The mountain-top adventure pretty well banged up my body, leaving me stiff, sore, and most unfortunately, left my toes painfully bruised. I hobbled up and down stairs at the B&B, into the dining area, even had trouble walking the 100 yards to the nearest pub. Time to re-evaluate exactly what I am doing here.
On Sunday morning, in Grasmere, I decided that two more weeks of this would be stretching the concepts of "vacation" "adventure" and "fun" to uncomfortable limits. Was it worth it to keep forging on, or should I just bag this whole venture and chalk it up to a "learning experience." So I applied the tried and true formula used when sitting through a bad play or opera: if you aren't having fun and enjoying yourself at intermission, why stay through the whole performance? I calculated how much money I had already spent (tolerable) and how much I would save in future expenses over 14 days (considerable), and decided it was time to come back home.
A taxi ride to Oxenhall, the train to London, the Heathrow Express to the airport, and a flight to Newark filled the rest of my Sunday. (I missed the Dulles flight by about an hour). Amtrak took me home the following day. Thus, as you read this final posting, I'm home, safe and sound, taking it very easy on my still sore feet.
Sorry to disappoint those of you rooting for me to soldier on and complete the hike. I'd never saw the coast-to-coast as one of those life-defining challenges that would somehow make me a better person or would cast out some demons in my psyche. My life is not that complicated or nuanced. Rugged hiking just isn't that much fun; now I know that for sure. I'll stick to the more civilized pursuits of walking in the city, stopping at a book store, enjoying a latte and a chocolate croissant along the way.
If I can retrieve them, I'll post some pictures of my short-lived adventure in a few days.
Dr. J's Excellent Adventure will go on hiatus for a few months, to be resumed next summer with Part II. I'll be in Beijing next summer working on my Chinese, and, hopefully, will be in China during the entire academic year, August 2010 through June 2011. Keep your fingers crossed.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Monday, July 6, 2009
The Kindness of Strangers
In the last posting, I had just ended my most exhausting day, by knocking on the door of the country house at 11:00 p.m. Surely, someone will take pity, I hoped. A kindly man, Paul (I think), my age, tentatively opened the door, and I told him my tale of woe. All I wanted was for him to call the owners of the inn I was supposed to stay in that night in Rosthwaite, and perhaps if I could arrange for a taxi to pick me up. I even offered to pay Paul if he could get me there. As I suspected, the owner of the Rosthwaite inn, Gillercombe, had gone into alert once I didn't show up at a reasonable hour. The local police and the mountain rescue squad had been told of my absence. (Nothing would have helped, however, given the blanket of fog).
Fortunately, adjacent to the country house was a B&B, the Burnthwaite Farm, owned by Gillian and Andrew Race. Andrew sort of snickered and rolled his eyes when he found that I had been lost all this time. "Happens all the time. You aren't the first, won't be the last," he tried to reassure me. Andrew made sure that the police and mountain rescue squads were called off. Gillian swooped in with tea, ham and cheese sandwiches, and sympathy. I found out that a taxi at that hour was probably impossible, and the trip would take me at least 90 minutes. It might be just 8 miles over the mountains to Rosthwaite, but to get there by roadway meant a circuitous, 90-minute trip. We decided I should just stay at the B&B; it was filled to capacity that night, but Andrew and Gillian were kind enough to offer me a sleeping bag in the television room.
The B&B was filled (all 8 rooms), mostly with a rowdy bunch of farmer-buddies who were driving their antique tractors through the Lake District. They had come to Burnthwaite Farm because Andrew was a friend and had worked with some of them earlier. By 7:00 the next morning, when I was rousted and the room prepared for breakfast, I was still very groggy and exhausted. By 7:30, the breakfast room was boisterous with the farm boys. I marvelled at how I could make out only about half of the things they were saying, even though we all presumably speak the same mother tongue. It must be the Cumbrian brogue.
"So you must be the lad that got lost last night," said Tommy, the most voluble of the bunch. "Come sit with me. We was out all night lookin' for you!" His buddies broke out in laughter. They were out drinking, of course, not looking for hapless Yanks. After downing several pieces of toast, a beaker of tea, and a huge bowl of cereal, Tommy declared to Gillian that he was hungry and wanted a proper English breakfast. Rising to the challenge, Gillian in a few minutes came out with this enormous platter groaning with that most British of gastronomical phenomena, the English breakfast: eggs sunny side up, baked beans, two enormous slices of blood pudding (oh my god), sauteed mushrooms, ham, bangers, stewed tomatoes, two slices of deep fried toast. This was followed by more toast and jams and tea. Tommy polished it off with an efficiency that belies description. We all had our pictures taken at the breakfast table and outside next to the line of tractors. Tommy and his lads helped brighten my day.
It was time to leave the B&B, and my gracious and friendly hosts, Gillian and Andrew, would not take a penny from me. But I do give them my heartfelt gratitude. Paul and his wife generously drove me up to Keswick ("Kessick"); it was the last day of their holiday, they were going home, and Keswick was on their way as well as mine. Again, they would take no money from me. I then took the local bus down to Grasmere, were my luggage was awaiting me for the night. Had a very nice dinner at the Swan Hotel, and in a little swipe of revenge, dined on roasted lamb.
I have been struck many times at the kindness and warmheartedness of the local folks, as well as my fellow hikers, like Peter, and Ted and Terri (from the US) who, upon hearing my tale of woe, were more than willing to walk with me throughout the trip. That was very thoughtful, but I certainly did not want to hold them up: they were experienced, solid walkers, not to be hobbled by rookies.
Well, perhaps I can make lemonade out of lemons. I had decided that my walking days were over: used up at least 8-1/2 of my nine lives the night before, and no sense tempting fate again. The next few days were going to be extremely hilly, but then the walkway flattened out. But no amount of reassurance from locals, fellow hikers, or blog readers was going to change my mind: ladies and gentleman, I have retired, permanently, from mountain climbing, sheep gazing, and nature defying. A walk in the park will be all I'll attempt. So I decided that I'd simply go from the B&B in one destination to the B&B in the next, shuttled by a bus or taxi, and ending up with a nice holiday, albeit without sore feet and dirty clothes. That was my plan, but, alas, it didn't work out that way.
I'll explain in the next posting.
Fortunately, adjacent to the country house was a B&B, the Burnthwaite Farm, owned by Gillian and Andrew Race. Andrew sort of snickered and rolled his eyes when he found that I had been lost all this time. "Happens all the time. You aren't the first, won't be the last," he tried to reassure me. Andrew made sure that the police and mountain rescue squads were called off. Gillian swooped in with tea, ham and cheese sandwiches, and sympathy. I found out that a taxi at that hour was probably impossible, and the trip would take me at least 90 minutes. It might be just 8 miles over the mountains to Rosthwaite, but to get there by roadway meant a circuitous, 90-minute trip. We decided I should just stay at the B&B; it was filled to capacity that night, but Andrew and Gillian were kind enough to offer me a sleeping bag in the television room.
The B&B was filled (all 8 rooms), mostly with a rowdy bunch of farmer-buddies who were driving their antique tractors through the Lake District. They had come to Burnthwaite Farm because Andrew was a friend and had worked with some of them earlier. By 7:00 the next morning, when I was rousted and the room prepared for breakfast, I was still very groggy and exhausted. By 7:30, the breakfast room was boisterous with the farm boys. I marvelled at how I could make out only about half of the things they were saying, even though we all presumably speak the same mother tongue. It must be the Cumbrian brogue.
"So you must be the lad that got lost last night," said Tommy, the most voluble of the bunch. "Come sit with me. We was out all night lookin' for you!" His buddies broke out in laughter. They were out drinking, of course, not looking for hapless Yanks. After downing several pieces of toast, a beaker of tea, and a huge bowl of cereal, Tommy declared to Gillian that he was hungry and wanted a proper English breakfast. Rising to the challenge, Gillian in a few minutes came out with this enormous platter groaning with that most British of gastronomical phenomena, the English breakfast: eggs sunny side up, baked beans, two enormous slices of blood pudding (oh my god), sauteed mushrooms, ham, bangers, stewed tomatoes, two slices of deep fried toast. This was followed by more toast and jams and tea. Tommy polished it off with an efficiency that belies description. We all had our pictures taken at the breakfast table and outside next to the line of tractors. Tommy and his lads helped brighten my day.
It was time to leave the B&B, and my gracious and friendly hosts, Gillian and Andrew, would not take a penny from me. But I do give them my heartfelt gratitude. Paul and his wife generously drove me up to Keswick ("Kessick"); it was the last day of their holiday, they were going home, and Keswick was on their way as well as mine. Again, they would take no money from me. I then took the local bus down to Grasmere, were my luggage was awaiting me for the night. Had a very nice dinner at the Swan Hotel, and in a little swipe of revenge, dined on roasted lamb.
I have been struck many times at the kindness and warmheartedness of the local folks, as well as my fellow hikers, like Peter, and Ted and Terri (from the US) who, upon hearing my tale of woe, were more than willing to walk with me throughout the trip. That was very thoughtful, but I certainly did not want to hold them up: they were experienced, solid walkers, not to be hobbled by rookies.
Well, perhaps I can make lemonade out of lemons. I had decided that my walking days were over: used up at least 8-1/2 of my nine lives the night before, and no sense tempting fate again. The next few days were going to be extremely hilly, but then the walkway flattened out. But no amount of reassurance from locals, fellow hikers, or blog readers was going to change my mind: ladies and gentleman, I have retired, permanently, from mountain climbing, sheep gazing, and nature defying. A walk in the park will be all I'll attempt. So I decided that I'd simply go from the B&B in one destination to the B&B in the next, shuttled by a bus or taxi, and ending up with a nice holiday, albeit without sore feet and dirty clothes. That was my plan, but, alas, it didn't work out that way.
I'll explain in the next posting.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Day 2: Ennerdale Bridge to Rosthwaite
Easy Going, then Rain, then Disaster
Left Ennerdale bridge 8:45 a.m., finished at 11:00 p.m.
Day started out fine: overcast, a little breezy, a comfortable feeling. Took the south route along Ennerdale Lake, along with about 5 other hikers. They soon left me. An easy five miles over gravel road; then the rains started, and by the time I stopped at a Youth Hostel, I was soaked. Then I started my way--by myself--up the steep hills, carefully following the path. This was around 2:00 p.m.
From then on until 11:00, it was unmitigated disaster. The higher I climbed, the nastier the weather turned, with gale force winds, and then the entire mountains covered in mist. I could see perhaps five feet in front of me. I continued following the trail, spotting footprints of those ahead of me (but nowhere in sight). The climb became more and more treacherous. Wet grass, wet and loose rocks, gale winds, visibility ten feet, sheep turds everywhere, and me not knowing where the hell I was. I was stuck on that mountain, going up 2,700 feet, for eight hours.
One of the hardest things to do is climb up the 40-degree steep slopes; harder still, was coming back down the other side. I fell at least ten times, fortunately just scrapes. And for a time, the only way down was to crawl backwards feet first. I did this for probably 500 yards, down the steep slopes.
I have to admit I was truly frightened. One false step could mean a broken ankle or a very nasty fall. It had to be the worse eight hours of my life: freezing cold, constant rain, lost, with no help in sight (cell phones didn't reach out here). All I could think of was my old friend David B., who loved to mountain climb, and who froze to death on the Andes Mountains some twenty years ago. I wasn't going to freeze, but who knows what shape I would be in. After one climbed ridge only led to another, I was accepting the fact that I might have to spend the night on one of these high ridges. Just me, the rain, and the sheep.
Finally, at 9:00 p.m., the mist lifted, and I could see far down the valley and see some signs of civilization. If only I could get down there (from about 2,400 feet) in two hours, before the daylight was completely gone. I made it, bruised, demoralized, totally fatigued, with five minutes to spare. Fortunately, it doesn't get dark this time of year in this part of England until 11:00, but by the time I knocked on the farm house door, I was barely able to see any thing. Too close for comfort.
More on my physical travails and my rescue from the wilds of the Lake District in my next posting. Suffice to say, I'm bruised, battered, but okay. Perhaps learned a lesson or two about what is and what isn't within my grasp. Maybe I should stick to Bach Two-Part Inventions.
Left Ennerdale bridge 8:45 a.m., finished at 11:00 p.m.
Day started out fine: overcast, a little breezy, a comfortable feeling. Took the south route along Ennerdale Lake, along with about 5 other hikers. They soon left me. An easy five miles over gravel road; then the rains started, and by the time I stopped at a Youth Hostel, I was soaked. Then I started my way--by myself--up the steep hills, carefully following the path. This was around 2:00 p.m.
From then on until 11:00, it was unmitigated disaster. The higher I climbed, the nastier the weather turned, with gale force winds, and then the entire mountains covered in mist. I could see perhaps five feet in front of me. I continued following the trail, spotting footprints of those ahead of me (but nowhere in sight). The climb became more and more treacherous. Wet grass, wet and loose rocks, gale winds, visibility ten feet, sheep turds everywhere, and me not knowing where the hell I was. I was stuck on that mountain, going up 2,700 feet, for eight hours.
One of the hardest things to do is climb up the 40-degree steep slopes; harder still, was coming back down the other side. I fell at least ten times, fortunately just scrapes. And for a time, the only way down was to crawl backwards feet first. I did this for probably 500 yards, down the steep slopes.
I have to admit I was truly frightened. One false step could mean a broken ankle or a very nasty fall. It had to be the worse eight hours of my life: freezing cold, constant rain, lost, with no help in sight (cell phones didn't reach out here). All I could think of was my old friend David B., who loved to mountain climb, and who froze to death on the Andes Mountains some twenty years ago. I wasn't going to freeze, but who knows what shape I would be in. After one climbed ridge only led to another, I was accepting the fact that I might have to spend the night on one of these high ridges. Just me, the rain, and the sheep.
Finally, at 9:00 p.m., the mist lifted, and I could see far down the valley and see some signs of civilization. If only I could get down there (from about 2,400 feet) in two hours, before the daylight was completely gone. I made it, bruised, demoralized, totally fatigued, with five minutes to spare. Fortunately, it doesn't get dark this time of year in this part of England until 11:00, but by the time I knocked on the farm house door, I was barely able to see any thing. Too close for comfort.
More on my physical travails and my rescue from the wilds of the Lake District in my next posting. Suffice to say, I'm bruised, battered, but okay. Perhaps learned a lesson or two about what is and what isn't within my grasp. Maybe I should stick to Bach Two-Part Inventions.
Day 1: St. Bees to Ennerdale Bridge
Hot, Humid, Difficult
That about sums up this most difficult of days. About 14 and 1/2 miles, started at 8:30 a.m., finished at 6:15 p.m.
Walking along the Irish Sea coastal path was steep, narrow and tortuous. Had to watch every single step, for fear of twisting an ankle. This certainly is not taking a leisurely stroll down Connecticut Avenue! Several hikers, more powerful and more comfortable, passed me by, but for the most part, I was by myself. Lots of rocks underfoot; fortunately, I had sturdy boots that helped keep my footing and provide some support. The trail was marked fairly well, but in too many places, it was difficult to discern where the trail was, particularly when going through fields. Some of the trail was on gravel roads (fine), but then it could deteriorate to a six-inch wide path overgrown with weeds.
It was so hot, that I had to drink like a fish. Probably had four liters of water. I was so dehydrated and so hot that I couldn't eat anything, not even a power bar. (Made up for much of this after the conclusion of the day at the pub and a lasagna dinner).
My trip was saved by my partnering up with Peter from Somerset. A stout-hearted fellow, former Royal Marine, who (a) knew what he was doing and (b) could read maps. I would have been utterly lost without his guidance. The guidebooks warn you, "Never walk alone." Now I understand. Only because of Peter did I make it to my destination safely. My map reading skills are pretty basic, and until Peter showed me how to use a compass, I was still struggling away.
Glad to have this first day over. But I was slyly warned by a veteran walker that the next day would be even more difficult. Stay tuned. Pictures will follow once I get home.
That about sums up this most difficult of days. About 14 and 1/2 miles, started at 8:30 a.m., finished at 6:15 p.m.
Walking along the Irish Sea coastal path was steep, narrow and tortuous. Had to watch every single step, for fear of twisting an ankle. This certainly is not taking a leisurely stroll down Connecticut Avenue! Several hikers, more powerful and more comfortable, passed me by, but for the most part, I was by myself. Lots of rocks underfoot; fortunately, I had sturdy boots that helped keep my footing and provide some support. The trail was marked fairly well, but in too many places, it was difficult to discern where the trail was, particularly when going through fields. Some of the trail was on gravel roads (fine), but then it could deteriorate to a six-inch wide path overgrown with weeds.
It was so hot, that I had to drink like a fish. Probably had four liters of water. I was so dehydrated and so hot that I couldn't eat anything, not even a power bar. (Made up for much of this after the conclusion of the day at the pub and a lasagna dinner).
My trip was saved by my partnering up with Peter from Somerset. A stout-hearted fellow, former Royal Marine, who (a) knew what he was doing and (b) could read maps. I would have been utterly lost without his guidance. The guidebooks warn you, "Never walk alone." Now I understand. Only because of Peter did I make it to my destination safely. My map reading skills are pretty basic, and until Peter showed me how to use a compass, I was still struggling away.
Glad to have this first day over. But I was slyly warned by a veteran walker that the next day would be even more difficult. Stay tuned. Pictures will follow once I get home.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
St. Bee's in the Throes of a Heatwave
Countdown: Day Before
Finally, I'm at the beginning of my journey, in the village of St. Bees. Not on many maps, but nonetheless a lovely little place. Trip from Carlisle was on the Barrow-in-Furness train, a two-car clickety-clack conveyance, far more bumpy than the Virgin train that brought me from London to Carlisle. Carlisle to Wigton to Aspatria to Maryport to Workington to Parton to Whitehaven to Corkickle to St. Bees. You have to ask the conductor to make a special stop.
Everyone here is sweltering in the heat, but is pretty cool in Washington terms, and except for the humidity, would be almost pleasant.
Walked around the village, such as it is, listened from the street to the students at the music building at the St. Bee's Priory Church school playing Pachebel's Canon in piano reduction. Went down to the seaside, the Irish Sea, and ceremoniously dipped my boots into the water and gathered up a small seashell. The seashell will be dropped off at Robin Hood's Bay in 17 days, assuming I make it that far.
Staying at a small inn, the Queens Hotel; quaint, clean, no air-conditioning. But nice people. Innkeeper even let me use his own computer when mine couldn't connect to the wireless. Probably the last time I will communicate for a couple days. Going into the wilds, with little hope for an Internet connection.
Still not very comfortable going into this venture; but I'll press on.
Finally, I'm at the beginning of my journey, in the village of St. Bees. Not on many maps, but nonetheless a lovely little place. Trip from Carlisle was on the Barrow-in-Furness train, a two-car clickety-clack conveyance, far more bumpy than the Virgin train that brought me from London to Carlisle. Carlisle to Wigton to Aspatria to Maryport to Workington to Parton to Whitehaven to Corkickle to St. Bees. You have to ask the conductor to make a special stop.
Everyone here is sweltering in the heat, but is pretty cool in Washington terms, and except for the humidity, would be almost pleasant.
Walked around the village, such as it is, listened from the street to the students at the music building at the St. Bee's Priory Church school playing Pachebel's Canon in piano reduction. Went down to the seaside, the Irish Sea, and ceremoniously dipped my boots into the water and gathered up a small seashell. The seashell will be dropped off at Robin Hood's Bay in 17 days, assuming I make it that far.
Staying at a small inn, the Queens Hotel; quaint, clean, no air-conditioning. But nice people. Innkeeper even let me use his own computer when mine couldn't connect to the wireless. Probably the last time I will communicate for a couple days. Going into the wilds, with little hope for an Internet connection.
Still not very comfortable going into this venture; but I'll press on.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
In Carlisle, Running Out of Juice
Countdown: 1 Day
Train ride, on Virgin Trains, was uneventful. Comfortable train, smooth journey, lasting only 3 hours, 15 minutes. Marred only by the fat guy sitting across the aisle loudly munching on crisps throughout the trip, and the guy behind me spending two hours shouting into his cell phone.
Was unpleasantly hot in London yesterday, and is cooler but muggy here. Room at the Hallmark Hotel, right next to the train station, is pleasant enough, and one half the price of the Hotel Russell in London. Would be nicer if it had air conditioning, but there's a nice breeze. I propped up one window with a Gideon's Bible; always knew I turn to it for inspiration.
Had nice lunch at the Prior's Kitchen on the grounds of the Carlisle Cathedral. Salad and mushroom quiche washed down with a Fentimen's Curiosity Cola, fortified "the botanical way" (whatever that means).
Like an dope, I didn't bring the right electricity converter plugs. So I'll run on battery or hope for Internet cafes along the way. The idocy never ceases to amaze.
Train ride, on Virgin Trains, was uneventful. Comfortable train, smooth journey, lasting only 3 hours, 15 minutes. Marred only by the fat guy sitting across the aisle loudly munching on crisps throughout the trip, and the guy behind me spending two hours shouting into his cell phone.
Was unpleasantly hot in London yesterday, and is cooler but muggy here. Room at the Hallmark Hotel, right next to the train station, is pleasant enough, and one half the price of the Hotel Russell in London. Would be nicer if it had air conditioning, but there's a nice breeze. I propped up one window with a Gideon's Bible; always knew I turn to it for inspiration.
Had nice lunch at the Prior's Kitchen on the grounds of the Carlisle Cathedral. Salad and mushroom quiche washed down with a Fentimen's Curiosity Cola, fortified "the botanical way" (whatever that means).
Like an dope, I didn't bring the right electricity converter plugs. So I'll run on battery or hope for Internet cafes along the way. The idocy never ceases to amaze.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Arrived London, thanks to TSA Vigilance
Countdown: 2 days
Arrived safely in London, staying at the Hotel Russell on Russell Square. Trip was uneventful, if being squeezed like a sardine into economy class can ever be uneventful. Going through security at Dulles, I got up to the scanning machines and was asked if I had a laptop in that carry one. "No m'am, I don't, but do you want me to pull out my Kindle?" "Kindle, what's that?" the tired looking thirty year old security guard asked. Somehow I, and the twenty something guy standing behind me, smirking, thought that TSA might be a little bit more up to speed on its security precautions. My Kindle, laptop, and the whole hiking kit got through okay.
Arrived in London at 11:30 in the morning, a wholly more civilized time to arrive than the 6:30 a.m. flight that I'm used to. I'm typing this at an Internet cafe (cheap) as opposed to the Hotel, which charges 20£ for an hour of Internet access.
Off to a pub tonight, with my Kindle, then off to Carlisle on the morning train.
Arrived safely in London, staying at the Hotel Russell on Russell Square. Trip was uneventful, if being squeezed like a sardine into economy class can ever be uneventful. Going through security at Dulles, I got up to the scanning machines and was asked if I had a laptop in that carry one. "No m'am, I don't, but do you want me to pull out my Kindle?" "Kindle, what's that?" the tired looking thirty year old security guard asked. Somehow I, and the twenty something guy standing behind me, smirking, thought that TSA might be a little bit more up to speed on its security precautions. My Kindle, laptop, and the whole hiking kit got through okay.
Arrived in London at 11:30 in the morning, a wholly more civilized time to arrive than the 6:30 a.m. flight that I'm used to. I'm typing this at an Internet cafe (cheap) as opposed to the Hotel, which charges 20£ for an hour of Internet access.
Off to a pub tonight, with my Kindle, then off to Carlisle on the morning train.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Way Out of My Comfort Zone
Countdown: 5 Days
Normally, when I'm taking a trip, even an international one, it takes about 35 minutes to pack. Suits, bowties, shirts, boom, boom, boom. This trip is different. Packpack, compass, mosquito spray, blister patches, hiking boots, and so forth. I'll also take my Chinese vocabulary cards, my Kindle loaded with a bunch of good books, even an old fashioned deck of cards. I started packing four days before the trip!
But, really, this is way out of my comfort zone. It is remarkable how our lives get stuck in day-to-day routines. Much of that is the comfortable zone of coasting--get up, read the paper, go to work, come home, eat, watch a little television, repeat month after month, year after year. Well, I'm determined to shake that up a little. I decided when I was about 50 (that's fifteen years ago for anyone who is counting), that I'd like to try new things every few years. So I took up the piano (still at it), cooking (until my wife said no; later we hired a marvelous personal chef), wrote some books, attempted to learn Chinese, and now this.
Life's been a little chaotic this year, and now it is time to get out of the house and try something totally different. So off I go! Starting Monday, June 29, when I arrive in London, I'll post daily about my adventures (let's hope that there is wi-fi or at least dial up in the hinterlands of northern England).
Normally, when I'm taking a trip, even an international one, it takes about 35 minutes to pack. Suits, bowties, shirts, boom, boom, boom. This trip is different. Packpack, compass, mosquito spray, blister patches, hiking boots, and so forth. I'll also take my Chinese vocabulary cards, my Kindle loaded with a bunch of good books, even an old fashioned deck of cards. I started packing four days before the trip!
But, really, this is way out of my comfort zone. It is remarkable how our lives get stuck in day-to-day routines. Much of that is the comfortable zone of coasting--get up, read the paper, go to work, come home, eat, watch a little television, repeat month after month, year after year. Well, I'm determined to shake that up a little. I decided when I was about 50 (that's fifteen years ago for anyone who is counting), that I'd like to try new things every few years. So I took up the piano (still at it), cooking (until my wife said no; later we hired a marvelous personal chef), wrote some books, attempted to learn Chinese, and now this.
Life's been a little chaotic this year, and now it is time to get out of the house and try something totally different. So off I go! Starting Monday, June 29, when I arrive in London, I'll post daily about my adventures (let's hope that there is wi-fi or at least dial up in the hinterlands of northern England).
Here's a map of my walk, starting on the west coast at a village called St. Bee's and ending on the North Sea town of Robin Hood's Bay.
Friday, June 19, 2009
"Replacing Luck"
Countdown: 12 Days
"Note: In misty conditions it is essential that you take a compass reading from the top of Loft Beck to ensure that you do not wander off-route and end up in Seathwaite or Buttermere." There it was in stark red letters, from my day-to-day instruction packet from Contours. Take a compass reading. Well, I guess I'd better get a compass. Went down to my trusty Hudson Trail outfitters, bought a nice looking compass, with instructions given in 10 languages, including Japanese. The compass, from a Finnish company, Suunto, assures the user that he or she will be "replacing luck." I guess replacing it with sure footedness and correct bearings.
If I could only learn how to read the compass. "Place the long edge of the compass on the map between the starting point and your intended destination. The directional arrows on the baseplate should point to your target direction. Turn the capsule until the North-South lines are parallel to the coordinate lines on the map and the N on the capsule points to the North on the map. . . . "
Okay, this is going to take a few days to figure it out. "The local declination is given on the map margin either as easterly plus declination (E) or as westerly minus declination (W). When orienteering, the map direction is corrected by subtracting the plus declination or adding the minus declination . . . "
Of course, the easy, twenty-first century solution is to rely on the GPS system on my iPhone. But I like the simplicity (albeit mysterious to me right now) of the compass, which has been relied upon for centuries by intrepid hikers. This is still a work in progress, so let's see what happens. Let's just hope it isn't misting, lest I end up in Buttermere.
"Note: In misty conditions it is essential that you take a compass reading from the top of Loft Beck to ensure that you do not wander off-route and end up in Seathwaite or Buttermere." There it was in stark red letters, from my day-to-day instruction packet from Contours. Take a compass reading. Well, I guess I'd better get a compass. Went down to my trusty Hudson Trail outfitters, bought a nice looking compass, with instructions given in 10 languages, including Japanese. The compass, from a Finnish company, Suunto, assures the user that he or she will be "replacing luck." I guess replacing it with sure footedness and correct bearings.
If I could only learn how to read the compass. "Place the long edge of the compass on the map between the starting point and your intended destination. The directional arrows on the baseplate should point to your target direction. Turn the capsule until the North-South lines are parallel to the coordinate lines on the map and the N on the capsule points to the North on the map. . . . "
Okay, this is going to take a few days to figure it out. "The local declination is given on the map margin either as easterly plus declination (E) or as westerly minus declination (W). When orienteering, the map direction is corrected by subtracting the plus declination or adding the minus declination . . . "
Of course, the easy, twenty-first century solution is to rely on the GPS system on my iPhone. But I like the simplicity (albeit mysterious to me right now) of the compass, which has been relied upon for centuries by intrepid hikers. This is still a work in progress, so let's see what happens. Let's just hope it isn't misting, lest I end up in Buttermere.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Oh, Quit Whining . . . .
Countdown: 22 Days
Haven't been doing much walking at all in a week. The problem? Little nagging things, like a bruised toe nail and a twinge in the right knee. Sounds pathetic and silly, but not when I'm faced with going 30,000 steps a day. So I decided to rest up and not aggravate these little inconveniences.
In the mail, I got my packet of tour book guides (excellent) and walking map (more excellent) and itinerary from Contours in England. Devoured the very informative book on Wainwright's Coast to Coast in one evening. Looks like there is little walking on pavement, which is probably what has given my knee some problems. But reading through the guidebook and looking at the maps, I'm asking myself, daily: what the heck have I gotten myself into? Particularly when in big red warning letters, the itinerary says, be sure to take a compass reading at such and such point when it is fogging over, so that you don't get lost. Guess I'd better get a compass and figure out how to use it. I got GPS on my iPhone, but I'm not taking it with me. I'm too cheap to pay for international rates and don't want to get eaten up by roaming fees.
I won't bore my faithful readers about the details, nor whine incessantly about whether I can do all this. Let's just see where this all leads.
Haven't been doing much walking at all in a week. The problem? Little nagging things, like a bruised toe nail and a twinge in the right knee. Sounds pathetic and silly, but not when I'm faced with going 30,000 steps a day. So I decided to rest up and not aggravate these little inconveniences.
In the mail, I got my packet of tour book guides (excellent) and walking map (more excellent) and itinerary from Contours in England. Devoured the very informative book on Wainwright's Coast to Coast in one evening. Looks like there is little walking on pavement, which is probably what has given my knee some problems. But reading through the guidebook and looking at the maps, I'm asking myself, daily: what the heck have I gotten myself into? Particularly when in big red warning letters, the itinerary says, be sure to take a compass reading at such and such point when it is fogging over, so that you don't get lost. Guess I'd better get a compass and figure out how to use it. I got GPS on my iPhone, but I'm not taking it with me. I'm too cheap to pay for international rates and don't want to get eaten up by roaming fees.
I won't bore my faithful readers about the details, nor whine incessantly about whether I can do all this. Let's just see where this all leads.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
I Should Have Little More Confidence . . .
Countdown: 30 Days
My confidence is not bolstered by all of my friends. I was at a party Saturday evening, talking a little about this hiking adventure. My friend Carol, who is considerably younger but who has had knee (or hip) replacement surgery, sends a chill down my spine by talking about how we all wear out at a certain age (and lord have mercy if I should give out at mile post 120).
But then I look at my sister Marilyn, who is gently pushing 70, fit and trim, who for years has thought nothing of getting on her bicycle and putting in 80-125 miles. Her husband, Dick, a super jock ever since high school, is even older, and has pedaled his way across the U.S. at least 13 times. Perhaps there is hope. One step at a time.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Not the Smartest Thing I've Ever Done . . .
Decided to stretch my legs on Saturday, so I went on a 15-mile walk, from my home in American University Park to the King Street metro station in Alexandria, Virginia. A little bit about my hike, then about my stupidity.
It's Memorial Day weekend, and that means tourists, families, flag waving, and Rolling Thunder. I walked down Wisconsin Avenue, through Georgetown, to Washington Harbor. Pleasure craft (bikinis and beer) were parked four deep, tour boats were whisking out-of-towners (mostly families) out for an excursion on the Potomac. It looked like a couple thousand people were jammed into the harborside, including a gaggle of middle age men and women all sporting Hawaiian shirts. Everyone was having a good time.
I then walked to the Lincoln Memorial and the Vietnam Memorial. Parked on the far western reaches of the Mall were thousands of motorcycles, nearly all of them Harley-Davidsons, and contingents of riders, the Rolling Thunder folks, buzzing up and down Constitution Avenue. (Over on Twenty-Third Street, across from the State Department there were several big vans that had carried the motor bikes to Washington; so obviously not everyone wearing "'Nam" patches from far off California or New York, had biked in). Quite a few bikes sported big American and MIA (Missing-In-Action) flags. Lots of patriotism, black T-shirts, battle patches, and more than the usual amount of facial hair, leathery skin, tattoos, and pot bellies.
A panoramic view from the World War II Memorial westward toward the Lincoln Memorial gave a glimpse of the tens of thousands of people, many from immigrant families, out on the Mall, enjoying the day. I then walked past the Tidal Basin, the Jefferson Memorial, then across the Fourteenth Street Bridge and the Potomac River to Virginia. I then went southward on the bike and hiking path that takes people all the way down to Mt. Vernon. A lovely walk on the hiking path, except for the intrusion of nature. Swarms of gnats, about every hundred yards, greeted hikers, and must have caused havoc for bikers, many of whom surely inhaled their share of little fuzzy insects.
I stopped for a few moments at the base of National Airport's glidepath. There a couple hundred people, mostly kids and their fathers, were gathered to plane spot. Every ten minutes or so a plane would zoom perhaps a 100 feet above us as it approached the landing strip. Great fun, I guess, if you are a nine-year-old kid. (Yes, the official name of the airport is Reagan National, but no one consulted me on the name change, so I, like many other old Washingtonians who see no greatness and find little to celebrate in the name"Reagan," will simply call it "National.")
Now, let me confess about my stupidity. Since it was quite muggy on Saturday, I decided to begin my walk around 5:00 p.m. This was a lovely time of day, and by 7:00 p.m. the sun setting over the Mall and the Potomac was gorgeous. But it got far less gorgeous once I was south of National Airport. The walking path has no lighting, it follows the contours of the highway, but in many places, it is enveloped by trees and bushes. In many places for the next two miles of walking it was surreal: I can barely see the pathway (although it has a yellow dividing line for the bike lanes), I am blinded by on coming automobile headlights, and although I can't miss hearing the roar of Rolling Thunder contingents as they head off to some bars on King Street, I'm feeling pretty much alone on the pathway. (My friend Rich later reminded me that there have been assaults and even a murder in that area). Another factor, even in near pitch dark, about 8 or ten cyclist drove past, and I had to yell at them to make sure they saw me. Stupid.
Anyhow, by ten o'clock, five hours after I started, I ended up at the Alexandria King Street metro, took the train home, and tired, thirsty, and with aching feet, enjoyed a Negra Modelo and nacho chips at Guapo's Restaurant at the Tenleytown Metro stop, just a few blocks from home.
It's Memorial Day weekend, and that means tourists, families, flag waving, and Rolling Thunder. I walked down Wisconsin Avenue, through Georgetown, to Washington Harbor. Pleasure craft (bikinis and beer) were parked four deep, tour boats were whisking out-of-towners (mostly families) out for an excursion on the Potomac. It looked like a couple thousand people were jammed into the harborside, including a gaggle of middle age men and women all sporting Hawaiian shirts. Everyone was having a good time.
I then walked to the Lincoln Memorial and the Vietnam Memorial. Parked on the far western reaches of the Mall were thousands of motorcycles, nearly all of them Harley-Davidsons, and contingents of riders, the Rolling Thunder folks, buzzing up and down Constitution Avenue. (Over on Twenty-Third Street, across from the State Department there were several big vans that had carried the motor bikes to Washington; so obviously not everyone wearing "'Nam" patches from far off California or New York, had biked in). Quite a few bikes sported big American and MIA (Missing-In-Action) flags. Lots of patriotism, black T-shirts, battle patches, and more than the usual amount of facial hair, leathery skin, tattoos, and pot bellies.
A panoramic view from the World War II Memorial westward toward the Lincoln Memorial gave a glimpse of the tens of thousands of people, many from immigrant families, out on the Mall, enjoying the day. I then walked past the Tidal Basin, the Jefferson Memorial, then across the Fourteenth Street Bridge and the Potomac River to Virginia. I then went southward on the bike and hiking path that takes people all the way down to Mt. Vernon. A lovely walk on the hiking path, except for the intrusion of nature. Swarms of gnats, about every hundred yards, greeted hikers, and must have caused havoc for bikers, many of whom surely inhaled their share of little fuzzy insects.
I stopped for a few moments at the base of National Airport's glidepath. There a couple hundred people, mostly kids and their fathers, were gathered to plane spot. Every ten minutes or so a plane would zoom perhaps a 100 feet above us as it approached the landing strip. Great fun, I guess, if you are a nine-year-old kid. (Yes, the official name of the airport is Reagan National, but no one consulted me on the name change, so I, like many other old Washingtonians who see no greatness and find little to celebrate in the name"Reagan," will simply call it "National.")
Now, let me confess about my stupidity. Since it was quite muggy on Saturday, I decided to begin my walk around 5:00 p.m. This was a lovely time of day, and by 7:00 p.m. the sun setting over the Mall and the Potomac was gorgeous. But it got far less gorgeous once I was south of National Airport. The walking path has no lighting, it follows the contours of the highway, but in many places, it is enveloped by trees and bushes. In many places for the next two miles of walking it was surreal: I can barely see the pathway (although it has a yellow dividing line for the bike lanes), I am blinded by on coming automobile headlights, and although I can't miss hearing the roar of Rolling Thunder contingents as they head off to some bars on King Street, I'm feeling pretty much alone on the pathway. (My friend Rich later reminded me that there have been assaults and even a murder in that area). Another factor, even in near pitch dark, about 8 or ten cyclist drove past, and I had to yell at them to make sure they saw me. Stupid.
Anyhow, by ten o'clock, five hours after I started, I ended up at the Alexandria King Street metro, took the train home, and tired, thirsty, and with aching feet, enjoyed a Negra Modelo and nacho chips at Guapo's Restaurant at the Tenleytown Metro stop, just a few blocks from home.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Good Advice from a Veteran Walker
My friend Katherine and I had coffee this morning over at Starbuck's (crammed with moms and little kids), to discuss my upcoming hike. She'd done the Hadrian's Wall hike, had a pleasant experience, and had good advice about how I should prepare my tired, old body for the rigors of a 17-day walk. Best advice: get prepared for uphill climbing, 'cause there will be a lot of it. The easiest thing for us city types would be to climb up the escalators at Metro stops. Pretty convenient, because they are usually broken or stuck. The Tenleytown metro (my usual stop) and the DuPont Circle metro stop have nice long inclines -- the kind that tourists have to stop for, gawk, and take pictures (Ah, tourists).
Second piece of advice: stretch, stretch, stretch. Not just the usual Achilles heel, thighs, but also the foot muscles. Nothing worse that twisting you foot and coming up with a bum ankle. So, I'll go on the Web and look for the appropriate exercises.
We had a good talk, and I was somewhat reassured that, yes, I could do this afterall.
Summer's heat is bursting upon us in Washington, so I am going to try to be careful with my exercise regimen. I'll go out very early in the morning or (as is the case today) very late in the afternoon. Right after this blog entry, I'll go for maybe a 10-mile walk, and stop halfway in between for dinner. Dress codes being what they are today, no one should mind if I'm sweaty and somewhat disheveled. But to be on the safe side, I'll perhaps take along a bow tie.
Second piece of advice: stretch, stretch, stretch. Not just the usual Achilles heel, thighs, but also the foot muscles. Nothing worse that twisting you foot and coming up with a bum ankle. So, I'll go on the Web and look for the appropriate exercises.
We had a good talk, and I was somewhat reassured that, yes, I could do this afterall.
Summer's heat is bursting upon us in Washington, so I am going to try to be careful with my exercise regimen. I'll go out very early in the morning or (as is the case today) very late in the afternoon. Right after this blog entry, I'll go for maybe a 10-mile walk, and stop halfway in between for dinner. Dress codes being what they are today, no one should mind if I'm sweaty and somewhat disheveled. But to be on the safe side, I'll perhaps take along a bow tie.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Viewing City Life One Step at a Time
Most of the time, while driving, I whiz past familiar landmarks without a chance to see what they really look like. I prefer keeping my eye on the road, and the idiot who is driving in front or behind me. Walking gives a new perspective. One of my favorite walks is along Embassy Row, that stretch of Massachusetts Avenue, N.W., in Washington between DuPont Circle and the National Cathedral. Leafy boulevard, beautiful homes, and a great variety of embassies and diplomatic stations. By walking, rather than driving, I get to see up close the atomic clock in front of the Vice-President's residence at the Naval Observatory, see the completion of the iron security fence at the Iraq Embassy, talk with the guy who for years has stood outside the Vatican Embassy to protest against priestly pedophilia. On Massachusetts Avenue, I see the tiny diplomatic outposts of Pacific Ocean countries, the gutted interior of the to-be-refurbished Brazilian consulate, the shuttered embassy of some Middle Eastern country (probably Iran) out of diplomatic favor with the U.S., and deer munching placidly on greens as they emerge from the Rock Creek underpass.
But then, there is the seamier side of on foot exploration: Rockville Pike, that stretch of ugly commercialism north of the Beltway extending toward Rockville and beyond. It is now undergoing major construction, making its unending stretch of big box retailers, storefront ethnic restaurants and tanning salons even more banal. I did a 10-mile walk up Rockville Pike on Saturday; it was most unpleasant. Noisy, full of traffic, honking horns, and assaults on the senses. After 10 miles, I took the metro subway home, happy to be back in leafy, even relatively quiet, upper Northwest Washington. I can't wait for the English countryside, without a hint of Jersey barriers.
I partially listened to my friend Katherine, who suggested to prevent blisters, I bandage up my toes before walking. Katherine has done the Hadrian's Wall walk a few years ago, and I trusted her judgment on such matters. For the first time, I'm wearing my new hiking boots for a fairly long walk, 10 miles. Trouble was, I wrapped my little toe, but didn't wrap the tip of it, and after more than 21,000 steps, it formed a blister. Maybe I'll be a little more careful next time. Still need to face the critical question: can I walk 10, 12, 14 miles, day after day. Stay tuned.
But then, there is the seamier side of on foot exploration: Rockville Pike, that stretch of ugly commercialism north of the Beltway extending toward Rockville and beyond. It is now undergoing major construction, making its unending stretch of big box retailers, storefront ethnic restaurants and tanning salons even more banal. I did a 10-mile walk up Rockville Pike on Saturday; it was most unpleasant. Noisy, full of traffic, honking horns, and assaults on the senses. After 10 miles, I took the metro subway home, happy to be back in leafy, even relatively quiet, upper Northwest Washington. I can't wait for the English countryside, without a hint of Jersey barriers.
I partially listened to my friend Katherine, who suggested to prevent blisters, I bandage up my toes before walking. Katherine has done the Hadrian's Wall walk a few years ago, and I trusted her judgment on such matters. For the first time, I'm wearing my new hiking boots for a fairly long walk, 10 miles. Trouble was, I wrapped my little toe, but didn't wrap the tip of it, and after more than 21,000 steps, it formed a blister. Maybe I'll be a little more careful next time. Still need to face the critical question: can I walk 10, 12, 14 miles, day after day. Stay tuned.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
These Boots Are Made for Walkin'
I went over to my local Hudson Trail Outfitters to stock up on supplies, particularly a good pair of boots. Got some Asolo TPS 520 GVs--expensive, rugged boots that actually look like they're built for hiking. I was surprised how many so-called hiking boots look like running shoes on steroids, with lots of nylon mesh. I wanted real-looking boots. These Asolo bad boys should do the trick. I've been gradually breaking them in with two-, three-mile walks, although, surprisingly they need little breaking in, and though they look very heavy, they are lightweight.
Stocked up on all kinds of hiking accoutrements. Most important items purchased: the right underwear. I found that out the hard way: 7 miles of walking, wearing regular undies, rubbing the same spot the wrong way a gillion times over, leads to nasty sore spots. Say no more on that subject.
I'll be packing light, however. Wear one outfit, wash it out; wear a second outfit, then wash it out. Repeat. Will probably only take one dress shirt, one sport coat, and one bow tie.
Stocked up on all kinds of hiking accoutrements. Most important items purchased: the right underwear. I found that out the hard way: 7 miles of walking, wearing regular undies, rubbing the same spot the wrong way a gillion times over, leads to nasty sore spots. Say no more on that subject.
I'll be packing light, however. Wear one outfit, wash it out; wear a second outfit, then wash it out. Repeat. Will probably only take one dress shirt, one sport coat, and one bow tie.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Fourteen and a Half Miles on Saturday
The first leg of the coast-to-coast walk is 14 miles, followed by a second day of 14.5 miles. I used to get tired riding in an automobile for that distance. I'd walked 3 and 4 miles before, even did 4.5 miles from my home to the university, but nothing like 14 miles. So I've been stretching out my walks, mostly on Saturdays, and they will intensify once the school year is over in late May. Recently, I walked from upper northwest Washington, past the Washington Cathedral, down Wisconsin Avenue, through Georgetown, down by the Potomac, the length of the national Mall, over to Congress, then south to the Nationals baseball park. That's about 7 miles; then took the metro home.
But more recently, I've been increasing the distance. Last weekend, I did 14.5 miles (and lived to tell about it). For those of you who know Washington, my hike went thusly: from my home west to Westmoreland Circle (Massachusetts and Western Aves.), then Western to Chevy Chase Circle (Western and Connecticut), down Connecticut to DuPont Circle (Connecticut and Massachusetts). Stopped for brunch at Circa Restaurant in DuPont Circle, then up 18th Street through Adams-Morgan, eventually over to Connecticut, then north and then the reversal of my trip.
This leisurely excursion, with several rests and lunch, took over five hours. It was on city pavement, and not over hill and dale, as I expect in my real hike. So I'm sure the real hike will be slower, but certainly not as rough on the feet as pavement. The critical question: can my ancient body recover after a 14 mile hike, and do it all over again--for 16 more days straight.
One of the joys of walking in Washington during the springtime is to see all the beautiful, monumental, and historical sites, with flowers in bloom, tourists everywhere, and the city alive with energy and excitement. On Saturday, I went past thousands of Avon Cancer Awareness walkers going the other way. Probably 98 percent of them were women, decked out in pink hats, pink ribbons, pink shoes; it was the first of two days of hiking for them, and from the looks of many, their enthusiasm would soon be overtaken by the reality of blisters and sore bodies. The walk is a two-day affair; I can't imagine what they would feel like on Sunday.
But more recently, I've been increasing the distance. Last weekend, I did 14.5 miles (and lived to tell about it). For those of you who know Washington, my hike went thusly: from my home west to Westmoreland Circle (Massachusetts and Western Aves.), then Western to Chevy Chase Circle (Western and Connecticut), down Connecticut to DuPont Circle (Connecticut and Massachusetts). Stopped for brunch at Circa Restaurant in DuPont Circle, then up 18th Street through Adams-Morgan, eventually over to Connecticut, then north and then the reversal of my trip.
This leisurely excursion, with several rests and lunch, took over five hours. It was on city pavement, and not over hill and dale, as I expect in my real hike. So I'm sure the real hike will be slower, but certainly not as rough on the feet as pavement. The critical question: can my ancient body recover after a 14 mile hike, and do it all over again--for 16 more days straight.
One of the joys of walking in Washington during the springtime is to see all the beautiful, monumental, and historical sites, with flowers in bloom, tourists everywhere, and the city alive with energy and excitement. On Saturday, I went past thousands of Avon Cancer Awareness walkers going the other way. Probably 98 percent of them were women, decked out in pink hats, pink ribbons, pink shoes; it was the first of two days of hiking for them, and from the looks of many, their enthusiasm would soon be overtaken by the reality of blisters and sore bodies. The walk is a two-day affair; I can't imagine what they would feel like on Sunday.
Friday, May 1, 2009
You're Gettin' Old, You're Gettin' Fat!
Okay, if I have to rationalize a trip to England, 17 days on the trail, and 190 miles altogether, I would simply call it a neat adventure. But right behind that answer lies the real one: I've gotten old, fat, and lazy. Time to toughen up what little I have left in the way of muscles and endurance.
I've already started losing weight, about 8 pounds so far; but certainly hope to lose many more. What do I now weigh? None of your business; I'm too embarrassed to say. Suffice it to say that I'll keep you posted on what I've lost, and leave it at that.
Two random, but interested factoids. In a book that I'm reading, entitled The Laws that Shaped America, a contingent of women suffragist march 250 miles from New York City to Washington in March 1913 to protest at the inauguration of the new president, Woodrow Wilson. It took them 15 days. I can imagine them all: long skirts, big heavy boots that laced up (or buttoned up) to the tops of their ankles. So, why am I even nervous about doing 190 miles in 17 days. Should be a piece of cake.
The second little factoid comes from another new book, the American Lion, which describes President Andrew Jackson as 6 feet 2 inches tall, weighing 140 pounds. One hundred and forty pounds! He was four inches taller than me, and I can never imagine being 140 pounds.
Anyway, this little trek to England will also be an attempt to toughen up, slim down, and clear my head.
I've already started losing weight, about 8 pounds so far; but certainly hope to lose many more. What do I now weigh? None of your business; I'm too embarrassed to say. Suffice it to say that I'll keep you posted on what I've lost, and leave it at that.
Two random, but interested factoids. In a book that I'm reading, entitled The Laws that Shaped America, a contingent of women suffragist march 250 miles from New York City to Washington in March 1913 to protest at the inauguration of the new president, Woodrow Wilson. It took them 15 days. I can imagine them all: long skirts, big heavy boots that laced up (or buttoned up) to the tops of their ankles. So, why am I even nervous about doing 190 miles in 17 days. Should be a piece of cake.
The second little factoid comes from another new book, the American Lion, which describes President Andrew Jackson as 6 feet 2 inches tall, weighing 140 pounds. One hundred and forty pounds! He was four inches taller than me, and I can never imagine being 140 pounds.
Anyway, this little trek to England will also be an attempt to toughen up, slim down, and clear my head.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Well, I've Never Done This Before
What to do during the summer of 2009? I'm a college professor who normally spends his summer's doing research and writing. Ironically, it's my most productive time of the year, where I'm able to spend extended stretches of time reading, thinking, and writing. I've just had two new books come out this April and I have vowed to do no more writing this summer. That is, once I finish my chapters for my next book. And working on my Mandarin lessons doesn't count either. Nor does working on a political novel that's been bouncing around my head.
So, I've decided to rest the brain and work on the body. I've always liked to walk, even hike, but hated the thought of camping out. Can't stand bugs, can't bear the thought of campfire food, or creepy things (human or otherwise) lurking in the night. Let me hike all day, then around four in the afternoon, let me retire to the lodge, take a shower, dress for cocktails, and have a nice dinner.
I saw this article in the Washington Post about hiking across England, and decided to check into it. Well, now I'm signed up to do the Wainwright's Coast-to-Coast walk, from a village on the Irish Sea called St. Bees, across the lake district, through rugged and scenic terrain, through little villages, and ending up on the east coast in a village called Robin Hood's Bay on the North Sea. A total of 190 miles, taking me 17 days of walking. Let's see how it works out . . . but first, I've got to get the right equipment and get into shape.
So, I've decided to rest the brain and work on the body. I've always liked to walk, even hike, but hated the thought of camping out. Can't stand bugs, can't bear the thought of campfire food, or creepy things (human or otherwise) lurking in the night. Let me hike all day, then around four in the afternoon, let me retire to the lodge, take a shower, dress for cocktails, and have a nice dinner.
I saw this article in the Washington Post about hiking across England, and decided to check into it. Well, now I'm signed up to do the Wainwright's Coast-to-Coast walk, from a village on the Irish Sea called St. Bees, across the lake district, through rugged and scenic terrain, through little villages, and ending up on the east coast in a village called Robin Hood's Bay on the North Sea. A total of 190 miles, taking me 17 days of walking. Let's see how it works out . . . but first, I've got to get the right equipment and get into shape.
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