dry, blue sky days that wake you up the second your head's out the door.

I hate January thaws, brown snowbanks, mud, slush. There's a grime and a grind to it.

This, however, is getting to be a bit much. I shoveled snow Oct. 15 at the Madison Hut (click the links), and I've been doing it ever since. That's almost four months, a third of a year, and counting. And there's no end in site. Come April, when spring begins to hit southern Maine, I'll be heading north. Back to Madison, and back to winter. Two more bonus months, shoveling a winter's worth of snow out from around the hut. In total, that will equal six months of non-stop winter.

My back is sore, my arms hurt, my Limmer Boots are perpetually wet. I've broken two shovels. My snowblower doesn't want to blow snow anymore. And with all the shoveling I've been doing at work, my driveway hasn't been cleared from the last two storms.

Update 4:15 p.m. - Stacey and I borrowed Alex's snowblower this afternoon (Thank you Alex!!) and scratched and clawed our way to a clean compound. We came inside. Showered and made some coffee. 


Now it's snowing again... 

Game Story Tools

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Another night of covering hockey—so many tools to hack out 500 words of dribble-drabble. More of the left (notes) and less of the right (stats and quotes) will make me a better writer.

Stormy Snowy and Peaceful

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My favorite pictures are the ones that capture the moment as I saw it or with the best ones, felt it. 

I look at memory as a fast-moving flip book. I don't remember in fluid thought. I remember snapshots, smells, a sound. A picture can bring the other senses back. Its why I chose this shot for yesterday. Stormy, snowy and peaceful. Exactly where you'd want to be. 

Capturing moments the way you remember them is particularly hard with people; it's what makes portraits so difficult. Sometimes I cheat and use series of shots, like these three of Stacey yesterday, but still capturing the way I see a person, in a frozen instant, can rarely do them justice. 

Doggy Adultery

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I am in love with another dog. Now now, I still love Espresso, but this little Charlotte is quite the pooch herself.

The fun part about them being together, is how different they are. First there's the obvious—boy vs. girl.

Espresso rolls over. Charlotte does stretches on command. "Char Char, stretchy. Streeeetchy," and she'll stretch to the front, then stretch to the back. Doggy Yoga.

Espresso waits for "Ok" to get a treat. Char Char balances them are on her nose. Espresso has upward-attentive ears. Charlottes flop. Espresso wants a his head on the pillows. Charlotte wants to be buried under the covers.

One barks.

The other howls.

One has a whip for a tail. It thumps the leather chair and slaps Espresso across the face as he winces, his feather-duster tail whisping back and forth.

Opposites. And they love each other.

Today I put them both in the back of my pickup on the dog platform with the dog bed. Charlotte was nervous, and hesitant to get in the back. She shook a bit, a combination of nerves and the cold. Still, I got them settled for the drive and went. Stopping at a light I looked back. There was Charlotte, curled comfortably on the dog bed—the dog bed with Espresso's name on it. And there was the gentleman, curled beside her, laying on the plywood. Proud.

Playing With Dolls

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Lately work hasn't been all puppy dogs and snowflakes like this blog. I finally had enough. I snapped (a photo). 

It's hard to put the difficulties into words. They sound petty. Sometimes my boss doesn't answer my phone calls. Plans change. Things seem inconsistent. Disorganized.  It cuts into my pay check— a 33 hour week here. A 36 hour week there. Dollars. Stupid dollars. 

I should know better then to complain. I am lucky to have a job. A paycheck. Maybe lucky isn't the word though. Fortunate?

The real problem isn't the petty ones. Its that I need something more rewarding. A purpose. 

I love being a carpenter. I'd rather do it for free.—if I could afford it.  If a neighbor has a leaky roof and needs it fixed, I'd do it (Brendan and Betsy). If a friend is having a baby and needs more space, I'd do it (Kevin and Jen). If a pretty girl needs her apartment finished, I'd certainly do it (Stacey). 

That's the answer I guess. Quit my job. Profit. Work for free. No?

Or I'll just play with Dolls.