Bowman's Hill

I reluctantly allowed myself to be dragged into the Facebook thing, but am very glad I did. Reconnected with a lot of friends.

One high school buddy posted photos from Washington’s Crossing Park, outside of Philadelphia where I grew up. Ah, the memories that evoked.

No, contrary to prevalent belief, I wasn’t there to row the general across the Delaware and surprise the Hessian garrison. The park was prime cruising territory on warm Sunday afternoons.

But, the primary attraction there for the troglodytes I ran with at the time was 400-ft. Bowman’s Hill. Whether the following is historically accurate or not, I couldn’t say. But, it was what passed for common knowledge.

Bowman’s Hill had been the lookout point for General Washington’s troops to keep an eye out for enemy movement. A tower was later added to commemorate their deeds.

A road wound around to the top and was supposed to have followed the original bed cut into the side of the hill. This accounted for the unusual design, which was alternating steep climbs and level areas. The horizontal portions were to provide rest for horses ascending the steep incline.

We found an even better usage for them. With sufficient speed, you could get big air either going up or down the hill, and launch your car (or, your parents’ car) into space. Think “Bullitt.”

The “test” for passengers was to hold your hands frozen at about ear level and resist bracing yourself for the crash landing. I will footnote that this was the era of steel dashboards, protruding knobs and other weapons of mass destruction to enhance the severity of the test. Valor took precedence over intelligence at that stage of life. And, of course, we were guys (you hardly ever see women missing fingers).

Many a shock absorber shop benefitted from our antics. And, many a parent grounded a reckless teenager until the debt was paid off.

And yes, it is something I would’ve killed my own kids for doing.

Context

Yeah, I know I haven’t been writing. Gimme a break. I’ve got some projects going, including ramping up to lead a kayak trip out to Cumberland Island (GA). So, no great thoughts, other than pondering how either the boat shrank or the gear grew 20% since the last expedition.

We did have a pre-trip meeting the other night after work and I’m always a little surprised how different paddlers appear all cleaned up. The women looked like…well...women.

Of course, yesterday I saw a kayaker at a traffic light. Paddling doesn’t always run in the family, so you don’t see other people in the lives of your fellow paddlers. That’s the case with this guy, who I saw with his spouse for the first time.

On the river, he’s kind of Alley Oop. Slouched over the steering wheel of the family truckster, receiving direction from his wife, more reminiscent of Homer Simpson. It was quite funny, although I won't bring it up to him.

Motto of the day

I pulled up behind a truck today. On the tailgate, "Your hole is our goal."

Passing it on the highway, I saw that it was the slogan of the DOT Diamond Core Drilling Co. Memorable.

Live and learn

I emailed instructions for an upcoming overnight paddling trip I’m leading. Someone in the group responded to say how organized it was and gave her confidence that everything would go well. She wished she had my ability. Two things.

First, it never goes according to plan. Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Second, it isn’t ability. It’s the school of hard knocks. You learn from your mistakes. I’ve learned a lot.

I did a lot of learning the first trip I put together in the summer of 1983. I was freshly minted from a course in canoeing. Up to that point, I was a city boy. After that point, I still was, but would need this venture to realize to what extent.

Already having the canoe, so I sat down with an L.L. Bean catalog and a book on camping I had read, opened to the suggested packing list. Selection should be easy because the various catalog products were described in detail. Another lesson learned. Off went the order.

This trip predated the internet. I had contacted the state tourism department and received a bulging envelope of brochures. One region was brimming with canoe liveries and campgrounds. There’s a good sign. Another lesson learned.

It’s difficult to be a trip leader if you don’t have a group to lead. The family was still too young. I recruited five guys from the various circles I ran in. I didn’t know any outdoors people. The criteria were that they be fun people and game for about anything.

Denny, a neighbor, was the exception. He taught school and every summer, packed up the RV and headed out to the wild west for three months. He was invited as my technical resource. I did discern that there would be things that couldn’t be gleaned from a camping manual.

The gear arrived a couple weeks before the trip, but I was away on business. Not a problem. It came with instructions, so how hard could it be? Everything had been portrayed as easy-to-assemble-in-minutes. Always try out new gear before a trip. I will repeat that; before a trip.

The rendezvous point was the parking lot of my office, after work on a Friday. Three people were on time. One was fifteen minutes late, another, twice that. Harold was nowhere to be found.

I unlocked the office and tried his office and home numbers. Nothing. We waited and waited. No Harold. Finally, the caravan took to the road.

Somewhere south of Columbus, Hersch started whining for dinner. About 30 miles north, I gave in. We pulled into the lot of a ramshackle eatery. I asked that we make this a quick stop. Daylight was fading quickly.

The crowd ran heavily to ball caps with seed or chewing tobacco logos. We stuck out in our fresh and creased pseudo-safari attire. The waitress ushered us to a table at the rear.

Hersch questioned her on the origin and preparation of various dishes. She regarded him as one might an intruding roach, repeating her response mantra, “Couldn’t say.” She didn’t know if the fish had been fresh, frozen or what, nor of which species. It’s a fish sandwich. What’s the problem?

Fortunately, Hersch resigned himself to the situation and ordered, probably a second before she decided to make him her personal hand puppet. And, about the time the sun dipped below the horizon.

Everything would’ve been okay if she hadn’t returned later to inquire about how we had enjoyed the meal. Hersch held forth. She stalked off and the fry cook soon came out to take issue with Hersch. Denny jostled him out the door while I took care of the check.

I let Denny drive my big Suburban while I navigated according to the directions provided by the campground. State highways gave way to county roads which led to a maze of packed dirt lanes, cloaked in the darkness of a moonless night. The directions followed suit, gradually degrading into obscurity. Turn left at the stand of cottonwoods. What the hell did a cottonwood look like?

People will assume that if you’re going into the bush, you understand stuff like that. Years later, I was planning an expedition into the Okefenokee Swamp (Georgia) and sought some advice from a park ranger there. Among the gems he provided was, “Don’t make noises like a female alligator in mating season.” Darn. There goes the campfire entertainment. How would I know what that sounds like?

After numerous wrong turns, we arrived at a locked gate with an unlit sign. No one was in the gatehouse, but I saw lights in a nearby house. It was the owner’s.

He had given up on us and rented out our campsites. It was late and not the time to debate the concept of reservations. He agreed to find us a spot. Money talks.

We followed him down the gravel drive, noting the densely packed tents on either side. An expansive sea of canvas structures wasn’t what I envisioned from a place that employed “Wilderness” in its name. Abruptly, there appeared a significant gap. So, what was the hesitation with finding a place for us? He deposited us there and left us to our tasks.

It was inky dark. I assigned Pat and Ed to hold flashlights and unloaded the large carton that held my new tent. I had gone for maximum size, which seemed the only way to fly.

Out tumbled a dazzling array of poles, spikes, line and other apparatus, and one humongous roll of nylon. My eyes turned to Denny.

“What?”

“You’re the camper. Tell us what to do.”

“I don’t camp.”

“You camp every summer.”

“That’s not camping. You pull the RV into the slot, plug in a couple wires and pop open a beer. I’ve never put up a tent in my life.” Oh good grief.

The instructions were about the size of a white pages directory for a small town, with similar typeface. We struggled long into the night. Finally, we managed to piece together a semblance of the picture on the box. Time to embrace Morpheus.

It was designated a six-person tent, which would seem more than adequate for the five we had. Live and learn. It was an arduous night of shared elbows and knees, punctuated by one downpour. Note to self, there is no such thing as ‘waterproof” when it comes to outdoor gear.

We awakened to a continuous din of rumbling and clanking. Was Patton on the march? I climbed over a few bodies and stuck my head out of the tent. Up on the road, an endless convoy of school busses with multiple canoe trailers motored by. The flip side of the popularity indicator. This did not bode well.

The alluring aromas of coffee and bacon wafted across the campground. And, something else. What the hell was that smell? No wonder our patch of ground was previously unoccupied. We were next to the outhouses.

Men stirred and grumbled for sustenance. I opened up the stove box and set it up. Denny unpacked breakfast ingredients. No fire. We reassembled, reconstructed and reacted. Nothing. A jeep with a loudspeaker threw up a cloud of dust. Ten minutes to bus boarding. We scrambled.

Hungry and red-eyed, we rode in silence amidst an excited horde of youngsters bouncing around the inner walls of a crowded bus. The journey was interminable.

At last, we bumped down the final rutted stretch and came to a lurching halt. The kids jubilantly leapt out every orifice of the bus. We slowly unfolded and trudged to the front door.

The guys picked out their rental canoes and equipment. With our unanticipated odd number, I would have to solo paddle my barge. How tough could that be? One less idiot in the boat, right?

The bus driver led us down to the river’s edge. The relatively narrow stream was almost obscured by an infinite skein of canoes with errant life jackets and paddles afloat in the sparse gaps. Uncontrolled canoes loudly careened off each other, creating a floating carillon. Multitudes of children shrieked and parents bellowed admonitions above the din. Ah, wilderness.

I noticed that the river bottom rocks were silver and asked the bus driver about it. “Thousands of aluminum canoes scraping across them every week. You figure it out.”

We loaded out boats and launched off the bank. Or, attempted to. It was like trying to merge into I-75 in Friday afternoon rush hour.

There was little current and not much room to wield a paddle, but the moiling legion of boats bumped us downstream. Eventually, the channel widened and we had some breathing space. We used the opportunity to get to shore and eagerly dive into our trail mix.

A few more miles further downstream, canoes were pulled up in front of a burger stand fronting right on the river, bespeaking of the volume of boat traffic. Alas, we had not thought to bring cash.

The afternoon sun broiled us as we struggled to maintain course and headway. My friends weren’t paddlers and this was my first solo attempt. The trip was turning into an ordeal. I rounded a turn and spotted some shade. We needed a rest.

Stretched out on the bank, sweating, panting and gulping tepid water, we wondered what people did for fun. Our heads turned in unison at a familiar sound coming from upstream. Familiar, but somehow out of place.

A strange craft drifted into view from around the bend. I will describe it from the bottom up. Inflated inner tubes, sheet of plywood, cooler of beer, beach chair with languid occupant, portable TV atop folding table (a baseball game was the sound we had heard) and patio umbrella. So that’s how people had fun in the wilderness.

Once more into the breach. With visions of bubbling freeze-dried camp food dancing in our heads, we doggedly ricocheted from bank to bank for the remainder of the trek. Crawling up onto the bank, we rested briefly before dragging the boats up a long hill to the campsite.

What had been a mere odor was now a malevolent presence. Cooking in the sun all day had ripened the outhouses. Perfect.

I opened a beer and flopped down into a folding chair. That felt better, but why was everyone looking at me? Oh, yeah. Time to grapple with the stove.

As I fiddled with the components, I noticed two women setting up across the path. Maybe I could learn from them.

They brought out their stove and took a break to mix and enjoy martinis. They were strikingly reminiscent of the fun girls from Mount Pilot that Barney Fife picked up.

Then they unloaded a cooler from the trunk of their car. C’mon, light the stove, already. I need to see how it’s done. But no, it was time to mix another batch of potables and light some cigarettes. I sloshed white gas and tried to figure out why no vapors were reaching the burners. I had missed a step somewhere.

The girls got out their pots. But, again turned to the beaker and prepared another potion.

Ed came over to me and asked if we were going to eat or what. I looked at the other guys and knew he spoke for the group. Just asking the girls might help. Doubtful. They were now snorting in laughter and it was obvious that their meal preparation would advance no further, save for the olives.

I dove into the information packet I had received from the state and pulled out a flyer for a smorgasbord in a nearby town. Would the guys hold out for the dubious prospect of a camp meal? No and hell no. We jumped into the Suburban and scattered gravel.

The location appeared to have been a large residence at one time. Two cavernous rooms of food tables and three of dining accommodations. Everyone else was dressed in their Saturday night best. We looked like shipwreck survivors and smelled like Shaq’s locker. Didn’t care. We set about the business of elbowing dowagers out of the way and seeing how high the grub could be piled.

Filled to the gunwales with turkey, dressing and cobbler, we waddled out to the vehicle and pointed for camp. Daphne and Skippy were still doing their part to support the gin producing industry.

We sat around belching and trying not to think about the second leg of the river that awaited us. Denny and I went for a walk. Coming back, we stopped to talk, just short of the outhouse aroma perimeter. Someone tapped me on the shoulder.

“Hi, fella.” It was the girls. I was surprised she hadn’t said “doll.”

“Oh, hi.”

“We’re your neighbors, over there.” At least, that’s what I think she said. The words were fused together into a single sibilant syllable.

“I know.”

The other one took the lead. “I’m going to be honest with you.”

“I was hoping you would.” Oh God, Denny, don’t encourage her.

“We’re came to meet people with similar interests.”

“That’s nice.”

The other one grabbed the wheel. “I’m going to be really honest with you.”

“I appreciate that.”

“We’re here looking for husbands.”

“Well, this is your lucky day.” The girls brightened. “We’re husbands!”

It didn’t register, but a quick explanation sent them flouncing off. We returned to our fragrant campsite where our friends were snoring in the lounge chairs. Not a bad idea.

The next morning was trail mix and Coke, pinballing off a multitude of canoes down the river and breaking camp. It was a quiet ride home.

Not an auspicious beginning, but an education. Show me a capable trip leader and I’ll show you someone covered in the scar tissue of experience.

Attention: Book Publisher

This is your lucky day. You have just discovered the author who will eclipse Crichton and King in book sales.

I know this because I already have people linking to this blog from sites of those who want to become millionaires or solve all the world’s problems. And that’s without even promoting myself. If people are already confident I hold the key to the fate of the planet, just ponder the potential when you start promoting my book.

True, you’re not an acquisitions editor. That makes this a terrific opportunity for you to show what a team player you are. You’re helping discover the next great property, even though you’re in the e-marketing, public relations or whatever department. And, because the novel I’ve finely sculpted from the rough hewn monolith of the English language has already been rejected more times than “Gone with the Wind,” you have a ready-made marketing hook. This sets a new record for rejections of a classic tome.

How do I know that’s who you are?

Because, the mere mention of a book title here the other day set off a slew of hits from the publisher’s ISP within hours.

How do I know you’ll be looking now?

Promises of Death, Fool, The Associate, Run for Your Life, One Day at a Time, Night and Day, Terminal Freeze, The Host, Cream Puff Murder, Bone Crossed

The national irrational

You always suspected, but now it’s confirmed. When your heard congressmen who pressured banks to make ill-advised loans and subsequently crafted an altered reality in which the responsibility resides solely with financial executives, you knew something was amiss. When mayor and governor who failed to prevent or prepare for emergencies shifted all the blame to the feds, something was obviously askew. Who believes it makes sense to subsidize a crop with some funding and discourage its usage with other? Or, to refuse to acknowledge statistically-evidenced problems of irresponsible behavior and continuously try to bandaid the symptoms with handouts? Or, to ban automated pre-recorded phone solicitation because it's invasive, but deem it as benign for political campaign and fundraising purposes?

If it ever crossed your mind that this is just nuts and it’s no wonder we’ve arrived at this nexus, Dr. Carl Alasko supports that conclusion in his new book, Emotional BS (no quotation marks, because I abbreviated the second word).

The theme of the book hinges on the “Toxic Trio,” denial, delusion and blame, or the manipulation of truth and creation of a delusional reality. Is this breaking new ground?

I run a mental illness treatment center and encounter it about as rarely as I see a McDonald’s. But, you’ve seen it, too. For example, the malevolent coworker who is always the wellspring of the rumor or gripe mill, resulting in people avoiding him and low regard by management. It can’t be his toxic mentality (denial). They’re all aligning against him (delusion). They’re the reason he’s shunned, not his own malicious actions (blame).

The fact that most people easily recognize a scenario of this type would seem to indicate that Carl isn’t presenting any startling revelations. His focus is upon impaired individuals. But then, as a sidebar, he connects the dots.

The familiar pattern has been right in front of us. But Carl Alasko illuminates how we are being led in a demented manner. What outcomes could we expect, other than what’s happened?

Those who thought “insanity” watching Ted Kennedy presuming to impose morality lectures on subjects of senate investigations detected it. Or, “madness,” watching congress focus on steroid usage in baseball and professional football player pensions while the other three hundred million less fortunate citizens teetered on the brink of economic ruin. Irrationality rules.

Carl Alasko comes out and says it. The inmates are running the asylum.

Why

“Why?”

Good question. Everything has a reason.

Nice fundraiser for a worthwhile cause. I was doing my part in helping ensure that the organizer wasn’t criticized for ordering too much food.

I looked up from the buffet table and there was Jim. “Can I talk with you a second?”

Uh oh. Maybe the chocolate mousse wasn’t intended just for me. “Sure.”

"We didn’t get your RSVP for the council presentation. I was hoping you’d help out with that.”

"I’d like to, but I’ll be out of town.”

“Vacation?”

“Kind of.”

“Can you reschedule it?”

“Not really. It’s a kayak trip and I’m leading the group. Meaning, it’s a question of twenty schedules, not just mine.”

“What do you do on those things?”

“It varies. In this case, the short version is drive to Georgia, paddle out to an island, camp, and paddle back. Drive up to South Carolina and repeat.”

“What’s on the islands?”

“Wild horses, gators and stuff. Mostly birds, sand and shells.”

“How long does it take you to get to one of those islands?”

“Between three and four hours of paddling.”

“So, you drive all the way down to Georgia, paddle out to the middle of the ocean to sleep in sand on an island that has nothing on it?”

“If you oversimplify anything it sounds silly. You go to Hilton Head to whack a ball, chase it and whack it again.”

“Fair enough, but let me ask you. Why?”

“Two reasons. The first is I’ll be changed for doing the trip.”

“Can’t you just paddle the Ohio River or something?”

“Couldn’t you just play Terrace Park? I do paddle the Ohio, but that doesn’t make you grow much. It’s fun, not a metamorphosis. Two different things. If you always do the same things, you’ll always be the same.”

“Whatever. What’s the other reason you do it?”

“I don’t know, yet.”

“You don’t know, yet?”

“That’s why you do trips like this. You don’t know what it is you don’t know. When you go, you discover the reason and then you know why you went.”

“Go back to shoveling up the mousse.”

I did. With good reason.

Introducing, The Kit

Changing conditions create opportunities for new products. I couldn’t help but ponder one, driving back to the office after lunch. Just for the fun of it.

Derek and I met a few months ago and have been sporadically maintaining contact. He called to meet for lunch, wanting advice on acquiring some kayaks.

We arrived at the same time and entered the restaurant together. Derek is about a generation younger than me and got divorced a year ago. He started dating Barb during the summer. The relationship recently got serious.

“I’m a little short on cash right now, but I’ll probably sell one or two things shortly.”

“I’ll bet you this lunch I can not only guess three things that will possibly go on the block, but with two additional guesses on each item, name the brand.”

“What? Are you serious? No way. You’re on.” That’s how I got a free lunch.

Derek must’ve thought he was blazing a trail, but it’s more like a well used highway. It’s a costly cycle he’s going through, and I think there’s a way of making it cheaper on men.

Introducing the Mid-life Divorced Guy’s Kit Lease. Okay, the name’s a little unwieldy, but we’ll have the brand boys boil it down to something catchy.

A guy gets divorced and he suddenly has freedom and time. It’s like popping the top off one of those gag cans that have the spring snakes leap out. He runs out and sets up the bachelor pad. Out goes the sedan and in comes the sports car.

Still isn’t enough horsepower in the garage. A motorcycle goes on the other side. Then, the party barge (boat). It’s a cruiser or at least a cuddy cabin, because he needs a space to…uh…entertain.

But, within a year, he meets “the one.” She’ll wait until the hook is set before getting into asset reallocation, but it will happen.

The boat goes first. She knows it’s not for fishing. Boats depreciate very quickly, so he takes the major haircut there. The car is next on the hit list. Too much reinforcement of the swinging single mentality. The Harley’s a little too close to the manhood, so she may let that pass for now, rather than overplay her hand. But, she’ll eventually get around to it. Of course, the tacky bachelor pad won’t suffice for a couple. Goodbye faux leopard skin chaise lounge.

So, that’s your kit. You don’t have to run out and buy a lot of expensive toys, only to suffer a big depreciation hit when you settle back down and sell them off. We give you a year’s package lease on the boat, sports car, hog and condo (fully equipped with hot tub, wet bar and Barry White CDs). Just turn them back to us at the end of a year or whenever you get it out of your system. You get to keep the Tommy Bahama shirt, gold chain, and underwear that come in a clear plastic tube.

Derek picked up the check. “How did you know?”

“I’ve seen a lot of guys go down that road.”

Okay, maybe a little more than that. He pulled up in a pickup rigged for a heavy trailer. I knew it wasn’t set up for his retirement Airstream. It could’ve been for a loud, gaudy thunder boat, but Derek’s pretty centered and I don’t see him compensating with a straight-through exhaust and graphics that would make a NASCAR racer blush. It would be something of decent quality with touches of style and class. In this area, with relatively few choices, Sea Ray would be a good bet. And, the correct one.

I didn’t see Derek working the bar scene at Mesh or Jag’s with a pickup truck. Nissan Z, Porsche Cayman or Corvette. I guessed the Z and the Vette, thinking it was the Z. It was the Vette.

Derek had a shiny spot on the toe of his right running shoe. The telltale spoor of a shift lever. Tough call. On the one hand, Derek’s roots were Midwestern blue collar. On the other, he’s the athletic daredevil. Could be a sport bike. But, which one? He’s at the Suzuki- Kawasaki end of the scale. Probably the Suzuki. My bet was Harley and Suzuki. He’s a Harley man.

I gave Derek some suggestions for kayaks and wished him well in unloading the boat. He’d take a hit there, which is what got me musing about the kit on the drive back to the office.

Hmmm. Maybe if that worked out, we could follow up with the Mid-Life Woman’s Divorce Kit Lease.

Signs of amusement

It’s Monday, it’s cold and I had a strenuous weekend. I could use some amusement.

The first sign was in front of a car dealer. “Isn’t it time you rethink Saturn?” I think GM’s already doing that.

The next was on a distribution center. “Liquidation sale on Omaha Steaks.” Is liquidation what occurs when you eat unsold meat? I don’t mind buying clearance on last season’s outdoor gear and clothing, because the difference is usually just a color change. Possibly, that’s the case here.

The third one I won’t even quote. But, when you’re manually doing the job of washing cars, you should be careful how you word the sign. Or, maybe they were.

Welcome Answer Seekers

I just saw this site is being linked to by one called “Answers to the World Problems” or some such thing. Come again?

Was it predicting the winner of a football bowl? I believe a lot of bookies did that.

Foretelling balloon bursts, failed remedies and severe economic downtown? I think the words “unfunded” (applied to Social Security, government pensions, etc.) and “unqualified” (describing loan recipients and job candidates) tipped off any and all who understand that actions have consequences.

Welcome to the site. But, in spite of the tongue-in-cheek header, there’s nothing here but musings and an outlet for the desire to turn a phrase. Unfunded and unqualified, at that.