Nate and Darrel’s Excellent Adventure (August 12, 2006)

On Nate’s things-to-do-while-in-the-East list, is a trip to New York City. It’s on my list too, buried under twenty other things, but still on my list. So I join in this excursion, which turns out to be every bit the adventure, but much different than past father & son trips into the backcountry of the Grand Canyon or deep in the sierra Nevada Mountains.

After a four hour drive down the interstate, we roll into New York about noon. We get a taste of things to come when an erroneous turn costs us a hefty toll for the Triboro Bridge and an hour of our time as we wander Queens, learning the hard way that our motel street does not cross the East River.

We finally reach Manhattan in early-afternoon and get a seat-of-the-pants introduction to New York driving, with unwritten rules of 1) never hesitate, 2) always put your car where it doesn’t look like it will fit, and 3) if you honk your horn, keep it pushed down until your hand tires from the effort.

From Manhattan, we span 119 years of history crossing the Brookylyn bridge to eat at Gerno’s Pizza, which is nestled almost under the bridge. The display of award-winning plaques in the window proclaim it to be the “best damned Pizza in New York”. The half-hour long line of people stretching out the door and down the sidewalk support the claim. Inside the restaurant, the scene is reminiscent of a previous generation with hand-tossed pizza dough, a large wood-fired oven, and large steaming hot pizzas being expertly slung about with a six-foot wooden spatula. The pizza is unique and tasty. When we leave the restaurant, from a nearby pier, the unobstructed view of the Manhattan skyline across the river is framed by the Brooklyn bridge.

After a harrowing drive back to Manhattan through rush-hour traffic, we check into our motel in the late afternoon, then hit the streets on foot. We decide our trip won’t be complete without a trip to the top of the Empire State building. After a long wait in Disneyland-like lines and an ear-popping elevator ride to the 80th floor, we buy tickets. We opt not to pay the extra six dollars for a recorded narrative by “Tony the Cabbie”, which according to brochures is the best deal in the entire city. Finally we exit onto the observation deck and elbow our way through the throng for a view. Wow – the city of New York from high above, from the East River to the Hudson, from north to South. We’re not disappointed.

Back at ground level, we wait patiently on a busy street for our own personal tour guide who arrives minutes later in a silver Acura. Robbie Stillerman, whom I met several years previous skiing Stratton Mountain, is an ever smiling, non-stop talking, short and petite, 60-ish lady, a New York native who’s small frame is dwarfed by the very skyline that she knows so well. For the next two hours we are treated to Robbie’s non-stop narrative and architectural lectures. While Robbie skillfully maneuvers through a maze of horn-honking New York traffic, we are treated to the sounds, smells, and fabulous sun roof views of the city we came to see - Time Square, The United Nations, The Chrysler building, Central Park and so much more.

With night having fallen, we patiently search street after street for a parking spot. Finally we find one but the vehicle in front of us has first dibs. We watch in amazement while a pickup truck is shoe-horned into a space that appears 6-inches shorter than the vehicle itself. The driver uses a very entertaining bump and grind technique with the parked car to his rear. We move on. At long last we find an empty space, park the car, and venture out on foot. In Washington Square we pause on the sidewalk to enjoy two talented musicians cranking out some serious rock and roll with only a piano, percussion, and raspy vocals. Outside the square in a residential area, we marvel at an official New York City rat sighting. The critter scurries down the sidewalk to our left. Snaking our way down a side street in Greenwich Village, through a sea of people, we pass restaurant after restaurant brimming with energetic customers. This is a “happening place”. It’s after 10p.m. but the evening is young in this city that never sleeps.

Learning that neither Nate nor I have ever eaten Sushi, Robbie escorts us into a Japanese restaurant. Inside and seated, Robbie orders samplers for us all. Nate and I are good sports. The Miso soup is good. The well-seasoned sea weed has the consistency of polyurethane rubber. The sushi tastes exactly like the raw fish that it is - cold, slimy, and tasteless. And the item which makes me the proudest that I’ve ever been in suppressing a gag reflex, “rolls”, which are eel rolled in avocado. After these scrumptious appetizers, I might be content to give my stomach the rest of the night off. Instead we are off to another restaurant for dinner’s main course. After eating, Robbie is game for yet another restaurant for desert, but it is late and we are full.

When we arrived back at the car, we are greeted with an unfriendly parking ticket, placed there only minutes before we arrived. A $115 FINE? (CHOKE!) That alone may keep me away from the city the rest of my life.

On the way home we detour through China town and Little Italy for yet a few more sights. At his hour many of the sidewalks take on the appearance of an alleyway as garbage sacks stacked waste-high await collection. It is about midnight when Robbie drops us off. We say a warm, heart-felt goodbye to our friend who has been so kind to spend her evening sharing with us the sights, sounds and cuisine of her beloved New York City. We trudge our tired bodies to our motel room and fall into bed.

Saturday morning we conclude our visit with a subway trip downtown. As the subway rolls, our car is filled with the perfect harmony of four black men singing a cappella. While their deep rich voices serenade, they unabashedly solicit tips before passing into the next car. On the south side of Manhattan we enjoy views of the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island where Nate’s Lithuanian and Italian ancestors entered the country many years previous. In a walking tour we see Wall Street and the ornate exterior of the New York Stock Exchange. Farther north, we stand in the midst of a crowd, many of whom are moved to tears by the memorial at the World Trade Center.

It’s mid afternoon when we finally retrieve our vehicle and leave the city. It is only fitting that we leave the way we arrived – by making a wrong turn and getting sucked once again into paying a hefty toll to cross the Triboro bridge. This time we reverse direction quickly and head north. We arrive home in the early evening, glad for our experience, and glad to be home.

Mount Manadnock

Up early at 5:30 am. Into the bathroom to perform the three S’s (shave, shower, and shampoo). It’s after 6am when I roust Jace and Nate from their beds. We pack provisions for our three-man expedition to the summit of Mount Monadnock. We finally leave the house sometime after 6:30.

Off of Route 124, we turn east onto Old Shaker Farm Road and proceed down the rutted and narrow dirt lane which cuts through heavy woods before finally emerging into a small dirt parking lot. Off to our right are rock foundations, remnants of the Shaker farm which graced the land some 200 years before our Toyota rolled to a stop and spit out three anxious males. In honor of the Shakers, who carved a living from this land so many years ago, we do a little shaking ourselves as we leave the parking lot and attack the trail.

Mount Monadnock is known as the second most hiked mountain in the world. On this morning there is little indication of the mountain’s popularity. We have the trail entirely to ourselves. No other souls. It helps that we’re on the most obscure and least traveled of all the trails that snake their way to the summit.

The trail meanders through thick woods, which filter the morning sun as effectively as an Amazon jungle. The few sunbeams which make their way to the forest floor are further softened by wispy strands of morning fog which slither eerily through the trees.

For the first half mile, the trail is relatively level. It then turns vertical up the mountain. As the grade grows steep our pace slows. Jace’s 11-year old legs have a hard time keeping pace with the 24-year-old and 50-year-old legs of his brother and father. Nate and I offer encouragement and prod him on. We stop for an occasional rest. After our second break, as if on queue, there is a reversal of rolls. For the remainder of the ascent Jace forges ahead. His father assumes the roll of laggard.

Progressing up the mountain, my legs begin murmuring, quietly at first, then louder with each step. A mile into the hike I begin to deeply regret every fat-filled doughnut I’ve eaten in the past year. A quarter mile later, my regret includes every bowl of ice cream and each serving of cholesterol-laden French fries.

Half way up the mountain, the trees grow thinner. Historians claim two hundred years ago the mountain was heavily wooded to the very top, before being intentionally burned by farmers. A mile and a half into the hike we’re greeted by today’s Mount Monadnock. A few hardy shrubs fight for life on nearly bare rock. Fifteen minutes more of hiking, the shrubs give way to barren rock.

With the drama of Sir Edmund Hillary cresting Everest, we take the last grueling steps to the wind-swept summit of Mount Monadnock. The solid rock under our feet is completely void of soil or vegetation. In distant years someone has skillfully carved into the bedrock, “ELEVATION 3166 ft”. Seventy five miles to the east is the Boston skyline, which is visible on a clear day, but today is hidden in distant haze. Ninety miles to the west sits Albany, New York, also lost in the haze. The city of Keene is visible to the north.

Bathed in sunshine, we lounge on the rocks and chug Poland Spring bottled water while eating granola bars and trail mix. The wind blows briskly from the north west, drying our sweat-stained shirts. The temperature is perfect for our tired bodies. Nate and I chat idly while trying to ignore the background noise of Jace complaining over and over, “I’m bored. I’m bored.” When we’ve all had our fill of the mountain vista, we retreat down the mountain.

As we hike Nate declares that the rocks are safe haven, while the spots of soil and grass are molten lava. As we descend, outcropping bedrock becomes scarce. I am the first to step foot into lava and be instantly consumed. Nate and Jace bounce from rock to rock with great skill, determined to stay alive, but eventually succumb to the same fate as their aging father.

Half way down the mountain we come upon wild blueberry bushes. We can’t resist stopping for nature’s treat. The berries aren’t terribly plentiful on these bushes. Initially we pick and eat the perfectly ripe berries one by one. Then to enhance the experience, we wait until we have a handful before throwing them into our mouth. The result on our taste buds is an exhilarating explosion of flavor.

Intermixed among the blueberries are some unknown berries, small, dark in color. Are they poisonous? We all eat one, figuring that if we die we’ll die happy, and the resulting three-in-one funeral will save our loved ones travel expense. As it turns out they are rather tasteless and hardly worth the risk.

Jace shouts, “mother lode” when we spy more blueberry bushes in which the berries are so abundant they hang in clumps. We eat blue berries by the handful. When we have had our fill, the activity degenerates to a massive blue berry fight. Blue berry bullets fly through the air with great speed but mostly errant trajectories.

As we leave blueberry heaven and continue down the trail, Jace and Nate engage in a burping contest. Jace let’s loose with several massive belches which would make any eleven year old proud. The tone and volume are likely sufficient to de-throne Nick as the recognized family champion. But since Nick is not present, the anticipated change in the crown must wait for future head-to-head competition.

We arrive back at the van at11:20a.m., having made the round trip in about four hours. We’re all tired and thirsty. Back in town we reward our efforts with a stop at Pizza Pi. While we wait for our pizza, we quench the fire in our lactic acid-filled leg muscles by consuming generous amounts of ice cold soda. Finally our pizza arrives. As I hungrily consume three pieces, savoring the dripping-hot cholesterol-laden mozzarella cheese and grease-dripping pepperoni, my earlier misgivings of diet and health recede to the distant shadows of consciousness.

It has been a good morning. We made pleasant memories. All in all, a very good outing.