You Might Want To Stay Away From Me. Far, Far Away.

I realize now that my previous post (When Will The Hurting Stop?) was obviously some sort of cryptic foreshadowing to the delightful bout of Lyme Disease I've recently contracted.

My previous post was about an 11 mile hike. I assumed that the pain I was feeling was a direct result of allowing Julie to drag me through the woods. Turns out, that was only part of it.

The rest of the pain, as well as the fatigue, muscle cramping chills, dizzying fevers, and general feeling of overall poopiness are a result of a tiny little tick bite. I am trying to find a valid way to blame Julie for this, but the timing/incubation period simply won't cooperate with my wishes.

I started feeling pretty lousy on Saturday, the day after the hike. I thought I might be getting the flu. So, naturally, I hung around in our blow up pool and drank fermented beverages in an effort to restore myself to peak operating condition. Saturday night I had chills so badly that I went to lay on the couch so my shivering wouldn't wake Kerri up.

Then, on Sunday, Kerri noticed this decorative rash adding a warm splash of color to my otherwise pale hip.

"Um... I think you may have Lyme Disease," she suggested.

I was actually relieved. In the wee hours of the night, my imagination had extrapolated my burgeoning sickness to include: EEE, Spinal Meningitis, and Leprosy.

I called the fine folks at Ask-A-Nurse, whom I cannot say enough about, and they advised me to haul myself to the local Urgent Care Facility. After a 65 minute wait, the doctor popped into the room for–I am not exaggerating–60 seconds. That included introductions, a few quick questions, and the quickest, most cursory exam I have ever had.

"Um... I think you may have Lyme Disease," he announced as he disappeared through the door.

I sat in the exam room for another 10 minutes, awaiting his return. A nurse came in to draw some blood.


"Will the doctor be coming back in?" I asked.


"Nope. He's all done with you." she answered.


So I walked away with a prescription for some heavy duty antibiotics and a hefty medical bill.


All was well until about 11:30 last night when the chills started up again so badly I feared that I was going to chip my teeth. I took out the thermometer and got a reading of 104.7 in one ear and 105.3 in the other. Those numbers are fine if you are an FM radio station. If you are a human, it means that things are not going well for you.


Once again, I called Ask-A-Nurse.


"My temperature is about 105. Should I be dead?" I asked.


"Well, not dead, but probably not as perky as you seem to be," she answered.


She suggested that I go purchase a more reliable oral thermometer.


"Now?" I asked.


"I'm afraid so," she said.


"It's midnight on a Sunday night," I reminded her helpfully, "Plus, also, I live in the boonies where things shut down for the night at about 5 pm on a late day.

"You might have to drive for this," she said, "But you really need to get an accurate reading. If your temperature is really that high, you need to be in the hospital."

So Kerri and I had the pleasure of a midnight drive through Manchester to locate an all night pharmacy. When we finally did, my temperature on the new thermometer was 100.4. But then at home, the new one and the old one gave me the same readings. But at least I wasn't afraid that I was going to burst into flames in my sleep anymore. So I spent the Fourth of July Sleeping like this.

I'm not posting this to get sympathy, though any sympathy you'd like to send to Kerri will be greatly appreciated. I am not a low-maintenance sick person.


I'm posting this as a warning. I've been wondering if there isn't some cosmic sort of retribution being levied against my closest friends and me.

Witness:

Julie nearly drained of blood by black flies on a recent hike.

My daughter, Tori. The same hike.

Ben's back after The Warrior Dash.

Julie's thigh after The Warrior Dash.

I'm not trying to scare you all off. I'm just thinking that you might want to keep your distance from me until this all clears up.

Who knows what might happen to you otherwise...

Welcome to New Hampshire. Please Try Not To Die on Our Mountains.

If you are a regular reader of my blog, firstly, you deserve great rewards and riches. I will not be providing them, of course, but you most certainly deserve them.

Secondly, you may remember a recent post about a car ride up the treacherous, tortuous slopes of Mount Washington. If you need a moment to scroll down and refresh your memory, please, feel free.

Ever since our drive up Mount Washington, my daughter Tori has been aching (a verb that soon proved to be aptly chosen) to climb up Mount Washington, the highest peak in New England and home of the world's worst weather. She chose her hiking outfit carefully. Her zip-up monkey pajamas are designed to keep her snuggly and warm, even in the face of all of nature's fury.

Nature's fury proved to be 70 degrees and cloudless, however, rendering the high-tech monkey pajamas entirely unnecessary, but still extremely fashionable.

We drove to The Cog Railway base station where the hiker parking lot is located. The parking lot, at 8:30 a.m. was already crowded, promising a busy day on the trails. 

And it was. 

I have done a bit of hiking with my good friend Julie over the last couple of years and, until last Saturday, Mt. Monadnock held the title of being the most crowded hike I have had the misfortune of taking. Now, Mount Washington is clearly the winner. There was a steady stream of hikers all the way up the mountain. And all the way down. Our planned hike would take us up Mt. Monroe, over to Mt. Washington, then down Mt. Clay. Three mountains, but only one actual "summiting experience" which is the moment you get to touch the metal geological survey tag marking the summit and then trudge off back down the mountain in search of the nearest ice cream shop.

We began up the Ammonoosuk Ravine Trail, which, believe it or not, is actually spelled correctly. It was a beautiful hike, following along the Ammonoosuk River and affording excellent views of waterfalls and sweaty hikers gasping for breath and chatting away on their cell phones.

We neared the Lake in the Clouds hut and were rewarded with a view of the summit of Mt. Washington that seemed tangibly close.

You will notice the joy on our faces at seeing the distant peak of Mt. Washington. We rested briefly at the Lake in the Clouds hut. Tori was understandably chagrined to find that the Lake in the Clouds is more like a large puddle on a hill, but seriously, who'd climb three and a half hours over treacherous terrain to see a puddle on a hill?

We headed off toward the summit and were met with this helpful, encouraging sign along the trail.

In case you can't make it out, it tells the eager traveler to STOP. The area ahead has the worst weather in America. Many have died from exposure, even in the summer. Turn back now if the weather is bad. Our spirits soared with the welcoming hospitality of the Forest Service and we skipped along the 1.4 miles separating us from our destination.

An hour or so later, we trudged on to the summit where hordes of tourists milled about, snapping pictures of each other against the fairly spectacular background scenery and at the summit marker. There were so many people, in fact, that we actually had to stand in line to pose at the summit.
Seriously.

You can see the majestic beauty of the White Mountains spread out behind us. You cannot see the majestic beauty of the through-hikers who are stopping at the summit on their way along the Appalachian Trail. Neither can you smell the majestic odors which the through-hikers trail behind them like an olfactory tail.

We chose to lunch on the observation deck, where the odors were quickly dispelled and then began our descent toward the car, which by that time, seemed dispiritingly far away. We could, of course, have cheated and bought a couple of the $47 one-way tickets on the Cog Railroad, but we are made of sterner stuff than that.

Besides, then we would have been deprived of the joy and beauty of the hike back down, which crosses the Cog Railway tracks and affords hikers the opportunity to moon the passengers on the train.
Of course, Tori and I were aghast at this appalling tradition, but we do ask that if you were on the 2:10 train going down the hill and you had your camera out, that you do not show your pictures to my wife.

The trip down the hill was more difficult than the trip up had been, but the scenery, including the gentleman hiking down the mountain clad only in a tasteful pair of boxer shorts and some sturdy hiking boots, made it an interesting trek.

Tori was very eager to get back to the parking lot because I had brought along a tiny camping stove and some leftover dinner from the night before so we could have a warm meal in the parking lot after the hike. She explained to me, as we walked down the hill, that cooking on the little burner in the parking lot was the part of the hike that she was most excited about.

"We could have just gone out in the back yard and cooked dinner there," I suggested.
"Oh, yeah," she said, "I never thought of that."

By the time we reached the car, nine hours and fifteen minutes after we had left it, we were both tired and sore and hungry.

But it was time for DINNER IN THE PARKING LOT!!!!

By the time I had assembled the burner and got everything ready, Tori decided that cooking in the parking lot was not as spectacular or thrilling as she had thought it might be.

"I thought there'd be a lot of flames and sparks; like when you weld stuff," she explained.

We ate our disappointing, flame and spark free dinner and headed back home where Tori asked that I please post a picture of her blister here to serve as a sort of warning to others who may want to hike the mighty Mount Washington.

Consider yourself warned.