The Overheard Bin

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Not exactly Everest — a climber’s guide to Mount Monadnock

Although I’ve hiked all over the world, on occasion for weeks at a time, I’ve never been much of a climber, a fall off a cliff when I was a child probably having something to do with it. In fact, as much as I’ve done in one go may have been New Hampshire’s Mount Monadnock, which when I lived in Boston I climbed once a year to test my general level of fitness by how long it took me to reach the top, and remained entirely unembarrassed that someone had once summited in a snow mobile.  Except for a few cultural references, nothing about the story that follows has changed from when I wrote it in 1991. Nor has Mount Monadnock changed much, either. The only difference is my inability to remember where it was published. The Boston Globe, possibly, or Outside magazine. Anybody?

At 3,165 feet, Mount Monadnock, in the southwest corner of New Hampshire, is not exactly the Mount Everest of America. In fact, it’s not even the Mount Everest of New Hampshire. Dozens of peaks in that state are higher. And its balding dome is so easily accessibly by just about all but the bed-ridden that an estimated 125,000 people a year scale it, earning it the dubious distinction of being the most climbed mountain in America. But to ignore Monadnock in favor of more lofty, less democratic, peaks is as serious an omission as to claim an understanding of the performing arts in America without being able to describe a favorite scene from the Jackass reality series.

Climb any of the peaks in New Hampshire’s justly famous White Mountains and what you can see, for the most part, are other peaks. Climb Mount Monadnock, which stands isolated like a naughty boy in the corner of a schoolroom, and what you can see is just about all of New England. That’s partly why it’s listed in the National Register of Natural Landmarks. And that’s partly why it’s always gotten such good press, even from such literary heavies as Thoreau and Emerson, who promoted it almost as enthusiastically as that little green lizard promotes Geico.

Because downtown Boston is only about 60 miles away,  and because no camping is allowed on the mountain except at the state park campground at its base, climbing Monadnock is for most people a day trip. You can climb one of the major trails to the summit, claim you can see everything from the Hancock Tower in Boston to the pyramids in Egypt, then climb down the same way you came up. It takes a couple of hours. And if you are like a lot of other people, the chief joy you’ll get out of it, other than the view, is the descent, which on a pleasant Saturday or Sunday in the spring or fall can give you several thousand opportunities to answer condescendingly when asked by the huffing masses still on the way up how much farther it is to the top.
To turn Monadnock into a climbing adventure, give it the weekend it deserves. Drive up early in the morning from Boston or spend the night at one of the Monadnock Region’s campgrounds or country inns. Hike up Monadnock’s wooded slopes to its bare-rock summit, then down the other side to another campground or inn. The next day, hike your way back, following the network of little-used secondary and connecting trails. Along that route you will still occasionally see other hikers off in the distance, streaming along the main trails like ants after sugar. But about the only ones you’ll come face to face with are the few fellow seekers of the road less taken, and the few (slightly more numerous than the former group) who are lost. In the case of those who are lost, you can experience the enormous pleasure of becoming a hero simply by sending somebody in a direction you yourself don’t intend to go.

You can climb Mount Monadnock any time of the year. But even during the most popular times, spring and fall, you’ve got to keep an eye on the weather. Storms can make up quickly, and the dangers of exposure, especially on the bare rock of the summit, are real. Come prepared to dress like Santa.

Monadnock is certainly not Everest. It doesn’t allow you the experiences that belong only to the mountain climbing elite —  fighting altitude sickness, dangling by your pitons above eternity, and posing for gear ads. But its a pretty good bet that few superstars of climbing, while standing at a mountain’s summit, have ever brought joy to a trio of ill-prepared but not unattractive young ladies simply by offering them the gift of bottled water.


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Feeling pressure of new tourism realities, Caribbean nations begin teaching parrots to speak Chinese

With reports showing that the Chinese now rank among the world’s most frequently traveled and biggest spending tourists, the Caribbean Tourism Organization (CT0) has announced a bold new initiative aimed at capturing a lucrative share of that market. Nations throughout the Caribbean have begun teaching parrots the Chinese for such useful phrases as “Polly want a spring roll?”

“This has the potential to be even more successful than our campaign to attract cruise ship visitors,” said a CTO spokesperson during an unveiling ceremony which was marred only slightly when one of the parrots on display performed an act of amputation on the Prime Minister of Barbados, who had been warned not to stick his finger in the cage.

“As studies show, the Chinese far outspend cruise ship visitors,” the spokesperson said, adding that so did parrots, for that matter.

Despite its potential for success, early testing of the program has indicated there are a number of challenges to overcome, mostly relating to cultural misunderstandings.

“The major difficulty,” the spokesperson said, “has been getting the Chinese to accept that the parrots are not being offered as a menu item.”

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How do you know if a restaurant serves tipic food?

You may not be able to judge a book by its cover, especially now that so many books are delivered electronically, which means they don’t actually have covers. But when looking for typical food in a foreign country, you can judge a restaurant by the sign out front.  Here’s an example of how it works in the Portuguese capital of Lisbon:

The grammatical correctness and lack of misspellings suggests the proprietors of this restaurant know too much about English to be truly well versed in the local cuisine. Look for owners who probably spent time in Britain or the U.S., and look elsewhere for an authentic meal.

 

 

 

 

 

A non-standard word order (to the English ear) and a word that, while understandable, may not appear in any language, is a step in the right direction, especially if there are no photos of the food posted out front.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Promising a local experience in the language of the country is a very positive sign, although the fact that they have to label it typical at all might give you some pause for thought. This does require the ability to recognize the word for food in the local language – or that a group of tables with place-setting on them signify a restaurant.

 

 

 

 

The real find, of course, is a restaurant with no sign out front, just a hand-written menu taped to the window – even if one of the menu items appears to be a hamburger.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Which brings us to what in just about everywhere in the world, is the most typical food of all.

 

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Obama, Romney debate row versus wade, other cruise-travel issues

The Obama-Romney presidential debates will no doubt affect the outcome of the November election and help determine the direction of America for the next four years. But the travel humor site BobCarriesOn.com, building on its reputation for being out in front of politically-related travel news since before Washington crossed the Potomac, was able to get both men together earlier in the year for a lively discussion on issues of even more importance to many of us – issues that effect cruise travel.

To show how much the two candidates are in touch with the pulse of the American voter, the meeting took place aboard a new Italian cruise ship, the MSC Divina, which was on its maiden voyage from St. Nazaire in France through the Straits of Gibraltar to Marseille, where it would be christened before beginning a season of Mediterranean itineraries. In virtual form, Obama and Romney appeared aboard the ship as guests of the humor website’s Chief White House Correspondent, Bob Payne, who has known both men since their college days, when the three of them may or may not have been held for questioning at the U.S. border following an attempt to sneak an undocumented Irish setter into the country by strapping it to the top of a wood-paneled station wagon.

Romney accepted the invitation, according to Payne, because he felt he would be able to count it as foreign policy experience, and Obama agreed to participate in the hope he could be Photoshopped into images of the christening in such a manner that it looked as if the crowd was cheering for him.

For much of the cruise, the candidates prepped for the debate and spent time getting to know each other in a way not usually possible on the campaign trail, in large part because a shortfall in the BobCarriesOn.com travel budget made it necessary for the two men to share a cabin.

Despite the forced intimacy, the president and the former governor got along surprisingly well. Romney only once made an unkind remark when, after Obama found himself suffering from a slight touch of sea-sickness off the coast of Spain, the Republican hopeful could not help from commenting “Now that’s what I call a green president.” And Obama could not let a similar opportunity go by when, after Romney went pale during a poolside session with the Divina’s activities staff, the president said, “They are going to personally introduce us to water sliding, Mitt, not water boarding.”

The debate itself was held on the one day the Divina spent entirely at sea so that neither candidate would have to miss an opportunity for shore-side bus rides. The event was held at the ship’s pool, allowing debate attendees to multitask.  Here is a glimpse at how it went:

BCO: Imagine that the brand new Divina is far out in the Atlantic, and despite the best efforts of a shipyard workforce that spends 35 hours a week on the job, gets seven weeks of paid vacation, and retires early, the 3,502-passenger ship is leaking, and in danger of sinking. Would you allow it to be bailed out?

Obama: As a civilized society, we have a moral obligation to help out any sinking ship, at almost any cost. In return, of course, a government agency would need to take over at least 60 percent ownership, and the folks on board would have to do at least some of the bailing themselves.

Romney: Are those shipyard workers unionized?

BCO: Assume the ship is anchored in shallow water just off the French coast. You want to go ashore, but you know the news cameras are focused on you, and you know how touchy Europeans can be about environmental issues. So you want to depart in what appears to be the most earth-friendly way possible. Give us an argument for Row versus Wade.

Obama: The type of departure, or arrival, is not what’s important. What’s important is that every cruise passenger, whether paying full price for a superior ocean-view balcony suite or getting up to 82% off for an interior cabin somewhere down in the bowels of the ship, should have the freedom of choice. And it should be a private choice, between no one but the passenger and the person on the other end of the 800 line.

Romney: What Mr. Obama doesn’t tell you is that I had the same position he does. Until I changed it.

BCO:  In their promotional literature, the Italian company that owns the Divina uses the phrase “We’ve taken care of everything for you.” As you know, that includes accommodation, dining, entertainment, fitness, relaxation, and transfers, all for one price. Does that kind of European-style social welfare have a place on a cruise ship?

Obama: Around the White House we don’t think of it as European-style social welfare. We think of it as providing the kind of necessary infrastructure and services folks will remember, especially at election time.

Romney: Even transfers?

BCO: One of the features of the Divina is the MSC Yacht Club, the exclusive area of the ship where we are and where your deluxe cabin is. On occasion, however, passengers who are not Yacht Club members have been seen slipping into the Yacht Club and even availing themselves of items from the desert tray during the afternoon tea service. Should some kind of barrier be built to keep them out?

Obama: I am opposed to any kind of barrier, because as experience has shown us, no matter how high, wide, or deep it is, folks will find a way around it whenever deserts are involved, especially that chocolate-dipped biscotti the crew has been putting out.

Romney: There are other passengers on the ship?

BCO: During one of the supervised activities at the Kids Club a child falls overboard. The ship could turn around to get him but it would mean having to cut short the shopping excursion planned for the next port. Based on that scenario, what are your views on “No child left behind.”?

Obama: When considering a question of this complexity it is critical to weigh all points of view before proceeding. How long would it take to turn the ship around? Are any special discounts being offered during the shopping excursion? How much would the cruise be enhanced for passengers who prefer not to see children on board?

Romney: In my family we were brought up to believe you leave no one behind. Even if you have to tie them to the roof.

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Up to here among the mud walkers of Holland

For someone up to his knees in mud, and sinking fast, the Dutch high school student seemed unusually adept at philosophizing. “Not windmills, not wooden shoes, but this, this primordial ooze, is the essence of the Netherlands,” he said.

With a grassy, sheep-dotted outer dike of the Dutch coast well to shoreward of us, with the barrier island that was our destination still hidden in the morning haze, and with me already deeper in the mud than the high school student, I had no trouble recognizing the merit of his argument — and suggesting that we ought to get moving.

The student and I, along with two dozen of his classmates, were among the tens of thousands of people who annually participate in a distinctly Dutch and distinctly odd activity known as mud walking.

Wadlopen, is the Dutch word for it. You put on an old pair of high-topped tennis shoes that you’ve deemed absolutely valueless for any other purpose. You meet at the appointed place with a licensed guide, who has checked the tide tables to make sure the skills required of you will not include the amphibious. Then you slosh forth across the Waddenzee, or shallow sea, on a journey of up to 12 miles, out to the Frisian Islands, that will test not only your endurance but also your ability to act as a responsible adult in the face of the overwhelming urge to play in the mud.

As a sport, mud walking has been around since just after World War II, when the coastal-dwelling Frisians, who up until then had ventured afoot onto the Waddenzee with about as much enthusiasm as the three little pigs would have attended a butcher’s convention, discovered that people would actually pay money to be lead through the muck.

“It confirmed for us what we already believed — that outsiders are a strange lot,” said one local man, whose only pedestrian venture beyond the dikes had been to retrieve a cow who was in danger of being lost at sea. “But the money helped with village improvements, such as rebuilding the church, so some of us were happy to oblige.”

The most active mud walking center is Pieterburen, a mainland village from which I set out for the island Engelsmanplaat. The walk is said to be the easiest island crossing, but not by me or — I presume — by anyone who has ever done it in company with a group of high school students who think that part of the exercise is to see if they can get even the adults to tumble face down at least once.

Actually, except for keeping an eye out for kamikaze attacks from the high school students, the walking wasn’t difficult. The thickest of the mud was adjacent to the shore, in an area that was a few hundred yards wide, and the biggest difficulty was getting up the courage to take the initial plunge into it.

Beyond the first mud flat, the going was mostly across hard sand in ankle deep water. Occasionally, however, we’d come to water-filled gullies, where our guide would wade in, sometimes chest deep, to show us the way across. The guide, Willem, a university student, said that if you don’t know what you are doing the dangers of mud walking are real enough. Sometimes there is fog to contend with. Sometimes there are swift-flowing gullies that can’t be crossed. Sometimes the mud flats, even though they are seldom more than knee deep, can wear down the endurance of even those who think themselves physically fit — as police and military units on training exercises have discovered.

On this day, though, a lovely if slightly hazy one near the beginning of the May to September wadlopen season, we had no problems beyond the minor ones associated with Willem’s constant need to remind some of the students, who were burdened with the competitive type of personality that compelled them to attempt to turn every physical endeavor into an athletic contest, that the rules of wadlopen required them to remain behind the guide.

For an hour or so we slopped and squished and stumbled. Most of us were soon coated with thick, black mud at least up to our thighs, with more of it liberally caked on hands, chins, cheeks, and — most commonly — rear ends. Those few who remained unacceptably pristine for too long were nudged, tripped, or — in one case — gang tackled, until they too came in line with the acceptable community standards of cleanliness.

On Engelsmanplaat, which a storm tide could have made disappear, we ate lunches we’d carried over in knapsacks, then walked back to the mainland. As we neared the shore, where the thickest of the mud flats were, I noticed that even one of the teachers seemed to be falling down and wallowing around a bit more than in most circumstances would have been considered acceptable adult behavior.

Back on solid ground, curious to know if coming in such close contact with the essence of their national soul had produced the same kind of thought-provoking effect on the other students as it had on the knee-deep philosopher, I asked some of them what they thought of their day on the Waddenzee.

“Wonderful,” one of them said, “especially since our other choice for a class project was to visit a museum in Amsterdam.”

 

A note from Bob: This is a condensed version of a story that first appeared in the January/February 1992 issue of Islands magazine, where for more than a decade I was a Contributing Editor, specializing in stories that kept me out of the U.S. Northeast in winter. 

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Jumpin’ Jamaica — a cliff-diver’s cautionary tale

I originally wrote this story for Men’s Journal, but as a result of a blow to my head during the researching of it, I can’t recall if it ever ran.

It is for good reason that in most places cliff jumping is an outlaw sport.  Usually, you have to break some kind of ordinance and ignore a “No Trespassing” sign or two just to get to a point where you can launch yourself (unless your lack of forethought is exceptional) into a suitable body of water. And even though the most famous outlaw jumpers of all, Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid, survived a 50-foot leap into a river (Butch, in the 1969 film version of their adventures, helped Sundance overcome his embarrassment about being unable to swim by pointing out, “Why, you crazy – the fall’ll probably kill ya!”), practitioners of the sport often enough end up with the kind of injuries, or worse, that make for a highly readable cautionary tale in the local paper. Along the coral cliffs near Negril Beach, at the western end of Jamaica, though, you’ll find no such ordinances, no such signs, and … no shortage of tourists with purple welts from hitting the water with anything but a perfectly smooth — legs together, arms tight at your sides — entry.

The most popular and, some would say, most risky Negril jump spot (in both instances because of the proximity of  an every-flowing supply of Red Stripe beer and Appleton rum)  is the cliff above Rick’s Café, where every afternoon in season people gather to watch the sunset and break one of the sport’s only two rules – don’t drink and jump. (The other, most often broken in tandem with the first, is to check the water depth before jumping.) The jump is about 35-feet, which might not seem like much, until you’ve seen somebody fished out nearly unconscious from a sloppy entry or walking around with a backside that looks like an overripe plum.

The “professionals,” hard-bodied locals, can double the height by shinnying up the trees that overhang the cliff and launching themselves from perches marked by hand-painted signs indicating not feet above the water but the minimum dollar amount ($10 or $20) they’ll jump for.  If you must leap yourself, though, perhaps the better part of valor is to first try the more manageable heights at several of the hotels that sit along the cliffs, where, through a misunderstanding, I began my own jumping career.

I was at Tensing Pen, a cluster of garden cottages with a narrow foot bride spanning two coral promontories — 18 feet high — that guard the entrance to a boutique-size cove. Where a woman, with great enthusiasm, and a great smile, said, “You’ve got to try it,” naturally leading me to assume that she herself had done it, and that, despite my considerable apprehension (“scared silly” might be a better description), if she could, so could I.

I learned only after the jump, which lasted a couple of seconds at most, but long enough for me to review some of the reasons why it might have been a very bad idea, that she had not done that particular one, or any other. But by then I was too pleased with my success, or more accurately, survival, to care. And I like to tell myself that I moved on to another Negril hotel, The Caves, because the jump there were even higher. For a jumper, the advantage of The Caves is that there are several launching spots of different heights, from a pleasant little 15-foot drop through a hole in the ground into a sea cave, up to a break in the retaining wall of the dining patio that lets you wipe your mouth with your dinner napkin, take three steps, and plunge 25 feet.

Actually there is a third rule of cliff jumping, which is: Don’t make a jump you are not comfortable with just because peer pressure encourages it. So, even though the smiling woman at Tensing Pen caused me to break it, I can’t tell you, and am quite confident I will never be able to tell you, what the jump from Rick’s feels like. I can, however, describe the technique that worked for me at lesser heights.

After swimming underwater to personally determine the depth, step to the edge of the cliff to double check that a tsunami has not sucked the water out or that somebody with a camera and a kayak has not paddled in for a close-up shot. Then, from three paces out, preferably while an attractive person you would not like to embarrass yourself in front of looks on, take a deep breath and step purposefully forward, springing off with just enough force to get you away from the cliff wall but not enough to send you flailing like a windmill. Most important, once you start taking your steps, make absolutely no attempt to rationalize what you are doing, or you will falter, possibly for good. If any words at all must go through your head, let them be those that worked so well for the Sundance Kid:

“Ohhh…s-h-i-i-i-i-i-t!”

 

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