I glanced at Katy over a row of sweet peas. She was kneeling in the dirt, hands and lips stained red. There was juice dripping down her chin, onto her already soiled t-shirt. I noticed that her carton, the one she was supposed to be filling with fresh strawberries, was completely empty. I kept watching; popping sweet peas in my mouth like they were popcorn, as Katy consumed her body weight in strawberries before even attempting to collect them in her basket. ‘I could get used to this’, I thought, as I looked around at the tiny little organic farm that surrounded us. Maybe I had found my calling in life.
Appleton Farm is located in Ipswich, Massachusetts, and happens to employ my good friend Becky, whom I met in Costa Rica. She invited us to farm with her that day, offering us all the fresh produce we could handle in return. We rose with the sun, tossed on some old jeans and headed out to the fields. We spent the morning thinning carrots, picking turnips, weeding around the winter squash, and bunching leafy plants that I had never even heard of. We chatted with all the other farmers while kneeling in the rich soil, helping them cultivate the produce they had planted and nurtured into life. The farmers had their system, knowing which plants to keep and which to toss because worms had gotten to them or because they were underdeveloped. It didn’t come naturally to Katy and me however. With each turnip we pulled, we leaned towards Becky, whispering, “What about this one?” Becky would smirk, look at our find then tell us which pile to throw it in. At one point I had cultivated a bunch of green leafy things, rubber banding them together perfectly; just to find out they were nothing but worthless weeds. At another point I looked at Katy, she was eyeing the carrots from a hunched over, head tilted to the ground position, “Do you think I have left enough space between the carrots?” “They said to leave two fingers widths of space.” “Oh, um…” She was using her hand as a measuring device, only she needed both of them to cover the gap she had created. “I think I left too much space,” she giggled. I watched as Becky navigated carefully, deliberately, between the rows of crops, moving precariously around her piles, careful not damage any of the tender plants. “Oops! I stepped on the broccoli rabe again,” I would say as I accidentally mistook a pile of keeps as weeds, rendering them useless.
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Appleton Farm is located in Ipswich, Massachusetts, and happens to employ my good friend Becky, whom I met in Costa Rica. She invited us to farm with her that day, offering us all the fresh produce we could handle in return. We rose with the sun, tossed on some old jeans and headed out to the fields. We spent the morning thinning carrots, picking turnips, weeding around the winter squash, and bunching leafy plants that I had never even heard of. We chatted with all the other farmers while kneeling in the rich soil, helping them cultivate the produce they had planted and nurtured into life. The farmers had their system, knowing which plants to keep and which to toss because worms had gotten to them or because they were underdeveloped. It didn’t come naturally to Katy and me however. With each turnip we pulled, we leaned towards Becky, whispering, “What about this one?” Becky would smirk, look at our find then tell us which pile to throw it in. At one point I had cultivated a bunch of green leafy things, rubber banding them together perfectly; just to find out they were nothing but worthless weeds. At another point I looked at Katy, she was eyeing the carrots from a hunched over, head tilted to the ground position, “Do you think I have left enough space between the carrots?” “They said to leave two fingers widths of space.” “Oh, um…” She was using her hand as a measuring device, only she needed both of them to cover the gap she had created. “I think I left too much space,” she giggled. I watched as Becky navigated carefully, deliberately, between the rows of crops, moving precariously around her piles, careful not damage any of the tender plants. “Oops! I stepped on the broccoli rabe again,” I would say as I accidentally mistook a pile of keeps as weeds, rendering them useless.
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“Don’t teach 1st-3rd grade,” our new friend Noah said, “those are the ‘yelling’ grades. You’re better off teaching eighth. Eighth is best.” We were lounging on rock in the middle of a river near Bartlett, New Hampshire. The swimming hole was dotted with some locals. Eight-year-old Noah was nice enough to take time out of his busy schedule of jumping off rocks to offer some guidance about my possible career path as a teacher. I pondered Noah’s words as he reassured Katy that the rock was indeed safe to jump off. “The water looks too shallow,” I overheard Katy saying. “It’s wicked deep, like 10 feet,” Noah retorted. Katy proceeded to humor him by jumping off the rock in the form of a ‘racing velociraptor’ hitting the water with a thud. She planted her feet and stood, the water barely reaching her chest. “Nice ten feet, Noah,” she muttered as she waded her way back to her place in the sun.
The following day we bushwhacked our way to White’s Ledge with our new friend Huck (the name we endearingly gave him after getting to know his barefoot, boyish charm, mischievous grin, and aptitude to create everything from his own two hands). We were in search of a climb known as ‘Endeavor’, which Huck promised we would love. I took my time leading the first pitch, not because I was scared of the nearly 200 foot climb or because I had lost the route in the seemingly endless sea of cracks, crevices, shrubs, bulges, and roofs, but because I was amused and I didn’t want it to end. In recent weeks trad climbing has taken on new meaning for me. It is a giant puzzle, the desired result always different and unknown. The rock is a constant challenge; where to find good gear placements, how to make the rope drag less and how to make it as safe as possibly for myself and my partner. Instead of the paranoid, completely intimidated climber that I was, I am now smiling when placing a solid nut, or when slinging an almost overlooked needles eye in the rock. I am constantly excited to follow Katy up a route, looking for her blood markings on the rocks, checking her creative gear placements, laughing when I reach her smiling face at the top of a pitch. “Man, I’m glad you led that one,” is usually the first words out of my mouth. That day wavering on a ledge somewhere between the unknown pine tree which was my target and the stability of the ground where Katy and Huck lingered, I grinned. I was on my way and there was no place in the entire universe that I would rather have been. I would have stayed there forever, lingering in the moment, had it not been for the black flies, those damn little vampires.
(Side note: After finishing our climb that day, between the three of us, there was no less than 200 mini-hickies, spotting our exposed flesh. Thanks for nothing, black flies!)
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“Hey, nice mustache.” Yet again Shannon was proving her ability to interact well with strangers. On this particular evening she was doing so in her bumble bee costume and hunter orange stocking cap. My friend Casey was belaying me up Kiddy Crack on the North End of Cathedral Ledge. By the time my feet returned to the ground Shannon had convinced both of the strangers to don the bee suit for their climbs. I realized in the fading light that I had spent the entire day laughing at the ridiculous things that came out of Shannon’s mouth. Earlier, as we drove into North Conway, she had called-on (teacher style) a twelve foot overall clad bear statue that was raising its paw. “Yes, you in the blue,” she had said in her best teacher voice. Tears had streamed down my cheeks as I exploded in laughter. What a day. We gathered our gear in the light of our headlamps and made plans for a BBQ with the strangers.
The next morning we awoke to light rain but soon Shannon, Casey, and I were making our way up ‘Recompense’ in the sun. The following morning we balanced carefully up the slabby ‘Sea of Holes’ on Whitehorse Ledge before parting ways with Casey. It was back to the two of us and I enjoyed the return to the comfortable rhythm of climbing with her. I watched as she led up ‘Pooh’…meticulously climbing and down climbing, setting gear, taking it out, adding and adjusting slings until reaching the top with zero rope drag. I was impressed and proud and even more so as I followed the awkward pitch. I was swearing and sweating as I decided that Shannon was now leading every pitch the guidebook described as awkward. At the end of the week we had merely scratched the surface of climbing on the impressive cliffs and I was disappointed to watch them disappear in the rear view mirror as we pointed the Jeep toward Maine.
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We were in Maine and it was almost time to board the lobster boat…I mean lobstah boat…but first we had some business to tend to. “Shannon, put this on your face. I’ll give you a dollar.” “Hand it over, I could use the money,” she replied matter-of-factly as she flopped open her palm. I started to hand over the starfish that was gently writhing in my palm, but I stopped short as our new friend Adam called to us. “The Sea Hawk’s leaving.” I put the weird creature back into the water and we ran down the dock to meet our new friends. We had met Adam in Bar Harbor two days prior. Shannon and I had ducked onto a side street after weaving our way through the tourists. We needed a beer to overcome culture shock and I was scared that if we didn’t get off the street we’d end up getting swallowed by the hoards of Hawaiian shirts and fanny packs. Adam, along with an assortment of climbing and kayaking guides were gathered on the patio of the watering hole we had selected. Soon we were all engaged in conversation making plans to climb the next day, Shannon and I having narrowly avoided a full fledged crowd induced anxiety attack.
“You ready?” I asked Shannon the next day. She nodded and I lowered her over the granite cliff toward the crashing ocean waves. I was trying to convince myself that I wasn’t in a dream. The sun warmed our faces from its post in the periwinkle sky and a channel marker let out periodic dings as it swayed in the Atlantic Ocean. Shannon grinned and I decided not to pinch myself. Dream or not, it was unbelievable. We were climbing in Acadia National Park having worked our way up from Texas. I shook my head and smiled as I watched Shannon gracefully make her way back up the cliff. That evening we cooked our dinner in the parking lot and accepted Adam’s invitation to spend the 4th of July out on his boat. As he gave us directions to the dock, the look in Shannon’s eyes told me she was already plotting a pirate-like adventure. I made a mental note not to forget my eye patch.
“Man, this is a big lake,” we told Adam and his friends as we boarded the Sea Hawk. “How deep is it?” We tried not to laugh but erupted into giggling. “You know this is the Atlantic Ocean, right?” I furrowed by brow and gave my best confused look…Shannon did the same. We certainly weren’t doing anything to squash Nebraska stereotypes. We laughed some more.
“You ready?” I asked Shannon the next day. She nodded and I lowered her over the granite cliff toward the crashing ocean waves. I was trying to convince myself that I wasn’t in a dream. The sun warmed our faces from its post in the periwinkle sky and a channel marker let out periodic dings as it swayed in the Atlantic Ocean. Shannon grinned and I decided not to pinch myself. Dream or not, it was unbelievable. We were climbing in Acadia National Park having worked our way up from Texas. I shook my head and smiled as I watched Shannon gracefully make her way back up the cliff. That evening we cooked our dinner in the parking lot and accepted Adam’s invitation to spend the 4th of July out on his boat. As he gave us directions to the dock, the look in Shannon’s eyes told me she was already plotting a pirate-like adventure. I made a mental note not to forget my eye patch.
“Man, this is a big lake,” we told Adam and his friends as we boarded the Sea Hawk. “How deep is it?” We tried not to laugh but erupted into giggling. “You know this is the Atlantic Ocean, right?” I furrowed by brow and gave my best confused look…Shannon did the same. We certainly weren’t doing anything to squash Nebraska stereotypes. We laughed some more.
We bounced with the waves as Adam navigated the boat into perfect position for fireworks watching. The anchor sunk with a splash. The hum of voices floated through the salty breeze and around the community of boats that rocked gently in the cove, waiting for the culmination of the day’s festivities. I heard the familiar reggae beat of “Jammin” playing over the speakers on our vessel. Soon the sky was exploding in color, lighting up Shannon’s grin. It was not our night to shine as pirates, but rather our time to stand quietly in awe, totally immersed in the moment.
