Wednesday, April 30, 2008

quick update

Because I know you'd just LOVE to sift through my piles of snapshots...

Just in case you haven't gotten enough of my photography from the few random photos I post, you can NOW check out some albums at my picasa page!

There's also a handy link (called 'Photos.' Imagine.) at the top of my posts in that weird red bar, just between 'Idealist' and 'Profile.' I still haven't figured out what to do with that blank box that leads to nowhere. Perhaps I'll join Couch Surfing just to have another useless widget for you all to peruse...

Tuesday, April 29, 2008

driving north

So, KT and I are planning a drive to Alaska. We’ve been decided on it for a couple of months now, but have just lately been hammering out the details. Well, as many details as she’s been letting me hammer out. I head out to meet her in Oregon in a week and then we hit the road as soon after that as we think we have our act together.

I’m not sure if I should be concerned, but since making my plans public to friends and family, I’ve been asked (at least) three times if I’ve seen the movie Into the Wild. And two of those instances definitely included the statement, “when I saw that, the main character just kept making me think of you.” Gulp.

Therefore, while it seems KT is content to throw a toothbrush and change of socks in the car and go, I’ve been feeling the need to do a little more thinking. I need all my ducks in a row—a compulsion I’m hoping to improve on a bit in this trip. It's been bad enough not wearing a wrist watch since mine broke on the Madrid Metro two months ago. In an attempt to get more of a grip on this expedition, we put together a packing list and have come up with a couple of resources for reference. The greatest thing I think we’ve had so far is everybody KT knows who has done this. She’s already mentioned how their comments have ranged from “oh, you’ll have such fun!” to, “you WILL be eaten by bears!” Hmm.

Another resource that seems almost intimidatingly comprehensive is The Milepost. This 800 page behemoth is updated yearly by its own team of field editors. Each page is packed with information ranging from border-crossing tips to ads for lodging and restaurants at every mile along the way. I’ve been trying to glean as many basics as possible only to find that it’s all basic—dependent upon which route we take and where we hope to stay. Yes, 800 pages of basics. This is what I get for wanting to be in control.

So, we leave soon and I need to get packing! While we’re definitely trying to look at this trip from the it’s-about-the-journey-not-the-destination perspective, I’d love to hear any suggestions for things to see and do once there and along the way! I have no idea what adventures lay between Oregon and Anchorage in the great, wide out-there. Well, I have a small idea. There will be dogsleds. And, of course, the bears.

Saturday, April 26, 2008

spring cleaning

I've been thinking about changing things up for a while. I finally got around to it.

There are still some kinks to be worked out (ie. "links to nowhere" at the top of the page...)

Whaddya think?

PS - New photos added to rollin' on the river.

Monday, April 7, 2008

paperboys

Every afternoon, my youngest sister heads into town to pick up a bundle of newspapers. Sixteen people await her arrival each day with the local news, printed and delivered from the county seat.

She is the last remaining member of an informal guild that has been operating in my hometown for over fifty years: the paperboys.

I can remember delivering newspapers with cousins, sometimes on their backs, sometimes by their sides. I often accompanied a friend in junior high on my bike. The paper route once seemed to be a right of passage for kids in town: everyday they headed into the streets in force, crisscrossing along the avenues and sidewalks with their trademark delivery bags with the blaze orange strap. Living outside of town, I sometimes felt excluded from my peers and once tried to get a route for myself. The newspaper denied me one, due to the lack of customers in my neck of the woods.

A few years later, my ambitious little brother made the same request and backed it up with five new subscribers. He inherited an already-existing route, just on the edge of town and his five new patrons were tacked on to the end of it. After a few years of service and garnering even more subscribers, he passed the route on to our younger sister, who likewise bequeathed it to the last sister.

Over the last ten or eleven years, the route has lost some customers and changed shape. Along with it, the number of paper carriers in the town diminished until only one was left. And she delivers only two papers within the town proper. The rest of the peddlers have been replaced with coin-operated boxes placed on a few corners and circulation of the newspaper in Houtzdale has dropped to a couple hundred.

I can’t believe that such a quintessential small-town institution has become a novelty in my hometown. Where are the kids going to get their pocket money? How will they be able to afford penny candy and comic books? And more importantly, who is going to raise the town’s collective blood pressure?! There’s no longer a reason for the elderly to save their pennies, or sit expectantly on their porches at 3:30 awaiting the arrival of news that is “stale by now, for crying out loud!”

Soon, my sister will grow out of her paper route, too. Those customers out here on the outskirts that don’t just fall off will revert to getting a delivery by truck, which will throw their orange-bagged, rolled-up paper along the street. People will have their news and kids will have their afternoons free, but one more vestige of small-town community life will be cast to the shoulder of the highway, just like the newspaper.

Thursday, April 3, 2008

rollin' on the river


Last weekend my father, uncle, and I went to watch an annual canoe race on the Red Moshannon Creek. The Moshannon Creek (in Central Pennsylvanian dialect: ‘crick’) runs through several small towns on its way to the West Branch of the Susquehanna River, which flows east until it merges with the Susquehanna, finally flowing south and draining into the Chesapeake Bay.

Although not a huge affair, the event attracts quite a number of people. Spectators and participants alike inundate the creek’s banks at the Peal Bridge in the hamlet of Grassflat, where the race begins. The racers range from the serious kayaker to the “weekend warrior.”
Some come decked out in dry suits and helmets, with long sleek vessels, or stubby, maneuverable kayaks to see how many seconds they can shave off of last year’s time. Others come for a casual float, with plenty of beer weighing down the canoe and a planned pit stop on an island at the entrance to minor rapids.

The drive took us through classic mountain territory. We were lost, of course, and wound up on unmarked dirt roads many times. When looking for the Peal Bridge, we tried following the flow of the stream through the hills and woods, flanked by sagging wooden houses emblazoned with black and orange “BEWARE OF DOG” and “NO TRESPASSING” signs. My dad suggested stopping to ask for directions, to which my uncle involuntarily jerked the wheel and replied, “Haven’t you ever seen Deliverance?!” Finally, after crossing the county line for the fourth time, we pulled into a driveway. My dad was elected to approach the bearded, bandana-ed man who was wiping down his truck. He returned with directions from the amused man that included landmarks such as ‘Old Schoolhouse Road’ and ‘Cooney’s Bar.’ We joked the rest of the way about the wild goose chase we were probably just sent on.


But we made it in time for the start of the race. There were no reasonable parking spaces along the dirt lane that wound downhill to the bridge, so we shoe-horned our way into a cubby between two SUVs, our nose half-pointing into the road. The ground was covered in a brilliant array of canoes and kayaks and it was rough picking our way down to the bank. The bridge above us was out of the question, a wall of flesh pressed against its crumbling cement rail. As each heat took off, the banks cleared of boats and the audience trickled downstream to the finish line.

Eventually we, too, headed for the end of the race, just at the Snowshoe town border. There was considerably less excitement here and we spent the rest of the time gazing with waning interest at the racers pulling one-by-one out of the creek. I ran into the father of an old friend, and the distraction was enough to clinch the end of my race experience. The four of us had a pleasant chat and then it was back into the car for the return home. As we drove back to Houtzdale, I spent the time daydreaming about a kayak and a backpack....
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