Mancation: It All Ends in Newport

They had never been to Newport. So we went.

We drove down America’s Cup Avenue looking out at the marina and the rows of shops. We went down Bellevue past the Breakers, Elms, and the Marble house. We took the road  till it ended and looked for a place to park. There are no places to park. We parked anyways.

Newport is salty aired luxury. Money with a splash of sea-foam. It is beautiful. Gilded, but beautiful. We climbed over the rocks with waves in front of us and mansions behind us, and we did… nothing.

Kaleo and I sat in this metaphor, adventure before us, wealth, responsibility and stability behind us, and we waver in between with no parking. This is what we do. We flirt with risk, dip our feet in the water, but cannot abandon the safety of the shore. We cannot inhabit the mansion, we not only can’t afford it but we have no idea who owns it. So we scamper about the lawn peaking in windows and talking to the grounds crew. We will likely never gain entry, and I think in some way we are fine with that. Envy is so much easier than ambition and we have convinced ourselves that the salt of the earth tends to lose its savor when placed on the top shelf.

But not Preston. Preston scampered over rocks like he had a plan. He has always had a plan and in so doing he will soon not need a parking space because he will have a garage. Kaleo and I will one day trespass his property and he will allow it. We will all be fine with this.

We had forgotten breakfast. It was our last day and we had still not finished off our cooler full of bacon. We set up shop by the old fort, cooking bacon while the holiday crowd launched their boats. Kaleo and I sat, eating greasy things, looking stoic. We are good at looking stoic. This fog of thought and sleep was interrupted by a pasty streak that came shooting from behind the car, over the rocks, and into the water with a splash.

Preston’s head came back up for air, and quickly the rest of him clamored over to hug a rock. His chest was bright red and he gasped with only marginal success for air. “C… huuuh… O.. huuuu… L…. huuuu… D!

Kaleo and I watched him soggily gasp for air, looked at each other, and we both sighed in disappointment.

I did not feel like swimming. I am a grown man who makes his own decisions. No one was telling me to do anything. No one had spoken a single syllable and here I was, Kaleo too, grumpily digging our trunks out of our bags. We are those special kinds of idiots called men. Preston knew what he was doing when he dove in the water. He threw down the gauntlet without warning and we had no choice.

Why did we have no choice? I have no idea. Like I said, we are idiots. Happy idiots.

Cold water challenges are great for the soul. We were all happy as we attempted to dry off and clean up the scraps of our breakfast. Nothing kills happiness like a ten year old.

“So have you guys been swimming?” the pudgy little guy asked as he walked past us, snorkel and mask in hand.

“We jumped in. It’s cold but we are manly.”

“I don’t mind cold. If you want something even mannisher… manner… manliest, there is a hole in the middle of the bay that no one has found the bottom of. My dad dove in it. That’s our boat over there.”

With that our manliness was trumped by a ten year old with a yacht.

How fitting.

Maple Seltzer

Smelling a bit like a salty camp fire we sat in the car and drove south. Back toward the Bronx, the turnpike, and on to home. The conversation was mostly exhausted, we were tired, but mostly we were happy.

Above all else, happy.

Mancation: Cape Cod

2 slices wheat bread, well buttered

generous amount of brie’

1 slice grilled ham

 

2 slices wheat bread well buttered

generous amount of brie

crème and peach infused stilton

grill and enjoy…

The woods gave way to Boston, which then faded into clap board cottages and crab shacks.

Having established an Americana theme of sorts we had to stop where it all started.

Having seen the rock and while walking along the main strip, Kaleo and Preston looked at each other and one of them said, “I thought there would be, I don’t know, something better.” everyone agreed Plymouth was a bit of a dissapointment.

On to the Cape.

Hyannis Port seemed as good as anywhere else so we pulled past the sign that announced opening day was tomorrow. We sat in the sand and pulled out a maple seltzer, Vermont root beer, and some other concoction brewed in no where Vermont. Whatever that “other” soda was, it was better than the others, but we still drank it all.

In the name of seeing more of what the cape had to offer we later sat and watched the Nantucket Ferry come and go. Doing nothing, just watching.

While sitting doing nothing three wise man can solve all the world’s problems, upset each other over political issues, and solve that too. We did all of that and still accomplished nothing. That was our intent. I think that makes us the same as congress. Except Kaleo has a cool beard. Congress hasn’t had those for decades.

It is a pity.

 

Again, shewed away to a truck stop by suspicious onlookers, we slept for the fourth time. Tired.

Mancation: Crown Point and Mt. Defiance

Pulling up to the Ben & Jerry’s headquarters looks a bit like a woodsy Disneyland; crowds of excited people and well lit plastic. Standing in a crowd of people waiting to push and shove their way through a tour we were confronted with a sign that telling us this tour was about to cost way too much, and right beneath that was another bit of information telling us they don’t actually make any ice cream on Saturdays. We turned and swam like salmon against the stream of people and left.

The blurb said come see maple syrup being made. It turned out to be a gift shop with some sort of stil set up in the back.

The apple cider farm had apple donuts. We all like apple donuts. Staring at a map Preston exclaimed, “Wait. Ticonderoga? Like Fort Ticonderoga?” We had a destination once again.

There once was a time, back before cowboys and Indians, when it was French and Indians. We drove through the real world that James Fennimore Cooper wrote into fantasy. The land of the Mahican, Iroquois, and the Seven Years’ War. Before we could get to Ticonderoga, and before the British of the 1730’s could get to the same place, we all had to pass Crown Point.

Here once stood a French fort, an English stronghold, and three wandering mancationers. Today there is very little there, yet what remains constitutes much more than the American collective memory of the place. Grass has grown over the walls and chimneys are all that remain of the barracks. We lingered till, like the British before us, we pressed on for Ticonderoga.

Once we got to Ticonderoga, we found ourselves unable to enter. Unlike General Abercrombie who was beat back by French forces, and bad PR, we were repelled by a steep admission price. So, learning from General Burgoyne who came before us, and playing on the word steep, we headed for Mt. Defiance.

Burgoyne hauled cannon to the top of Mt. Defiance to capture Ticonderoga, we only hauled our own behinds to the summit and nearly collapsed from exhaustion in the process. I use the word “we” a little loosely. What I should say is a little old lady smiled at us nicely as she strolled past us on her way down, and while Kaleo and I huffed and puffed trying to stay alive, Preston was standing on a ridge shouting “I defy you!” off into the universe as loud as he could.

His energy defied me.

Just like the British defeat at Ticonderoga and the American desertion of the same place, our departure lacked drama.

 

The sun was setting and we were headed for Sharon Vermont.

Mancation: Lake Carmi

My phone thought we were in Canada. I got that warning text that any placed calls would be expensive, so I turned the phone off.

When we met up with Eric he came bounding through the rain to the car and with his ever present grin asked, “you guys are sure you want me to bring the boat?”

Yes.

He shrugged in agreement, grinned, and bounded back to his car. That is what Eric does. He grins and bounds, and on this occasion he towed his boat to Lake Carmi on our behalf.

This was all Eric’s doing, The lake, the lean-to, the boat, and the grin. The rain was not his doing.

As is required in any camp, a fire is the first order. I’m not sure why. We didn’t need it to cook, we would not freeze without it, and it was raining. None the less we held a tarp over the fire pit, built a log cabin, and Eric handed me a box of matches reminding me that as an eagle scout I only get one match. It took me two.

Kaleo lit the propane stove with one match.

From our store he pulled five pounds of butcher cut tri-tip, a roll of fresh mozzarella, and a bag of apples. I produced a bottle of home brewed mint-lime soda. Soaking wet, smelling like camp fire, we ate like kings.

We slept like peasants.

Maritime adventurers, professional fisherman, and fools will all launch a boat in a downpour. After a good breakfast of bacon and eggs, we honored our position as fools. We land lubbers marveled as Eric bounded from shore to dock and from dock to boat. Following his lead we lubbed from shore to dock and stumbled from dock to boat.

We zoomed about a bit, played around a little, then decided on a spot to settle and cut the engine. Mr. were-bear and I set up shop in the back and broke out the bottle of craft soda, Eric and Preston prepared to fish. We of course failed to pack fishing gear, but Eric and his grin were prepared to provide. He pulled from the deck a rod for himself, and ever the gentleman, handed a Lightning McQueen children’s fishing pole to Preston. The good Dr. Preston caught Eric’s grin like the flu, and cast his hook into the deep.

Grins were all they caught.

Without fish but with frozen fingers, we eventually loaded the boat back on the trailer. Camp was broken and the four of us looked at each other blankly. “Now what?”

Ben & Jerry’s? Maple syrup farm? Apple cider factory? We were unsure and decided to first go drop off the boat at Eric’s house then just pick a road and figure it out.

We unhooked the trailer and Eric stuck his head in the door as a curtesy to his wife and kids. As is the eternal law of fathers seeking adventure, as soon as Eric poked his head in the house, one of his three children threw up on the floor. His wife encouraged him to get in the car with the mancation crew, but as is the eternal law of GOOD fathers, Eric just grinned, looked over at us, and sent us on our way without him.

The three of us back in the car again, looked at a clock for the first time that day.

8:30 am.

Mancation: Inception

I think maybe it was the phone calls.

I get a lot of phone calls but there are these certain types that after I hang up I just sort of stare off into space for a while. In my role in church I get told things that I then have to keep. I don’t get to talk about them, its kind of like confession. So I just sit there and stare while the phone call sinks into my soul like lead. I started getting a lot of those calls.

“You should call your friends and go on a trip.”

I can’t really raise one eyebrow, but if I could, I would have.

We talked. I listened. No; I think I complained and she listened. It was decided I needed a vacation.

How does one vacation? No. Wrong way to think about this. What do I want to do? Right. Thats a better way to go about it. As I sit and think I am annoyed with the need to think and plan. Thinking and planning is what I need a vacation from. Forget it. Forget planning. I’m not planning this.

I sent a text to the guys. They were in, but they weren’t going to plan it either.

I soon realized that to travel without planning I would still need to plan a little. I emailed out a spreadsheet with the supply list: tent, cooler, a canoe, ya know, just the basics. Off to one side was a list of possible destinations: Leatherheads workshop, cheese farm, Root Soda bottling plant, somewhere up north not near anyone, just the basics. Then, up top, I wrote out some ground rules:

No internet

No hotel/motel

No more than one purchased meal per day and only if it is specific to location (ie Maine lobster)

If we come upon a natural body of water 3+ feet deep, we must swim

If any of us almost die Dr. Chadwick must save them

And that was it.

Early Thursday morning I drove over the bridge to the Dr.s house and shortly thereafter the were-bear (half man half bear) arrived.

The Kala Beverages boys were back together. We loaded up the rented Xterra and pointed north.

A Short Road Trip, An Old Question

My ventures have recently been relegated to the weekends.

This weekend I again found myself making my way up and down I-95, but unlike the other times, I was not alone.  Not even a little bit.

Trusty Navigator/Passenger Wrangler

Little bits 1 and 2 were in the backseat, and on the way home we picked up little bit #3.  I’m sure there is some mathematical theorem explaining how 2+1=7million decibals; I can’t explain it, but I have experienced it.

Even short trips, with little people, are made long by many stops, which brings up my question.

best roadtrip pants EVER.

Who writes on restroom walls?  No, I suppose that’s not the real question, we can make some assumptions about those who take the time to leave a mark in public lavatories, the real question, one I’m afraid to ask, is does anyone ever call those numbers?

There, between the swastikas and the “N” word, is a phone number.  Is it real?  Whose is it?  Did someone write it as a prank or maybe something worse?