Day 9 - A Brief Walk in the Woods and (Almost) The Most Expensive Beer in the World.

Today began with a bracing breath of chilly morning air as I emerged from beneath the tangle of blankets piled atop my bed.

Really chilly air.

Like, freeze your boogers kind of cold that normally happens outside in the middle of January.

Braving frostbite, I hopped out of bed and checked the thermometer in the hall.

48 degrees. I need to point out immediately that the arctic condition in the house were entirely my fault. The house has heat and it has windows that close - neither of which I had bothered to use last night.

It was invigorating! It was motivating! It was freakin' COLD!

I wrapped myself around a cup of coffee and sat out in the morning sun to thaw my extremities while I awaited the arrive of my good friends Steve and Sheila. Steve, in a rare day off from his life as a rock star, had offered to join me for a hike in the mountains.

He and his wife, Sheila would soon arrive to whisk me away from this dreary life of drudgery and toil I have been suffering through and deliver me to an entirely different sort of drudgery and toil; one that included steep, pointy rocks.

We were going on a hike up Welsh and Dickey Mountains.

Steve, me, and Sheila. Much like Clark Kent, Steve often wears his glasses out in public so he won't be swarmed by screaming mobs of fans. It's tough being a rock star.

We drove off to the trailhead and strapped on our small packs. The hike is a short one (so I'd been told) so we didn't need much in the way of supplies.

Steve, in fact, was able to fit all his stuff into this genuine Boy Scout pack from his youth. He was a bit concerned about how the zucchini muffins he had brought along would travel, but otherwise, it was perfect.

We weren't very far along the trail when it opened up into this stunning panorama.

The trail is more meticulously maintained than Disney World.

Small, bordered gardens dot the area.

The wide expanse of rock is almost dizzying.

And, seriously, who takes care of these little gardens? I kept poking around, looking for a garden elf or something. I was, to be honest, hoping to kidnap it and bring it home to tend to my own garden.

Unfortunately, there are simply too many places for those pesky elves to hide.

"I'll get you, you stupid elf!" I cried off into the sprawling wilderness. "You can't hide forever!" Steve suggested that perhaps I should have a muffin.

Steve, in addition to being a rock star, is a wonderful cook. His muffins, safely swaddled in the protective comforts of his Boy Scout pack, were intact and delicious.

Muffin - shown actual size, with mountain for scale. That Boy Scout pack is very roomy.

We continued on our way. I stopped only infrequently to shake bushes and underbrush in search of the elusive mountain garden elf. I figured that Steve could fit a whole community of them in his pack.

We passed many natural wonders along the way to the summit, many of them were elfin in nature, leading me to think that we were on the right track to capturing one.

An elf swimming hole. I searched the area for evidence that Barbie had been here the night before, but there was none.

A tunnel in the rock.

Obviously the beginning of an entire elf highway system.

Although it appears that they still have a lot of work left before they're ready for rush hour traffic.

We squeezed our way through this slender opening between two giant slabs of granite and I swear that Steve did not make any childish, immature "crack" jokes. And I swear that I didn't childishly and immaturely laugh at them. Sheila will attest to all of this.

We made a final desperate trek along an exposed slab of granite on our approach to the summit and lunch. It had been nearly 40 minutes since we'd eaten anything and we were reeling from the effects of starvation.

We finally arrived at the summit.

The beautiful view from the summit.

Steve, contemplating the splendor of nature.

Or, actually, airing out his armpits.

 After a delicious, gourmet lunch (peanut butter and jelly all around) we began our descent, my hopes for ever capturing a garden elf lowering with every foot we went down.
The last sign of elfery we saw along the path was this ancient tower, built, no doubt, by the ancestors of today's elves.

Elf Rock.

There were a few more splendid view along the way down.

Steve is NOT airing out his armpits this time. He's farting.

At the end of the hike, we piled into the car. I was slightly depressed by my total failure to capture and enslave an elf to do all my gardening, but Steve was elated at the fact that soon we would have beer.

Or, rather, he would have beer, as I still have several gallons of red wine to use up. In the words of Marge Simpson, "I know doctors say you should have two glasses of wine a day; I just can't drink that much."

And that saying is totally true for me; except for the word "can't".

We stopped at the small store in the center of Waterville Valley so Steve could buy himself a beer.

Here is the beer Steve bought, as well as the juice he bought for Sheila.

I offer this as a testament to what an amazing person Steve is and not, in any way, to speak ill of Waterville Valley or its merchants.

Steve went to the counter to pay for the beer and the juice. the lady rang up these two items and got a total of $15.49.

Steve, to his credit, did not, as I would have, stood, dumbfounded that 22 oz. beer could possibly cost over $12 (the juice was $3). He did not scream. He did not cry, He did not lose control of any of his bodily functions. He did not even whimper as he bravely took out his wallet, peeled off a 20, and handed it over.

We trudged bravely out the door and it was Sheila who gave voice to the two words we were all thinking. The first was "Holy". The second was naughty.

Steve shrugged and we went back to my place to have snacks and drinks. Steve claims that he has spent more on a beer, but he had to travel all the way to Paris to do it.

Soon, our day was over and they were on their way and I had another Open Studio to host.

"Host" being my word for "Sit there and look awkward while people look through my stuff."

As I was paking my things into the car to go set up at The Curious George Cottage, I got a phone call from Maryellen, asking if I had eaten. When I said that I hadn't, she very kindly asked me to join her and her husband David at a restaurant that was conveniently located between where I wa standing and CJ's Cottage.

The timing would be tight, but it was a very kind offer and I was happy to join them.

We had a lovely talk over appetizers and, just as they were cleared off the table, I realized that I really had to go if I was going to be set up in time for a 7:00 Open Studio. They kindly offered to have my meal wrapped up and to deliver it to the Cottage.

I thanked them and raced over to the Cottage and did manage to have everything ready to go before 7:00.

See? I'm a professional at this. Although setting up would have been easier with the help of a few dozen conscripted Garden Elves.

This is work I've done while here.

This is even more work I've done while here.

This is me, sitting in front of a shelf of Curious George books.

This is me and David, pretending that we are deep in thought, contemplating my work.

The night wound down and people made their way homeward. I did the same, my doggy-bag of baked haddock gently beckoning me toward the kitchen.

I packed up and headed home for dinner, a dinner that was delicious, but would have been even more enjoyable had I some elves to help with the dishes.

I may go hiking again tomorrow. And if I do, I'm bringing a net.

Audience Participation.

Live music shows are always an adventure.

Today, we had 3 - count' em - 3 people walk up and start talking to us. Mid-song.

It's a new record for us.

It started during our first song when this guy wandered up and started talking to Steve. Mid-song - did I mention that? He said that he was a musician, too. And played the guitar. And he had a song that Steve should learn. It was a song for kids. Kids love it. Could he play it. Now?

Steve, as always, was polite and professional and explained that we had just started our show and maybe the guy could come back later as there were a bunch of people sitting there, watching us play. Then the guy told Steve that his name was Steve, too. And he told him his website address and his facebook site, again mentioning that he was a children's musician. He then suggested, in a clear, ringing voice, that one of the audience members was "probably retarded".

How could this guy NOT have a Grammy for his children's music act, yet?

Hi. We're kind of right in the middle of a show here, buddy.

Steve eventually convinced Steve 2.0 to take a seat so we could continue. We plowed forward and, if I do say so myself, we sounded pretty good.

Later in the show a guy came up to the gazebo where we were playing, slung his arms over the railing and spent an entire song staring at me as if he was trying to take over my mind. Which he might have - I'm still not sure. He was covered in festive neck-tattoos that had a distinctively home-made feel to them. As the song wound down, he started hooting, "Do a drum solo! Do a solo on the drums!"

Steve, naturally, is disinclined to let me perform long, complicated drums solos on the flimsy pretense that I am so awful at the drums that I would drive the audience, screaming from the show.  I politely declined the fellow's offer and he yelled "A Metallical drum solo!" before wandering off toward the corn-dog stand.

Freed from his hypnotic gaze, I performed with my usual ineptitude through a few more songs. As Steve was announcing one song, a kid, maybe 13 years old wandered up to the front where Steve stood and handed him a frisbee.

"Wanna frisbee?" he asked, interrupting Steve.

"I love frisbee," Steve answered, ever the gentleman and consummate performer. "Thank you so much."

The kid lumbered back to his posse of friends, who staggered around for a moment, convulsed with laughter at their brilliantly witty idea of giving a frisbee to Steve mid-show.

Before anyone else could rush the stage, the show ended. Joe and I began packing up instuments as quickly as we could, fearing that if we didn't, people would rush the stage and begin playing them.

Sure enough, Steve 2.0 sauntered up and said that he was going to play his song now.

"Noooooooooo," Joe hissed. "Steve - Just say NOOOOOOO."

I cringed and awaited the inevitable moment when Evil Steve would start pointing out more audience members who  he thought might be "probably retarded".

"Hey, Steve," Joe said, in a brilliant attempt to stave off the horrible end that loomed over us, "They cut off the power, already. Sorry."

Evil Steve commandeers the guitar and sings his song. Our Steve high-fives a young fan.

Evil Steve looked at my drum set. "Drums don't need power," he said.

I quickly yanked the snare off its stand. "Sorry," I mumbled, "Set's already torn down."

"I can play without power," Evil Steve said, heading for Steve's guitar.

"Noooo," Joe hissed again.

Steve, however, has his own set of guidelines for interacting with deranged lunatics - to wit - he is amazing with them. He smiled and handed the guy his guitar and stood back as Evil Steve sang his song about a class clown.

The lyrics that I caught, in my race to break down my drum set before the Metallica drum solo guy came back, went like this:

"Class clown. He's a class clown.
Class clown. He's a class clown.
Class clown. He's a class clown.
Class clown. He's a class clown.
Class clown. He's a class clown.
Class clown. He's a class clown.
Class clown. He's a class clown."

Repeat until entire audience rises as one and leaves.

Steve - our Steve, the good, kind, patient Steve, stood there with a genuine-looking smile spread across his face, clapping along.

Joe and I marveled at Steve's cool, calm equanimity.

Eventually, Evil Steve wandered off, probably headed to play songs at some kid's 5th birthday party - a party he hadn't been invited to.

Our Steve wandered over to us with a blissful smile on his face. "That was fun, wasn't it?" he asked, slipping his guitar into its case.

"Are you mental?" I asked. "He said that that kid was retarded! Out loud. On stage!"

Steve smiled again. "Awwww, he was a fun guy, wasn't he?"

"Steve?" Joe asked. "Did you practice patience with a monastery of Shaolin monks?"

He claims not to have, but I'm not sure. All I know is, he does a hard job well, and makes it look really, really easy.

Now, if I can just convince him to let me do a Metallica-style drum solo during the act...