something delicious, P.E.

Picnic

We've been taking the short walk down to Oakledge Park on sunny Fridays for a picnic lunch and playground time, sometimes swimming if it's warm enough.  Mae usually stays seated for the ride down, but wants to party on the ride home.

 
Photo taken seconds before baby tries wagon surfing

First Camping Trip

 

We took Mae to Elmore State Park for her first camping trip over the weekend. 

Baby rock climber

Spring-ish

Sunday marked the first sunny spring-like day of the season, with temperatures soaring to the mid 40s.  It was the first time I dared bare my wrists to the outside air in over four months.  Joe took advantage of the "heat" by playing with the ice and puddles in the driveway, chipping at the glacier that had formed in front of the garage and moving pieces of it out into the dry, sunny part of the driveway to melt.  We also took the dogs out for a nice long run.  No hats, no gloves, no jackets.  Our first run together in training for our relay at the end of May and I was pleasantly surprised to see that I was not panting as hard as Joe or the dogs.  Secret treadmill training does have its advantages.

One of the unfortunate side effects of the spring melt is the slow unveiling of little brown dog bombs.  This is not a phenomenon restricted to our backyard.  It happens in the street gutters, along the sidewalk, in the middle of the sidewalk, and especially on paths in the park.  The normal rule is that you pick up after your dog immediately after they go in areas other than your own yard, or else you are an asshole.  There is nothing about this rule that can be left to interpretation, no exceptions.  You pick it up.  The end.  I thought this was universal knowledge, common sense even.  During winter months, some people believe that you can just kick a pile of snow over the turd, and hey, look, I can't see it so it must not be there anymore.  Come springtime, the thaw reveals the discourteous' dirty little secrets.  I guess it's just something we have to deal with until the April showers come and wash the fecal matter into the lake WHERE YOUR CHILDREN SWIM AND FROM WHICH YOUR DRINKING WATER IS DRAWN.

It would be nice if I could blather on about how much I love spring, but I am feeling less than inspired due in part to office gossip (and weatherchannel.com confirmation) of another winter storm waiting to strike this weekend.  At least the skiers will get one last hurrah before the end of season. 

icy death? no thanks.

I'm afraid of a few things, and near the top of my list is plunging through thin ice into water over my head.  Several years ago, I wasn't afraid of this.  I thought that if such a situation were to occur, I would simply remove the 50 lbs of snow gear I was wearing and swim to the surface, up through the hole I crashed through.  It wasn't until I participated in a few "Penguin Plunges", or polar bear swims, or whatever swimming in a lake in the middle of winter is called in your area, that I realized this wouldn't happen as easily as I had imagined.  I'd read and studied the stages of cold water immersion - cold shock, swim failure, hypothermia, etc., prior to that, but until I experienced, first hand, the body's reaction to 32 degree F water, I didn't think those things applied to me. 

First comes the shock- involuntary gasping (drowning potential), rapid breathing accompanied by a sudden rise in blood pressure and heart rate (heart attack potential). Shortly thereafter (seconds), blood is sped to the core in an effort to keep your body warm, so the nerves and muscles in your arms cool rapidly causing a loss in movement and manual dexterity (good luck trying to swim, or even tread).  If you're not dead yet from inhaling water, hypothermia will begin to set in after several minutes.  If you think you're going to be rescued and everything's going to be ok, think again.  Lungs can be damaged from inhaling water, your heart may be cold and not able to pump blood to maintain blood pressure, or loss of hydrostatic pressure from the water will likely cause a sudden drop in blood pressure, resulting in a heart attack. 

The penguin plunge taught me that there really is an involuntary gasp reflex when exposed to cold water, and you really do lose a lot of muscle control.  It's quite the effort to get out of the water, even if you're simply trying to walk up a boat ramp.   Luckily, I didn't stay for the hypothermia party, as my stay in the water was less than 3 seconds, and I didn't even get my head wet.  After this, I realized that fully breaking through the ice with full winter gear on is pretty much a death sentence.

Where was I?  Oh yeah, afraid of breaking through ice.  So last weekend, some friends convinced us to go snowshoeing on the frozen lake on which their cabin is located.  After initial hesitation (see above), I was convinced that it was a fine idea and would be a super good time.  And it was, despite my recitation of the fun facts of cold water immersion to everyone in our group...twice.  It was safe.  We stayed near the edge.  No one fell in.  The dogs loved it!  They had acres and acres to really open up their legs and explore.  The adults loved it too.  It was a perfect winter day- sunny, low wind, and a high of 20 deg. or so.  Warm enough that you almost didn't feel like you were outside, but cold enough that you would get chilled if you took your hat off.

death plot

I think Olive is trying to kill off Evvy.  Seriously.  They always fight and growl at each other and wrestle in the back yard, but it's generally harmless.  Last night I took Joe and the girls for a trail run at our favorite state park and two things happened that made me think that Olive may have crossed over to the dark side. 

At about half-way through the run, the trail goes by the lake on a nice sandy beach, so we stopped to let the dogs play in the water.  As soon as they got in about knee deep, Olive grabbed Evvy by the nape, and with a twisting motion of her head, tried to get Evvy off her feet so she would go under water.  Olive croc-rolled her.  I wish I had video of this.  Evvy wriggled away from Olive's death grip, but Olive went for her again, this time suceeding in dunking her.  Olive lost interest shortly thereafter and went to find a stick.

Then, on the trail back to the car, we have to cross a small wooden footbridge, that stands maybe 6 feet or so over a creek.  Evvy and Olive were trotting, shoulder to shoulder as they usually do, over the bridge, and when they got to about the halfway point, Olive changed her course and tried to bump Evvy off the bridge!  Her plan was foiled by Evvy's quick footwork.

I'm going to have to keep my eye on those two.  Although Evvy may get to herself before Olive does, as she darted across the road after a squirrel this morning--without first looking both ways.

Olive!  What have you done?

we did not capsize, but that isn't to say that it didn't almost happen

My second consecutive weekend of paddle sports has come to an end.  We had our fourth (!) annual camping trip this weekend at Knight Island State Park.  For those of you who don't know, Knight Island is a small island (duh) in the middle of Lake Champlain with a handful of "primitive" campsites (outhouse, but no water), and the only access to the camping on the island is via your own private boat.  Since none of the members in our party are yet successful enough to own anything more sassy than a canoe, that is the means of transport we use.  Oh, and because we're nuts--there have been several crossings that required us to battle with 3 ft waves, which doesn't sound like much UNLESS YOU'RE IN A CANOE (btw, we won...every time).

Somewhere over the years, our canoe picked up the nickname "The Flesh Pony" due to its (caucasian) flesh-tone paint job and its...umm..."canoe"-like shape.  Boats are supposed to have names, and they're usually female, but we're making an exception.  The Flesh Pony is a lovely Kevlar masterpiece with caned seats, weighing in at a whopping 51lbs, but whoever selected the paint color should be spanked--and not in a good way.  The ugliness actually worked to our advantage as we bought it on super-ultra-reduced-i'muglyandnooneisbuyingme-clearance.   Canoe #2 in the fleet goes by Red Rocket (it's red)...we have a little theme going.

here birdy birdy...I just want to tell you a secret...(and then eat you)

This year the stakes were raised by the addition of three dogs to the camping party.  Two of the three dogs were in our canoe.  Enter Evvy and Olive:  The dogs who are afraid of boats...especially easily capsizable canoes.  Thank GOD we bought them life vests with handles, for easy lifting into and out of the boat.  Yes, we bought life jackets for dogs.  Admittedly, I am a little embarrassed by this, but I do not regret it because the handles were necessary more than once.

Evvy spent the whole trip over to the island sitting behind me, with her little chin resting on the gunwale, gazing longingly at gulls, a throaty whimper escaping her chops every now and again.  Had she not been so petrified, she would have probably tried to prey upon the rat-birds, which would have been catastrophic (not for the bird, rather for us, and all of our stuff).  She was feeling a little braver on the return trip, and therefore she was placed in front of me, with her shoulders firmly wedged between my knees.  She didn't even seem to mind much that I kept bonking her in the head with the shaft of the paddle.

how fabulous do we look?

We all stayed dry, aside from a couple of rogue waves that washed over the side of the boat on the return trip.  The weekend as a whole was delightful and I think we have the perfect, humidity-free weather to thank for that.  Besides relaxing, the only thing I did was trip over a log.  Photos can be viewed here.

Rafting III: The Last Stand

Saturday morning before the river run, I awoke earlier than my roommates, so I decided to sit on the front deck and watch the mist rise off the river while I waited for them to wake up.  The serenity of the crisp morning was interrupted by rude snorting and grunting coming from around the side of the roadhouse.  I was immediately grossed out because I thought it was one of the drunkards from the night before yakking jagermeister all over the side of the house, so imagine my relief when I discovered it was only a couple of pigs.  Wait a minute...pigs??  Where the HELL did those things come from?

My first instinct was to run, because they were quite large, and we all know how dangerous pig pack mentality is.  However, the budding photojournalist in me knew better and thought this would be the perfect opportunity to capture a rare image of two large pigs in their native habitat.  I grabbed my camera and crouched behind the railing so they wouldn't see me and managed to snap a couple of action shots before I alerted them of my presence by elbowing a teetering can of Budweiser off the railing.  Instead of scattering, the pigs came over to investigate the sound that interrupted their wallowing.  They saw me and picked up the pace, trotting faster toward me.  Seeing the charging pigs automatically put me into survival mode and since I didn't have a poison blow dart handy, I got the hell out of there. 

Of course, once inside, nobody believed that I was charged by domesticated pigs, or even that there were pigs in the yard for that matter.  But I have evidence.  Behold, the pigs:

mmm...mud...

wallow, wallow, wallow...i love to wallow...

I hear something, let's check it out!

a human!  CHARGE!!!!

On our drive back to VT, I wouldn't shut up about how badly I wanted to see a moose.  A real live moose, not a dead bloated-in-the-ditch moose.  And, well, guess what?  WE SAW A MOOSE!!!  I was so excited I was shaking.  We pulled the car over to the side of the road and I hopped out for a quick photo shoot.  Since I did not have a very zoomy lens, and "A charging moose often kicks forward with its front feet, knocking down the threat, then stomping and kicking with all four feet", these are the best pics I could get:

nothing to see here guys, just munching on some apple cores

"mom, can we take that thing back to Jersey with us?"

I'd rather put my antler through your windshield.

crap, I've been spotted.  photographer, out.

The Raft Strikes Back

Part 2 of the Rafting With Girls Series:

We were up with the sun Saturday morning to drive the few minutes over to rafting base camp, but not before stopping for coffee at a gas station with a sweet moose head.  For some reason, I always feel the need to take pictures of large animal (or people) sculptures.   I'm still pissed that I didn't stop and get a shot of the 9' Paul Bunyan in Rumford, ME.  Until 5 days ago, I was not aware that the east coast even had a Paul Bunyan.  Apparently, there is competition between ME and MN about who gets him.

this moose is named "Berry"

Prior to departure, they had everyone gather 'round for the safety announcements and a demonstration on how not to give your paddling mate a black eye with the paddle.   I was nervous when they talked about the possibility of drowning if we didn't keep our feet up in the event we were tossed into the churning rapids, and also when they said that the weight of the raft and the force of the water had the capability of tearing limbs off (if limb is situated between a rock and a screaming raft).  HUMAN limbs, mind you, we're not talking about tree limbs here.  But I had my helmet securely fastened beneath my chin, and my stinky life jacket was cinched tighter than the corset in my wedding dress (that wouldn't allow me to finish all of the amazing beef tenderloin last year because I couldn't breath, let alone swallow chunks of food), so I felt safe.  And when I say the life jackets were stinky, I mean they smelled like the carpet in the locker room at my gym.

We were divided into teams of eight with one guide assigned to each raft. The guides (predominantly male) were all standing up on stage looking tan, and young, and muscular, and delicious.  As each team was called, their assigned guide would step forward and the teenage girls in their group would giggle and swoon.  When our team was called, the row of tall, handsome guides parted and out from behind them ambled an old, leathery 4-foot tall man.  While I do admire that he has probably been rafting since before I was born, and he was definitely NOT at the roadhouse the previous night performing drunk feats of strength with the young whippersnappers, I'm sure all us ladies were un poquito disappointed that WE got stuck with tiny old graybeard.

After filing onto the blue school bus that was to transport us to the beginning of our adventure, we learned that there was a mix-up with the guides.  The attendant apologized and we were upgraded to a smoker with a beer gut and butt cleavage, but he was younger and said funny things.  This guy turned out to be a lot of fun--he even brought us chocolate (Hershey's Miniatures...MR. GOODBAR I LOVE YOU!!!) for a mid-river snack.

The day was better than I could have even hoped.  It was sunny and warm and the river was gorgeous.  They started us out on some baby rapids, and we all screamed.  Eventually we were on larger, badder-assed, rapids, and we all screamed louder.  The scariest thing about the whole day, the thing that got the most terrified screams, was the presence of a giant spider in the raft just before the trip ended. 

I'm not entirely sure that it was 100% necessary for the tourists in the rafts to actually paddle, but they have us do so anyhow so we feel like we're part of the action.  Plus they like to see eight girls scramble to switch over from paddling forward to backward and not smash each other's fingers in the process.  It reminded me of a theme park ride --Disney, specifically:  The Jungle Cruise, where the guy "driving" the boat has to steer around obstacles and shoot at hippos, even though the boat was on a track, and the hippos were animatronic.  But who cares if they didn't really need us?  If he yelled at us to paddle full ahead, I white knuckled that paddle into the river as hard as I could, and without question, because it certainly felt like life or death at the time.

Casualties of the trip included:

• one slow motion tumble into the river after hitting an "unexpected" rock
• another fall (well, push, actually) into the river, in calmer water, during a contest to see who could make the loudest smack on the water with their paddle
• one giant mouthful of river water during the scariest of the rapids
• chipped nail polish on my big toe.  the river does not discriminate, it will take anyone, anytime.

And now, I will leave you with some post-ride photographs.  And if anyone ever asks you to go on a rafting trip with them -- do NOT turn them down!  Stay tuned for the third installment:  When Animals Attack.

yes, the 'thumbs up' are making an appearance in this photo

the softer side of the Dead River

everybody say 'styrofoam cup full of melted butter'

Lord of the Rafts: The Fellowship of the Raft

The first story in the trilogy describing my first whitewater rafting experience.

Hurray for friends getting married! and hurray for their bridesmaids throwing them EXTREME BACHELORETTE PARTIES!  This past weekend was one such extreme party--whitewater rafting extreme. 

The only place even a little bit close to where we live that has sufficient elevation drop and enough water flowing through and around narrow boulder mine fields to create a foamy roaring delight is Maine.  Specifically, north-central Maine.  While this time of year certainly is the lowest for most rivers, there has been a large amount of rainfall recently, plus enough of a dam release to make things interesting.

We left town Friday around noon in a downpour, and it rained steadily for the entire six hour drive.  But who cares?  I wasn't working.  We found an adorable pub enroute in Skowhegan, ME called the Old Mill Pub.  Just like its name implies, it was an old mill perched on the edge of a (raging) river just beneath a dam and I would describe the architecture as cute, old, and bricky.  I had the best portobello panini ever (pronounced eva' because the waitress didn't pronounce the letter "R").

Several miles of curvy, and I imagine scenic (but as I mentioned earlier, it was pouring), road later, we arrived at our lodging for the weekend, the Marshall Inn Roadhouse:

karaoke friday nights

With these curtains:

trout (?) and rainbows!

And this artwork:

velvet

We did not stay here:

The other car full of girls hit the heavily viscous east coast traffic on their way up 95 (blech!) and were several hours behind us.  We decided to wait for them on the front deck downstairs at the bar since it was at least 20-degrees cooler and I like sitting on decks in the evening, regardless if there are men having pull-up contests in the rafters or not.  Within minutes of being seated, drunk river guide #1 plops himself down next to my friend and tells her, with a half-closed left eye and a little bit of beer on his chin, that she's beautiful and she reminds him of Lance Bass.  Whaaaaaaat????

note to drunk river guide #1:  you reminded me of a monkey.

Cut to ten minutes later, and the jagoff is still sitting at our table, mumble-slurring something.  When he finally got the hint, he stood up, puffed out his chest, turned around, pointed to his ass and said to her, "baby, you could have had all this".  He immediately walked over to the next table and threw up on drunk river guide #2's Tevas.  Welcome to Maine, ladies.

(Self-proclaimed) Bridezilla and company finally arrived and there was much girly chatter

LOVE the shirt!

And flinging of thongs:

AND anticipation for the adventure that was in store for us the next day: