The Great Wood-Fired Oven Saga - Part 2

In our last episode, our intrepid heroes risked hernias and bug bites to clear a spot for the new wood-fired oven that Marty foolishly wished for in his life.

The spot has been cleared.

The lumber has been delivered.

The roof is about to be raised.

After a calm, cool discussion about the size of the roof - a discussion where NOBODY got upset in any way, Kerri and I decided how big the covering for the oven should be. Kerri wanted it to cover the entire town of New Boston, I opted for a 6 square inch lid that can be held over my head in the event of inclement weather.

We compromised on a roof about 10' by 15'.

I spent a couple sleepless night wondering how I was supposed to fit all this lumber into my 2011 Toyota Corolla. And then I discovered that a local lumberyard will deliver anything you want for a flat fee of $15.

And, the work began.

In all seriousness, I need to give so much thanks to my son, Alex, who gave up several beautiful days of summer vacation to help me with some grueling physical work.

Thanks, buddy!

Alex, posing with the wood for some reason.

A random picture of the worksite, just to set the mood for you. You're welcome.

We dug 4 three-foot-deep holes for the posts and tossed them in. "Looks good to me," I said cheerily. "Let's get that oven built."

Kerri, however, had other thoughts.

Work continued, despite my feeble whining and protestations.

I leveled up the posts...

While Alex pursued a modeling career.

And, we're done, right, Kerri?
(Spoiler alert: No, we're not done.)

After the posts were plumb and secure, we continued working.

No. We're not done yet. Don't even ask.

Don't ask about the sunflowers on the wheelbarrow, either.

Me, demonstrating an OSHA approved safety technique on a 10' stepladder.

I am trying to get Alex's attention...

As he continues his modeling career.

I can be a model, too, smart guy!

We worked for a couple days. The only casualties were a hammer-smashed finger (me) and a small drill fire. No, I don't have pictures of either, you freak, although Alex tried to convince me to do an unboxing video of my new drill.

I refused.

You're welcome.

More of my modeling career.

Ready for afternoon cocktails!

Next up: Building the Oven. Stay tuned...

Spartan Hobble - Pain for the Whole Family

Here are things I do not like:

1. Running
2. Signing waivers that inform me that by signing the contact, I am "giving up substantial legal rights".
3. Signing waivers that also inform me that I may get "diseases from exposure to fecal contaminated water or slurry", "permanent paralysis", or "death".
4. Signing waivers that contain the phrase "drowning and other injuries are common occurrences in the event".

Here are things that will make me run:
1. Being chased by a maniac with a chainsaw.
2. Being chased by a maniac without a chainsaw.

Here are things that will make me sign that stupid waiver:
1. My daughter

Many years ago, I ran in a race called the Warrior Dash with many of my friends.
Since I did not actually die in that event, I supposed that I would never be forced to run again unless I met with one-or both-of the two conditions for running that I listed above.

I was wrong.

It appears that when I ran that race, many years ago, my daughter, Tori expressed interest in doing it someday. I smiled and patted her head and said something fatherly like, "That's nice, honey."

Naturally, she assumed that I meant, "Wow! I'd love to subject myself to that same torture over again in the future. Let's do that!"

I did not mean that at all.

I meant, "That's nice, honey."

And from that small communication breakdown, I find myself at the starting line of the Spartan Race, an event that mentions "fecal contaminated slurry" in its waiver that you must sign.

Don't believe me? Go ahead. Read it.

Tori, Alex, me. Yeah. Tights. Shut up. All the cool kids were wearing them.

The Spartan Race was held at Killington Mountain in Vermont. The word, "kill" is right in the name. Does nobody else see this as a problem?

This race was described on the website as a serious 3-5 mile course (they couldn't be more specific) with 22-30 obstacles (again, specificity is obviously not their strong suit unless they are writing contracts detailing the way you can, and likely will, die during the event. Then, they are unnervingly specific.)

Pictures on the website showed people strenuously exerting themselves and, somehow, actually appearing to enjoy themselves. The pictures showed towering pillars of fire, miles of barbed wire, ropes to climb, water to traverse, and everybody in the pictures looked exactly how nobody actually looks when exercising strenuously.

Here are some screenshots from the Spartan website:

See that smile? Those things smelled like old gym socks left in a dank basement. Nobody smiles with 40 pounds of stink on his back.

This is how people finish the race on the website.

Kerri took pictures of some people trying that at the actual race.

It didn't generally end well.

Nevertheless, my daughter wanted to do this and I am a good dad so I signed her life away on a bunch of waivers. For added fun, I signed my son, Alex's and my own away as well. Kerri had to sign her own life away, as she is an adult.

Yes, spectators had to sign waivers just to spectate.

We picked up our race packets and were greeted with another friendly reminder about just how much fun we should expect to have.

They whack you for $40 if you don't return the timing chip in the bag. Unless, you know, you're dead. Then they charge your heirs.

They helpfully suggested that we arrive about 90 minutes before our scheduled race time. Check-in took about 3 minutes, so with 87 minutes to kill, we busied ourselves freezing to death.

Tori and I also got our numbers written on our arms. Why? Because it was a distraction from the hypothermia. Plus, the girl writing the numbers had amazingly neat handwriting. I asked her to write the preamble to the Constitution on my arm. She refused.

Just as our extremities began to freeze solid, it was time to begin! The first obstacle is actually to enter the starting pen.

Tori hopped over with ease.

As did Alex.

I used the lady in front of me for traction and was able to hop right over.

We were then treated to another opportunity to wait around and have warnings and waivers read to us again!

Rather than listen to "important race safety information" delivered by a man with no pants on, we opted to pose for pictures.

 And then the race began!

We rocketed from the starting line at speeds approaching 0.0003 miles per hour.

After this point, Kerri, being the only sane member of our family, wandered around the spectator area with the camera so there is no photographic evidence of anything. You'll just have to trust me on this.

We began a slow, uphill plod up the steep face of Kill-em-all Mountain. It was sort of like being stuck in rush hour traffic, but with more sweating and wheezing and panting.

We hopped over some logs, climbed up some walls, and came to the "Memory Test" where you had to find a word/number combination based on the last few digits of your race number. You had to remember the number to avoid the dreaded "Burpees" which are an exercise maneuver doled out as punishment for failure to complete any of the obstacles.

The name "burpee" is so stupid, all I could do was laugh every time someone suggested that I do one. Or thirty.

I memorized my word/numbers (Bravo 7489689, in case you're wondering).

I chanted it to myself throughout the rest of the race, repeating it like a mantra, incorporating it into the pacing of my wheezing and panting.

Bravo 7489689

Wheeeeeeeze...

Bravo 7489689

Gasp...

It must be one heck of a memory test because they haven't asked for it yet. There was no check point where we were required to recite it.

I expect that some day in the far distant future, I'll receive a telephone call in the middle of the night. "This is Duane - the guy with no pants on from the Spartan Race. WHAT WAS YOUR NUMBER?" And I'll be able to tell him, by gosh. I may not remember my own name at that point, but I'll know that number.

We continued ever upward into the thinning air. Climbing hills is not Tori's strong suit so she slowed quite a bit and Alex took off without us. Tori and I wound our way up the mountain, eavesdropping on conversations like this.

"Oh god, I hate you, Kim. Why did you make me do this?"
"I'm a 38 year old, overweight alcoholic. What could possibly go wrong?"
"Gasp... Wheeze... Retch..."

Probably as a result of the many years I have spent hiking up mountains with my hiking associate, Julie, climbing the big mountain was not an unpleasant experience for me. I just had to be careful not to step on the many, many people curled up in the fetal position along the trail.

Eventually, we arrived at the summit and were handed 40 pound sandbags called "pancakes". It was then politely requested of us that we carry them down a steep, rocky trail and then bring them back up to where we had been given them. I suggested that it may be much simpler if we merely left them where they were, but that idea was dismissed quickly. The main problem with the "pancakes" was not the 40 pounds resting on your neck or shoulder as you trudge along. It was the fact that I was likely the 10,000th person to have used that pancake and the fabric it was made from had absorbed a staggering amount of other people's sweat.

The stench was really something to experience.

The rest of the race consisted of running along trails, picking things up, putting things down, climbing over things, climbing under things, and falling in the slippery mud.

As we made our way downward toward the finish line, our paths crossed those of people doing "The Beast" or "The Ultra Beast" The race were were subjecting ourselves to was called "The Sprint". It is a leisurely 5 mile jaunt for pikers, newbs, and couch potatoes. The Ultra Beast is a 26+ mile endurance test for people who like to sweat at competitive levels. We overheard several conversations between Beast runners as they passed us. They were all having exactly the same fascinating and witty conversation:

"Hydration."
"Salt pills."
"Carb blasting."
"Electrolytes."
"Gatoraide."
"Liquid Amino Acids!"
"Water."
"Good talk, bro. Good talk."
"Yeah, bro. Good talk. Stay strong."

Eventually, we made it to the dreaded tunnel of barbed wire where you are supposed to crawl under about 100 yards of low strung barbed wire.

Many people opted to roll the entire distance and it was entertaining to listen to them start to moan after a few yards. "Uurrrrrgh... soo... dizzy..."

Turns out that Gatorade and liquid amino acids make for festive, brightly colored vomit, puddles of which add another dimension of excitement to the barbed wire obstacle.

After the tunnel, we were on the home stretch and had only to throw a spear and jump over a towering wall of fire.

Alex threw a spear and Kerri got a great picture of it.

Tori threw a spear and Kerri got a great picture of it.

I threw a spear and Kerri got a great picture of some other guy who stepped in front of me.

Then came the fire. The towering wall of fire designed to test each runner to his physical and mental limit.

This is a screenshot of the fire, as shown on the Spartan website.

Somehow, Tori and I managed to hurdle the six inch lump of smouldering cordwood.

Tori crossed the finish line with wonderful form.

I crossed the finish line running a bit funny because of the stupid tights.

The final obstacle was to wait in line to get your picture taken and to try to eat a free energy bar without gagging.

I did it! I ate the disgusting energy bar!

The dude behind me got some excellent bunny ears on me. Well done, guy. Tori still obviously has the taste of energy bar in her mouth. I wiped my tongue on the back of some guy's shirt. Tasted better than the bar.

And with that, our day drew to an end. We limped back to the car, reeking of other people's sweat and made our way homeward.

Just before she drifted off to sleep, Tori asked, "When is registration for the next one?"

Both kids were asleep in less time than it took to eat a free energy bar.

Maybe I'll get a discount on the registration fee if I use the promotional code: Bravo 7489689.

A Cloud of Axe, a Cup of Rum, and Ben

The other night, I squinted through the swirling miasma of Axe body wash clouding the interior of my car. The semi-formal dance at my son's school was obviously an occasion that required him to smell like some sort of mid-range, 13 year-old gigolo.

"The girls love this stuff," he assured me. "Could you close your window? It's kind of cold in here."

This question, by the way, from the boy who is–I am not kidding–allergic to cold and absolutely refuses to wear anything warmer than a sweatshirt, no matter what the temperature.

I gagged, wiped my eyes, and tried to focus on not breathing for the entire 35 minute drive to his school.

If the girls do indeed love the musky, manly, overwhelming aroma of Axe, then I can only assume it is because it deprives their brains of oxygen, thus muddling their thinking. Perhaps the boys are confusing the effects of oxygen deprivation with olfactory delight.

Whatever the truth, everyone within a half-mile of the dance was able to inhale several lifetimes' worth of the heady aroma at the dance. Huge, billowing clouds of Axe swirled dangerously from the entrance to the school, roiling in oily, undulating waves across the parking lot, enveloping everything it reached.

Not wanting to be the next victim of Axe-phyxiation™ (I just invented that word. It's MINE.), I slowed my car and instructed Alex to jump as I drove by. "Tuck and roll!" I yelled over the thumping bass rumbling from the bowels of the school. "You'll be fine. And don't rip your new pants!"

Alex jumped from the car and, I can only assume, rolled into the parking lot, relatively unharmed. Just as I gunned the engine to make my escape before the hungry cloud of Axe could envelope me, a shadowy shape flickered through the fog and my buddy Ben dived through the still open door of my car.

"GO! GO! GO!" he screamed, slamming the door shut as the tires on my super-charged Camry exploded on the Axe-slick pavement. We raced from the parking lot in a desperate attempt to save ourselves.

As we pulled out onto the road, Ben sniffed tentatively at his coat and rolled down his window. "I think some of it is clinging to me. There's only one thing that can overpower the smell of Axe. Indian food."

I nodded and stomped on the accelerator.

Ben has been my best friend since we were 10 years old. He knows me better than anyone. He knows about my weakness for Indian food. He knows everything. Except the exact location of the great new Indian restaurant he heard about.

"It's somewhere over by the mall," he told me with assurance.

That narrowed the possible location down to a few hundred clustered strip malls that swarm around the big mall like ramoras clinging to the belly of a shark.

This is how directions from Ben work and, through some mystery of the universe, they are enough. He once gave Kerri and me directions to a lake house he was staying at. The directions included the phrase, "When you go through town, there's a place where a bunch of roads come together. You'll find the right one. It will just feel right."

And we found it. Just as, after missing it only once, Ben and I found the stark, florescently lit Grand India, or whatever it was called. We snaked our way through crowds of Christmas shoppers and pulled to a stop in the parking lot, the last wispy tendrils of Axe swirling harmlessly off my car and into the night.

We opened the door and a cloud of desperation, tinged with curry wafted out to greet us. Or, possibly, to warn us. Not heeding that warning or the warning that the restaurant contained a sole, depressed-looking customer on a Friday night in the busiest part of town in the busiest shopping season of the year.

We marched in and stood there for a few moments wondering how to proceed. There was a buffet set, with enticing, hand-written signs announcing a variety of dishes, all of which looked vaguely soupy and similar. The sole customer hung his head low over his plate an sullenly moved food to his mouth. No restaurant employees were to be seen anywhere.

We stood for a minute, wondering what to do. "Let's take a seat and see what happens," I suggested, my mind obviously still under the pernicious hold of Axe-phyxiation™. What I should have said, of course, was, "Shall we seek another establishment in which we may find sustenance?"

But alas, we sat down and waited patiently until an angry face popped out of the kitchen door and eyed us suspiciously. "Buffet?" he growled.

I looked at Ben and shrugged. "Sure," he said to the angry face.

Our kind host irritably jerked a thumb over his shoulder in the general direction of the buffet table before disappearing back into the suspiciously silent kitchen.

We made our way to the buffet and, with less enthusiasm than should have been expected on such an occasion, filled our plates. I will not bore you with a review of the individual dishes, but neither of us will be returning there.

With 2 hours left to kill before we had to pick up our kids at the dance, we decided that the only reasonable option available to us was to head to the Chinese food place across the street from the school and use alcohol as a solvent to wash the taste of dinner from our mouths.

We pulled into the parking lot and Ben pointed to another restaurant in the same building, which, I feel compelled to point out here, is only 1,000 yards from the school.

"That's a really good Indian place," he said.

Once in the Chinese restaurant, we pushed through the crowd at the bar and settled in at a table for 8 in the back of the lounge. Once the Mai Tais were delivered, we scoured our mouths and talked.

And talked

And talked

And talked.

Although we have been friends for over three decades,  we usually have a lot to talk about. And when we don't, the silences that settle upon us are comfortable. I've found that the older Ben and I get, the more different we become, but those differences do not separate us. If anything, they make us closer.

The talk spiraled from art to food to old friends to stuff I'm not going to write here because it's none of your darned business.

As the evening wound down and the time to gather our kids came upon us, we sucked the last of the rum from the ice cubes in our sweating glasses and walked into the cold parking lot.

"Have you ever noticed how talking to other adults is usually really boring?" I asked Ben.

"Yeah!" he laughed.

Then I launched into a mind-numbingly boring story about repairs I had recently performed on my car's exhaust system.

And you want to know what a good friend Ben is? He didn't even comment on how boring my story was and the bitter, unpleasant coincidence of the fact that I had just commented on how boring adults are.
At least, he didn't comment out loud.
That's what kind of buddy Ben is.


We pulled into the parking lot of the school, the Axe fog now diluted by swirling puffs of exhaust from parents who–it appeared–sat in the parking lot, diddling on their cel-phones with their engines idling for the entire dance.

Ben jumped from the car and made a dash for his truck before the fumes could overwhelm him. We collected our kids and made our separate ways home.

It wasn't until the next morning that I discovered Ben's hat in the passenger seat of my car. I would hate for him to have a cold head and think that we'll have to get together again so I can return it to him.

After I wash the Axe smell out of it, of course.

And Bears. Oh, My.

You'd think that a sign like that would be enough to scare most people away, so they'd go back to their houses, drop onto the couch with a bag of chips and a quart of dip and say, "Well, I made an honest effort to climb that mountain, but I just didn't wish to be listed as a Bear Related Incident."

Because "Bear Related Incidents" are not often written up in the papers like, "In the fourth Bear Related Incident reported this summer, a small group of local hikers was given a rare treat yesterday along Galehead Trail. A trio of friendly, bow-tie wearing bears rolled out of the woods on unicycles just 20 feet away from where the hikers were taking a granola break. The bears juggled, played instruments, and made balloon animals for the hikers before heading back into the forest."

No.

Bear Related Incidents are generally a bit more grim and contain fewer balloon animals and more carnage.

I saw this sign for what it was. A sign. A sign to abandon this silly notion of hiking along bear-infested trails. Julie–who is giddy with the prospect of completing her quest to summit all of NH 4,000 foot mountains within the next millennium–did not listen to my plaintive wails. She forged onward and upward toward the craggy summit, a scant 5 miles directly above our heads.

And she made me hike it twice.

I don't want to sound bitter about this, but I want to be very clear about the fact that I AM BITTER ABOUT THIS.

We climbed that bear-crusted mountain twice and it's all Julie's fault. Then, she had the temerity to berate me for not writing about the first time we hiked it.

Actually, she had the temerity to berate me for not writing about two other hikes, as well. So to get her off my back, I will cram 3 hikes and 4 mountains into this one, bear-filled post.

Long ago, we dragged my son, Alex along with us to hike North and South Kinsman Mountains. I had just purchased my very first pair of hiking boots and was delighted with their shiny awesomeness to the point that I included them in almost every photograph that I took on that hike. I didn't want the boots to get upset and give me blisters.

Scenic View of My Boot.

Lonesome Lake. And my Boot.

This gentle 10 mile stroll took us past Lonesome Lake and the Lonesome Lake Hut. While approaching the hut, if you listen carefully, you can hear the haunting sounds of a bunch of hippies sitting on the roof, singing a Grateful Dead song.

Arriving at the hut, you are greeted with a stairway to nowhere.

Complete with Doorknob.

My suspicion is that this is how the hippies who run the hut get rid of unwanted hikers.

"Sure, man," they'll say. "You can stay here for free. Just head up the back stairs and the first room you come to is all yours."

Then they climb back up on the roof for another 3 hour rendition of Truckin'.

I tried to send Alex into the hut this way, but that kid is way too smart for those kinds of shenanigans.
Plus, he could smell free food from about a mile down the trail. I tried to convince him that it was just the aroma of hippies, baking in the sun, but being a 13 year old boy, he can sniff out food scents at 1 part per bajillion in the atmosphere.

Who can resist the siren call of a free, cold, leftover pancake? Not Alex. He ate them all. Not true. Julie and I both had one, too. Don't judge us. It was a long hike.
They also tease you with the idea that there may be clean spoons on the premises, but there are none.

Heavy with pancakes and redolent of hippie stink, we headed onward toward the summit where we found a guy enjoying the splendor of nature by checking his email. 

If it's not on Facebook, it didn't happen. Better let everyone know where I am.

His friend, who sadly does not appear in any of my photos because my boot was getting jealous, was hiking with an ingenious contraption that allowed him to broadcast Metallica from his backpack for everyone within a half mile to enjoy. It was the first hike I have experienced with a soundtrack, if you don't include the hippies singing the Dead.

Which I don't.

I was visited again by the strange and terrifying Sweat Bunny.

As we sat, perched on the ledge, overlooking miles of stunning landscape, awash in the soothing strains of Metallica, I told Alex that if he made binoculars with his hands, they would actually work because of the odd properties of light at higher elevations.

That kid is so gullible.

Someday he will appreciate how hilarious I am. That day has yet to come, however.

Julie taking a picture of herself behind Alex and my boot. Metallica was still playing in the background.

A delightful feature of the mountains we were on is the fact that they have more than one lake on them. Lonesome Lake, as I mentioned, is home to the rare and elusive Mountain Hippie.  Much farther up the mountain is a tiny lake whose name I cannot remember and do not care to look up right now.

Bonus, Hippie-Free Lake.

It was thither that we hiked next, as it was on our way home and seemed far enough away from the Metallica guy. And if not, we figured we could drown him in the lake.

Once there, Julie–perhaps addled by the thin mountain air–attempted to walk across the lake.

Even the classic hand position did little to help Julie walk on water.

She almost made it, too. She only had about 1,000 yards to go before she sank.

On the shores of Hippie-Free lake was a delightful little campground where you would be guaranteed not to find any obnoxious people "camping" in RVs with 72" flat screen TVs mounted to the outside.

The campground amenities included one water spigot, one pit toilet with the delicate suggestion that the toilet is available for "solid waste" and that "liquid waste" might be more effectively disposed of in the woods.

There was also a giant house-like structure on the shore of the lake where you could seek shelter from hippies should the need arise.

My boot at the log cabin where President Lincoln was probably not born.

It was a very cool place, although Alex was reluctant to take up permanent residence there, despite my claims that he could play his lousy music all the time and it wouldn't bother me any more.

The rest of the hike was a simple glide across several hundred miles of hellish terrain, followed by ice cream, as is the custom.

Julie, perhaps still suffering the effects of the oxygen-deprived atmosphere of the mountain, actually got Cappuccino Crunch and Play-Doh ice cream.

Together.

I'm sure that you will all join me in wishing her a speedy recovery.

Let us never speak of this ice cream abomination again.

Instead, let's talk about the bear-filled mountain that Julie made me climb.

Twice.

Remember that?

Yeah. Me too. We went on this hike, originally planning to summit Galehead and South Twin in one spectacular, thrilling climb. It was a long climb to Galehead Hut, then the trail split into a Y. We planned on going up one way, then back down and up the other way.

But we didn't and I'm not one to cast blame, but IT'S ALL JULIE'S FAULT!

We hiked up and summited South Twin and then went home. So we had to go back to hike Galehead a second time. The next time, we tricked Alex into coming along again by telling him that there would be more free pancakes.

There were not. Instead, there were bear warning signs and suicidal mushrooms and mud that looked like delicious chocolate cake.

Rather than write about two more hikes that were essentially the same hike, WHICH IS ALL JULIE'S FAULT, I'm going to combine them into one dizzying and confusing post.

Our hike started off with Alex, or without, depending on which one you're talking about. And I don't know which one I'm talking about yet, so we'll have to see how it all goes.

Was Alex there?

Or not?

 The hike started out as a gentle stroll

Nice and easy.

Before banking slightly upwards toward the sky.

Less easy.

The trial itself was littered with dozens of mushrooms that had decided that life as a mushroom was not one worth living.

It appeared that these mushrooms had given up all hope, climbed into the trees and cast themselves downward, littering the trail with their carcasses.


It turns out that we were all wrong in thinking that, however. Seriously. Who ever heard of suicidal mushrooms. That's just crazy talk.


We eventually found out that these mushrooms had been destroyed by the evil Gargamel, who has prowled the woods of New Hampshire for decades in search of Smurfs. We know this because Smurfette herself told us.

She even posed for a picture before Alex grabbed her and ate her.

 Being a constantly starving 13 year old boy, Alex naturally mistook Smurfette for a tasty piece of Nature Candy and ate her. He desperately needed to get the bitter taste of Smurf Tartar out of his mouth, so I directed him to a pancake that someone had helpfully left by the side of the trail.

More Free Pancakes!

He was not amused.

Arriving at Galehead Hut, the taste of Smurf still burning Alex's mouth, he refilled his water bottle.
It may sound like a simple thing, but water is, it appears, such a precious commodity on the mountain that they guard it with an ingenious trap.

Alex is desperate enough to wash the taste of Smurf away that he risks filling up at the Sink of Damocles. Please note the sword dangling precariously over his head

You'd better REALLY want that water.

The hut also provides a wide selection of books. And every single one of them is about hiking. Because after hiking all day, what could be better than reading about more hiking?

The view outside the hut on the first hike was somewhat limited.

The second time, that same view was significantly improved.

On hike number one–did I mention that I had to do this hike twice BECAUSE OF JULIE?– we arrived at the summit of South Twin to find several thru-hikers making their way along the Appalachian Trail. The peculiar, stinging odor of thru-hiker is visible as fog on the summit.

Thru-hiker stink clouding up the view from the summit.

The climb to the summit of South Twin was brutal, something I will never admit to Julie, because then she will know that I actually didn't really want to do that second summit, even though we were this close.

We only had to get to that little hill in the background.

But BECAUSE OF JULIE, NOT ME, we had to come back a second day and do it all over again. The summit of Galehead was actually something of a let-down.

Guidebooks refer to this as an "enclosed summit". I refer to it as a "rip-off".

To keep people from demanding a refund, Mother Nature has thoughtfully provided a scenic lookout, easily recognized by this natural signal.

Once at the lookout, Alex and Julie were overcome with the desire to look like models from an ad for hiking clothes.

Would you buy clothes from these two?

My own modeling attempt is less successful.

Hiking pirate!

Alex, however, kept trying.

Alex attempts to model for an energy drink commercial.

And fails miserably by gagging, an activity that advertising people do not care to associate with their drinks.

Before we descend to the cars and ice cream, Julie assures us that we are not, no matter what it looks like, in any way, lost.

 

No. We are not lost. Julie just wanted something to read. A map was handy. That's all.

And see that knee brace Julie is wearing? Sometimes during a hike, her knee bothers her, so she keeps that brace handy in case she needs it. The problem, of course, is that she failed to read the directions before putting it on. As a result, its usefulness has been compromised somewhat.

Julie tries in vain to slip the knee brace on over her head. Duh, Julie.

Still not working right. Duh, Julie.

If anyone knows how to use that stupid thing, please tell her. It's really annoying listening to her whimper and moan about how much pain she's in during the hikes.

We made our way down the mountain, Julie limping along and adjusting her knee brace every few inches and Alex complaining about how hungry he was. I directed Alex to some delicious, fudgy chocolate cake that some helpful person had left in the middle of the trail.

Mmmm. Tasty.

He was not amused.

We trudged endlessly through the woods, talking exclusively about ice cream until we came to the lair of The Bog Monster from a Scooby Doo cartoon.

We laughed heartily as it rose up from the murky depths and ate Alex.

Nice knowing you, kid.

Back at the car, I took the opportunity to remind Julie that we had to hike that mountain twice BECAUSE OF HER. Plus, I sort of blamed her for my son being eaten by a Bog Monster. We were just packing up to go get some ice cream when Alex staggered out of the woods.

Yay! He didn't get eaten!

I was so happy to see him again that I bought him some Play Doh ice cream.

He was not amused.