Tag Archives: Mark Twain

Mountain Time

Unwittingly, even ignorantly in topographic terms, we took a turn through New England and were surprised by the “range” of mountainous terrains. (And mountains don’t exactly sneak up on you. Besides, they are indicated on maps.) So, stupidly and simply, wow! Truly, though, it is hard to get a physical sense of such things on a map. This trip had its own built-in quests that were calculated and planned and full of expectations. Sometimes the joy of discovery is the anticipation, the imagining followed by the actualizing and, finally, the measuring of the two – a balance sheet of whether the thinking about is better than the doing, or vice versa. But the unanticipated joys, either large or small, can often be the most memorable part of travel. Like finding mountains.

For someone who purportedly loves mountains, I had no idea what was in store for me. Living in the mid-Atlantic region, I tend to think of the coastal states as being flat-ish lowlands, floodplains, sandbar shores intermingling with the sea. Maine disabused me of that notion. (As did Mark Twain; stopping off at his Hartford home, we were reminded that he wrote, “Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one’s lifetime.”)

Maine’s mountains meet the water on their own terms, spruce and pine emerging from speckled granite; the rock/paper/scissors game comes to mind, especially when the logging trucks come toward you on highways (yikes!). In Acadia National Park there are more than twenty mountains, individually named but lacking a range name. The tallest is Cadillac, at 1,530 feet. We didn’t set out to do this, but we climbed it. The views are well worth it. This climb turned out to be a highlight (no pun intended) of the trip. Especially on the descent, when we attempted the rarely used, barely accessible and minimally marked west trail. It set forth challenges and we became intimately involved with the mountain, both on top and on its varied flanks. One of us has a bruise to remember it by. Both of us have a sense of accomplishment, a memory of pounding hearts and a deeper understanding of the landscape and nature’s power.

New Hampshire’s White Mountains are awesome and rugged, comparatively. Also, very much higher, considering that they have numerous four-thousand-footers and that those are then towered over by the renowned Mt. Washington, of bumper-sticker fame. As does its namesake, the tallest mountain seems to wear the same white wig made of clouds, preventing one from ever viewing its summit. And that explains its reputation for consistently having the worst weather in the States. These White Mountains possess a breathtaking beauty that can be matched only out West, yet in New Hampshire their presence feels more compressed and dense, adding to their intensity. In the East, you don’t have the same distant vistas of mountains before you enter their domain. (Kind of the same idea as when seeing whole trains out West and only partial trains in the East.)

Generally, when driving, our choice is to avoid interstates – the eunuchs of roads – but instead traverse the state routes and parkways, the older byways that knew what a road’s purpose was: to delight and surprise the occupants of the vehicles and to find unique approaches for going through and around things like mountains, as opposed to just slicing straight through, all in the service of connecting you in a less intrusive and more tangible way to the countryside. The most spectacular road of our journey was New Hampshire State Route 3, now partially eaten up by I-93, skinnying through Franconia Notch – happily unable to be widened further. Literally a mountain pass, for 12-15 miles I-93 is a parkway that winds between the cleavage-like high peaks of the Kinsman and Franconia mountain ranges much like a log flume. The road reveals that the lower parts of mountains can be as spectacular as the tops on our roller coaster ride along nature’s splendor in tandem with human engineering.

Vermont’s Green Mountains are comparable in stature to the Whites (except for the one), although they appear a bit mellower, softer, rounder than their neighbors to the east. Surprisingly, they are, as are some of the other ranges mentioned, part of the Appalachian Mountains. Their greenness, it seems, is because of the density of coniferous trees, creating a rolling rise and fall with fuzzy edges. The softer flow of this group makes for a picture-postcard photo-op, as houses and small villages live in harmony with the surrounding topography; and these natural limitations make for a saner balance of man(made) and mountain. The intrusion of bare lawn swaths of ski slopes are a little dismaying, as if a large-toothed, sharp-edged comb had raked down the mountainsides – the visual counterpart of fingernails dragged over a blackboard. In situations of nature versus nurture in this country, one has to have a sense of relativity: ski slopes are better than the wholesale timber trade which once denuded entire mountains. So, even with the bizarre grooved effect, it is preferable to scalping.

Going through the Berkshires and on to the Catskills, we are descending in size and scale, as well as latitude, but we are ascending in esteem. This area is considered a plateau, and whatever its codification, there is nothing more beautiful than the Catskill range in juxtaposition to the picture-perfect Hudson Valley. The mountains’ perspectival palette of greens into blues, sometimes going to purples with hints of yellows are so lovely as to leave one dumbstruck. The entirety looks moss-covered, a kind of giant Japanese-garden woodland. There is an appearance of comfort and calm in their curvaceous form and a magnetism that is inescapable for some of us so attuned. In the New York Highlands, just below the Catskills, gumdrop-like mountains erupt as guardians along the Hudson Valley. And, once again, we find ourselves climbing – Schunnemunk Mountain this time, our second ridge this summer. (Funny, considering that we have climbed zero up until this year.) With its unusual “pudding stone” and long and graceful waterfalls, and views of the Hudson that rival Maine’s coast, it is a long hike but worth it, nearly 1,700 feet. At this rate, maybe next it will be Mt. Washington.

All the mountains are sculpted earth; shaped uniquely by upheavals and slow compression, they are lovely, awe-inspiring, some maybe a bit fear-inducing. Their special placeness must be a result of genius loci, they and their settings creating a powerful arslocii.

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It is, after the womb, the first place we know; and, before death, likely the last. It is the single-most persistent place of our lives: we are in it, or on it, or with it for more hours a day, and for more years, than we are in or on or with any other piece of furniture. But it is more than furniture – that word describes a hassock, or a stool. A bed is … a thing and a metaphor, a friend and a foe, mother and lover, the giver of rest and the taker of consciousness, the serpent and the apple – a place where we are us, indeed the most and most often and most vulnerable us that we ever are.

Think of it, bed’s powerful placeness: When we are away from home for any extended period of time, it is not the kitchen table or the garden chaise that we crave to be reunited with but, rather, to “be back in my own bed”; when we are sad or stressed, it is not so much a walk in the woods that we naturally are drawn to as much as we need to “get into bed and pull the covers up over me”; it is the place where we most think of doing some cozy (or, as a child, clandestine) reading, and it is where some of what we read, by Mark Twain and Marcel Proust, James Joyce and Edith Wharton, and others, was written (although, presumably, not together); when we imagine having the most decadent and deserved of breakfasts, in bed is where we have it; when world peace was sought, John and Yoko pursued it in bed.

Bed, it goes without saying, is the place of intimacy – intimacy with everything, in varying ways: with partner(s) (the euphemism for sex is, after all, ‘to go to bed,” no matter if the act took place in a hammock or on the floor), with ideas, with companion animals, with light and dark, with the past and future, with dreams (not daydreams – those are reserved for offices, commutes and unwelcome family events – but those of the most laid-bare conscious self-imagining and unconscious primitive drive) and nightmares and states in between. Bed is the mirror that doesn’t require eyes for reflection. Even our relationship with TV is more intimate when done in bed. In our living rooms we watch shows; in bed we spend time with people – it’s not “The Tonight Show” we watch, it’s Leno; it’s not the “Late Late Show” we stay up for, it’s Craig Ferguson. And not only do intimate relations happen on the bed, but also ours is an intimate relationship with the bed itself; so much so that when one is away, spending the night in a hotel, even if alone, by slipping between the cool sheets of a “strange” bed we experience the exciting, guilty, titillating feeling of committing an act of infidelity.

Bed is evidential – a place that says that you exist and provides proof of it: there is your imprint on the bedding and the pillow, there the wadded linens that show the signs of struggle and submission; hair and stains and smells – and, if you check immediately upon rising, the residual warmth of your body left behind, a sensual spectral presence that will not tolerate lengthy analysis and which dissipates quickly into a wrinkled and sour past.

Bed is the place of siren song: it calls, we fight it, we succumb, we are dashed on the rocks of consciousness’ ebb, and we disappear.

And return the next night for more.


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