Ketchup River and the Mysterious Naked Man on the Mountain

First, I need to assure (or disappoint, depending on why you're reading this) everyone that there will be no photographs of the naked man mentioned in the title of this post. Sorry.

I mean, there will be pictures of the man, but he won't be naked. Not anymore, at least.

See?

That's the naked guy on the left there. My best buddy in the world, Ben, the non-naked naked guy.

I frequently write about my hiking trips with Julie, my hiking wife, which is odd in itself because this blog is supposed to be about being a children's author and illustrator. Don't believe me? Go look at the title.

See? Smarty-pants You thought it was a hiking blog didn't you?

That's the thing. Being an author and illustrator is really, really slow and boring. At least from a daily writing about it sort of standpoint. A writing/illustrating blog might go like this:

August 16, 2012

Today I had some coffee, read a bit, went back over a chapter I had written and rewrote a few sentences, smoothing out the flow and changing some rather embarrassingly passive writing. Then I worked on some sketches for another book idea that sounded great when I had it, but is turning out to be kind of dumb. Then I sat there mulling over my life-choices for awhile and smiled because I've never worked in a cubicle. Then I ate lunch.


See?

Boring.

But, if I write about other stuff, I can say things like:

August 12, 2012

While hiking with my buddy Ben today, I saw a ketchup river and a totally naked man on top of a mountain.


Much more exciting, isn't it?

And it gets even better. Because I was actually hiking with the naked guy. He wasn't nude while he was hiking, of course. Nudie-hiking only leads to uncomfortable chafing and leaves you with absolutely nowhere to keep your car keys. But there was a brief time when–and I need to make this perfectly clear to Ann, Ben's wife–with absolutely no prompting from me AT ALL, Ben was completely naked on top of the most hiked mountain in North America.

(Fade back to the beginning...)

August 12, 2012

I arrived at Ben's house at the decidedly unwholesome hour of 7:00 a.m. I have frequently noted this particularly profound character flaw in my friends who like to hike. They like to start off when normal people should just be considering the idea of thinking about the concept of possibly getting out of bed.

When I arrived, Ben was finishing his breakfast and, rather than offering me a cup of coffee, he offered me a coffee cup. It was cruel of him to give me an empty mug, but we've been friends since the beginning of time, so I forgave him. Also, it was a very cool mug.

Ben is a potter and makes mugs of unusual design and resplendent beauty. He is also very generous with his mugs. I discovered this years ago when we were camping together. He had a great mug with him that he was drinking his coffee from. I complimented the mug, as it was so worthy of compliment, and he gave it to me. After he finished his coffee, of course.

The same thing happened with another mug many months later.

I started following Ben around everywhere, complimenting everything.

"Hey. I like that car you've got there."

"Whooo-boy, that is a tasty looking burger you've got yourself, buddy."

"Hey, wow. Where'd you get that awesome twenty dollar bill?"

And let me tell you all now, before  Ben develops a lemming-like crowd of people, dogging his every step and complimenting him on everything, it only works on mugs.

So he gave me a mug and we started on our way to Mount Mondanock, the most hiked hill in the Western Hemisphere.

I will admit that I have hiked Monadnock a couple times before and have never been thrilled with it. It's a nice enough hike, but when you reach the summit, you generally find enough people there to populate a smallish country. They mill around, texting friends, snapping pictures of themselves, and generally getting on my nerves.

But I hadn't seen Ben in a while and a long hike through the woods seemed like a great way to have time to catch up.

Also to see if I could get a new backpack by complimenting his.  (Nope.)

We began our hike at the shore of Dublin Lake, conveniently located in Dublin, right next to a driveway with a huge gate, two security cameras, and a sign, assuring visitors that "Trespassers Will Be Arrested".

The wonderful part of this particular trail is that almost nobody uses it. Probably because of that sign next to it.  We wandered through the still morning woods, listening for the sound of trespassers being arrested, and trying to avoid stepping on the suicidal orange newts that darted out across the path as we walked past.

We passed Bunny Skull Stick, named by me, right this second, because it looked eerily like a bunny skull. If bunny skulls had ear bones, which I suspect they do not.

Does Hugh Hefner know about this copyright infringement by Mother Nature?

 We soon found ourselves climbing above treeline and may have become disoriented and lost our way had it not been for Ben's superior navigational skills.

Ben leading us safely to the summit using only the sky and some small, orange newts to direct him.

We discovered a small crevasse that had a rock in it shaped almost exactly like New Hampshire.

Look closely. It's there.

 I told Ben that I really, really liked it and he offered to give it to me.

But when he tried to lift it out, his head got wedged in the hole. His pitiful cries for help started to irritate me while I was eating my granola bar so after a couple hours, I helped him out and we continued up toward the summit, now tantalizingly close.

You will notice that the summit was not as tantalizingly close as Ben was, however. I suggested that I just hike to him and we could call it a day and go home so I could drink out of my new mug. Ben, however, is made of sterner stuff, and insisted that we carry onward toward the summit which was not actually tantalizingly close at all.

Our climb brought us past such stunning natural phenomena as:

The Mysterious Rusty Bucket in the Middle of the Wilderness.

The Elegantly Stacked Pile of Rocks.

Some Slanty Rocks.

The Sacred River of Ketchup Which Did Not Photograph Well At All And Actually Appears Rather Disappointing Here. Sorry About That.

Ben's Incredibly Absorbent Hat.

The Tiny Pond That Contained No Fish.

The Trail To The Summit, Which Is Vertical.

We slogged ever onward toward the summit, now a paltry 3,652 miles away. When we did reach it, we were rewarded with the splendor of a bunch of kids texting each other.

Two of the hundreds of teens cluttering the summit like it was the food court at the mall.

Directions painted on the rocks, lest you lose your way.

Ben and me at the summit, contemplating lunch.

A desperate plea for help that turned out to say "Peace" not "Oh please help us. We've been stranded here for twenty three days because we couldn't read the giant signs painted all over the summit and now we're lost and we've been eating orange newts dipped in ketchup from the ketchup river - and that's not ketchup."

I was also treated to a scenic view of Ben's sweaty rear-end. Ben was unable to appreciate this view, so I photographed it for him. You're welcome, Ben.

We decided to have lunch down by the shores of Tiny Lake. I complimented Ben on his lunch, as well and he gave me a bite - I love that guy!

After lunch,  Ben thought he would take the opportunity to change. He has a history of sweating in a manly, invigorating way and, being brilliant, he had packed himself a clean, dry outfit to change into.

What I assumed would be a quick change into a dry shirt wound up with Ben, stripped naked and happily air-drying himself in the mid-day sun right on the trail up Mt. Monadnock, which, I may have mentioned, is the most hiked mountain in North America.

He sunned himself and enjoyed the feeling of nature all over him. I suggested that he might consider applying some more sunscreen if he intended to hike the rest of the way like that because, well... you know.

We were out of sunscreen, so he opted to get dressed again. Our descent included the death-defying crossing of The Chasm of Death.

The crossing left us both terrified and drenched with sweat. Ben developed a Mysterious Sweaty Clown Face of Mystery on his shirt. A sign to rival my very own Sweat Bunny.

In case you're having trouble seeing it I've made this helpful infographic:

Because that's the kind of friend I am.

Our hike ended at Dublin Lake where we took a cool refreshing dip before heading back to Ben's house where I complimented the large bottle of rum he had in his kitchen and he obliged me by filling up a really nice mug with it.


 

More Mountain Climbing. More Suffering. More Pain. And No Ice Cream.

Let me get this out there right away.
The ONLY reason I go on these ridiculous hikes with Julie is because we ALWAYS get ice cream after the hike.
ALWAYS.
(Are you reading this, Julie? ALWAYS!!!)
So when we finally braved the treacherous and outrageously difficult dual summits of Mt. Flume and Mt. Liberty last Friday, I cannot be blamed for expecting to be rewarded with an ice cream sundae the size of a 1959 Buick.
Julie insisted that she would rather have iced coffee.
Clearly, she had gone insane. There is no other explanation.
I even have photographic proof from our pre-hike photo.

All hike and no ice cream makes Julie CRAZY.

As so often happens, I failed to see the warning signs until it was way too late.
Adding to my case for Julie's advanced state of craziness is the simple fact that we climbed these mountains at all.

Mt. Liberty and Mt. Flume are described in the guidebook like this:

"Oh, the humanity. What are you thinking? DON'T, under any circumstances, EVER climb these mountains. You will regret it. Why don't you just go out and get some ice cream and SAY that you hiked them. Nobody will ever know."

But rather than following the guidebook's sensible advice, we headed off into the chilly morning air to climb two mountains and suffer needlessly. And without ice cream.

The hike began with a mile of walking along a paved bike path, just to reach the trailhead. We chatted of this and that, marveling at the fact that it could possibly be so cold here in the White Mountains of New Hampshire in October. Who would have guessed?

We turned off the pavement, into the woods and began a leisurely stroll through the woods. A leisurely stroll designed exclusively to lull us into a false sense of safety and well-being before the mountain could roar up and give us both a dope-slap.

We traipsed merrily along in the woods and soon began to get warm and decided to shed some of the hundreds of layers we had worn for the trip. At a trail junction, Julie took off her vest and the pants that she had brilliantly worn over her shorts.

I, less brilliantly, had worn some very fashionable spandex pants (pictures not included) under my regular pants. Removing them required removal of my pants first, followed by a tricky balancing act while trying to slide the spandex off and not step onto the cold wet ground. When I was about half-way through the ordeal, another hiker came striding into view from the foggy, misty woods.

I had chosen to simply change in the middle of the path, as there was obviously nobody else around for miles except Julie and she was busy looking at maps or engaging in some other useless activity. I tugged at my spandex pants, trying desperately to yank them back up so I could get my regular pants up. A simple over-balance sent me hopping across the path on one foot with my pants around my knees, directly in front of the approaching hiker.

"Nice morning," I said, assuming a nonchalant pose and smiling suavely.
"Warms up fast, doesn't it?" he asked, striding away quickly and disappearing into the misty shroud of the forest.

Julie is happy because SHE wasn't the one hopping around on one foot in her undies when the other hiker passed us.

I managed to get myself changed without any serious personal injury or charges of indecent exposure, and we started out once again, headed for the foot of the Mt. Flume slide, now a mere 2.6 miles away.

I should probably explain that a slide, when hiking, is not a delightful piece of playground equipment designed to bring joy to all who use it. A slide is a horrible slash of rock that runs nearly vertically up the side of a mountain. It is designed to kill you in painful and spectacular ways, but only after causing you unimaginable amounts of pain and suffering.

The day was warming up even more and, rather than risking more indecent exposure charges, Julie used the opportunity to take a refreshing dip in the icy mountain stream.

Nothing says "hypothermia" like a cold, wet foot at the beginning of a hike.

After her swim, we decided that a snack might be in order.

I'd like to point out that eating is an integral part of any real hike and that near the end of every single hike, the talk revolves exclusively around food. We typically each bring an assortment of goodies and share them.

Julie brought along some trail mix and commented, "I got this kind because it was cheap."

A brief view at its contents explained why it was so cheap.

"Oh my god. Is that a dehydrated heart?" I cried when Julie pulled this hideous lump from the trail mix, "Because if it is, you can have it."

Closer inspection revealed that is was actually a dried, salted strawberry, which is exactly as delicious as it sounds.

Julie attempts to eat The Strawberry of Doom and Despair

Once she tastes it, Julie can no longer remember happiness.

With a cold foot and the foul, salty taste of dehydrated strawberry scorched onto her tongue, Julie suggested that we start off again before things could get worse. As if in answer to her suggestion, we almost immediately lost the trail  and wandered aimlessly in the woods for a few minutes, lamenting the fact that we were going to die with the taste of salty strawberries in our mouths.

 We eventually found the trail again and walked for a few months before catching our first glimpse of the fabled Mt. Flume Slide.

The slide, before it gets steep. This is the trail up the mountain.

"Hey, Julie. It's been fun. I'll be going home now," I said, turning and heading back toward the car. I took off my pack to get a drink before heading home. I leaned against a tree and was rewarded with the most miraculous sight in nature:

New Hampshire's rare Toasted Marshmallow Tree

Close-up of the toasted marshmallow. They look much better than they taste.

Julie didn't like them, either. Foodwise, it was a disappointing day for her. And destined to get worse.

Enchanted by what other wonders might possibly await us at the top of the mountain, I reluctantly agreed to continue the climb, which got significantly steeper.

0.8 miles doesn't sound like far, I admit, but when it is made of slippery, wet rock jutting directly into the sky, it takes on a new sort of meaning.

Julie somehow managed to tune out my constant whimpering and whining and complaining and we found ourselves at another trail junction.

0.1 miles to LUNCH!

I am jubilant at the thought that we will soon be eating.

We finally crested the hill that opened onto the summit and were rewarded with some glorious views.

I am not actually scenery, I realize that.

We settled in for lunch and this was the view while we ate.

We will discuss my pathological fear of heights in much more depth in the following paragraphs.

After lunch, we trudged onward toward the summit of Mt. Liberty, visible in the top right of that picture of my foot. It was a mere 1.2 miles away and after the climb up the slide, we felt like we were floating. It was a lovely, deeply wooded hike that opened onto a rocky, barren summit, inhabited by a french guy who did not budge from his spot at the summit marker.

Julie poses with the immovable french guy.

A word about hiking etiquette: Everyone who climbs mountains, likes to touch the summit markers hammered into the rock. It's silly, but we do it. It makes the entire ordeal worthwhile just to touch that piece of metal. It gives you a sense of accomplishment.

"I hiked a ba-jillion miles over slippery, wet, steep rocks. I have blisters, aches and pains, poison ivy, altitude sickness, dehydration, hypothermia, and vertigo, but I got to touch that marker."

So when you do finally reach that marker, it is very poor form to squat there and eat your lunch hovering over it so nobody else can get near it without climbing around you. Yes, I'm talking to you, random french guy!

I would also like to take this opportunity to discuss the sphincter-puckering drop you see in the photo behind Julie. There are times, when hiking, when a drop appears very impressive, but actually glides gently away from the summit. This was not one of those. The drop behind Julie is exactly as terrifying as it appears to be. A rock-studded plummet to certain, splattery death.

"Go out there," Julie coaxed, "I'll take your picture."

You will notice that there are no pictures of me on that summit. I was clinging desperately to the craggy granite, explaining to Julie that I am terrified of heights.

"This probably isn't the best time to be letting me know that," Julie said, "And, anyways, it's not that bad."

"I have almost wet myself climbing a step ladder," I told her, "This is like a million step ladders piled on top of one another."

"You wet yourself?" Julie asked, missing the point entirely.

"I said 'almost'," I explained, "Just like I almost got to the summit of this mountain."

"Come on," she pleaded, prying my fingers from the rock. The french guy sat back and watched impassively.

Julie succeeded in prying my fingers from the stone and getting me out onto the exposed summit. There is no picture of the event because I was shaking so badly that I appeared only as a slight blur in the picture.

I did not wet myself.

Much.

And I managed to snap one picture of the view from the summit before I got all woozy.

And then I changed my pants and we headed down the mountain.

We passed a small but impressive pile of animal poop that I had to photograph simply because of its startling similarity to the dehydrated strawberries that Julie packed. The poor creature that left this had obviously been feasting on the strawberries thrown away by other hikers who had bought the same cheap trail mix Julie did.

Seriously. Where do these flies come from? We're over 4,000 feet in the air! Come to think of it, where did the poop come from? Probably the french guy.

It was a long walk down, but with very little chance of being dashed to bits on jagged rocks. The path wound through the woods, leading us slowly and painfully down the mountain toward the ice cream that I still assumed we would be eating. If you imagine a steep, irregular staircase made of slippery, round, loose rocks that leads sharply downward for 4 miles, you'll have a good idea of what the descent was like.

We were at the point in any hike where talk gravitates to the subject of food and stays there permanently. Things were going splendidly and we drifted easily from food group to food group. I explained my theory of carbohydrates to Julie (your brain uses glucose as fuel; carbs make glucose; therefore, carbs make you smarter). We were passing the time pleasantly until we get around to the inevitable subject of ice cream. And Julie said that she'd rather have iced coffee.

And the world shimmered and faded to black.

I have no recollection of the rest of the hike, shrouded as I was in the bleak hopelessness of a hike without ice cream. I suppose that we did make it down safely, as I have a picture that suggests a happy ending.

Notice, please, that Julie no longer looks insane.

My smile is fake. A thin veneer of joy slapped over a bottomless pit of hopelessness and despair and sore feet.

Next time, I'm packing ice cream to eat on the summit. And some dehydrated strawberries for Julie.