Cross-country skiing just across town

I don't enjoy failure enough to fully appreciate new years resolutions.

Sure there's something to be said for making noble promises like "I'll finally finish reading that immense volume of American history I bought four years ago" or "I'll stop stealing and selling bulk office supplies to pay the bills."

But inevitably December rolls back into town and all you have to show for the year are an already forgotten chapter of American history and a hallway closet full of pilfered reporter's notebooks.

I'm not opposed to positive change. But instead of making resolutions, I make suggestions. Things like, "I should focus on saving money this year" or "Not sideswiping parked cars might be a good idea."

Thus, there are no failed resolutions. Only unheeded advice.

This year I said, "I'd like to amp up the outdoor winter activity." The notion was partly inspired by some lackluster beach photos taken on winter vacation and partly by some friendly advice I got when I first moved here: If you want to survive the winters in Maine, you need a winter sport.

Cross-country skiing seemed like as good a sport as any (cheaper than skiing and a lower paralyzation rate than ice climbing). So I acquired some hand-me-down skis and some clearance sale boots and got myself invited to a cross-country skiing excursion this past Sunday.

Of course the snow started falling Saturday night and by Sunday afternoon a solid foot seemed to have piled up. My car had been buried and the roads where a glacial disaster. I was barricaded. Stymied. Homebound. Unable to play in the snow, on account of all the snow.

That's what we call ironical.

But on Monday my coworker Wendy introduced me to the local cross-country splendor that is Riverside Golf Course in Portland.

There are 8 kilometers of groomed trails for snowshoeing or cross-country skiing here - all of which manageable for a near-novice like me. And the sledding hills look rather enticing too (though I'll have to buy my own sled and head back this weekend since not one of the kids playing there on Monday agreed to let an adult stranger borrow their snow tube).

Despite being a holiday, the trail traffic was low. Nothing but the swish, swish, swish of snow pants and the crunch of snow to be heard. Maybe some panting. Cross-country skiing ain't effortless you know.

The scenery wasn't too awful either - the setting sun on a wintry horizon is just, well, cool.

It's easily worth the $2 donation (which should be slipped into the box at the trailhead).

And while I'm hardly destined for Olympic Nordic ski team, getting into a pair of skis sure beats that stationary Nordic Trak in my parent's basement. Of course I fell a lot less on the Nordic Trak. I suppose it's a trade-off.

If you're new to the sport: Walk-on adventures at LL Bean in Freeport are a great way to test the cross-country waters.

Surviving Cow Island: A tale of green drinks

I'd like to think that I'm a trusting person. But as I boarded a chartered boat headed to Cow Island yesterday evening, I couldn't help but wonder if I wasn't unwittingly stepping into the soon-to-be-popular reality series: Survivor Cow Island.

110 people ditched work early yesterday to head over to the island (owned by Rippleffect) in honor of this month's Portland Green Drinks. The newly founded Kaleidoscope was sponsoring the event and figured it was the ideal place to tell people about the organization and the upcoming Kindle Conference. Or at least that's what they were leading us to believe...

While everyone shuffled aboard and took seats, made introductions or perhaps headed straight for the bar, a vague premonition started to materialize:

I saw crazed and half-starved Green Drinkers desperately tipping empty cups over their mouths for one last drop of Peak Organic. Others push for space inside the military battery. In the distance a splash - some one is attempting to swim back to Portland. We've been left on the island.

I surveyed the group on the boat, looking for signs of likeminded hesitation or anxiety. That guy up front looks disturbingly mellow. That girl doesn't seem to sense a thing. Those people in the corner are just chatting away unaware. Wow, is that fellow drunk already? And what is Kate putting on her head?

I appeared to be the only one with apprehension, which made me think I'd either a) gone entirely off the deep end, or b) was the only one appropriately utilizing my powers of intuition.

As the boat pulled away from the dock, I suddenly regretted not bringing a crossbow.

Once on island, I did my best to calm my imagination. But after we were spilt into groups for a tour I couldn't help but spot the obvious.

Island motto: For promoting island sustainability? Or an ominous warning?

Tables: for community discussion, eating and crafts? Or tribal council?

Fire pit: For warmth and nighttime camaraderie? Or to burn the evidence?

Zip line: For adventure? Or for dangling dissenters?

Yarn art: For artistic expression? Or entrapment?

Oven: For cooking food? Or for cooking people?

I pushed the notions down and did what I came there to do - mingle, drink some Peaks and enjoy the island. The group was jovial and our hosts were generous - and I had to admit that they didn't appear to be the devious, scheming types.

Eventually the sun began to set and I heard a shout, "The boat is back to pick us up." Hallelujah.

We collectively walked to the island dock, oohing over the sunset (and maybe breathing a welcome sigh of relief). There was the boat, motoring over.

But then, there goes the boat. Wait! Where is the boat going! Don't leave us! Please! I have too much to live for!

Oh, it's just positioning to dock. My bad.

Back to Portland we go, now oohing over the moon.

So I guess I'm a trusting person, but not really.

[If you want real information on the event, my colleague Avery Yale Kamila wrote what we'd call an "accurate" account of the evening.]

Strangers in the woods...and the parking lot

See, it all started last week when my colleague Wendy asked if anyone in the office cared to try out mountain biking. Her MOAC group was planning a multilevel ride (i.e., newbies could test out the trails and not hold back the rest of the group) and we were all welcome to come.

Hell, why not. I've been doing the "try something new" thing with moderate success for the last year or so. Maybe the world was telling me this was the time to scratch "mountain biking" off the list. (Though that's only half true. Last summer two friends and I accidentally went mountain biking - ended up on the wrong trail at Reid State Park. I dumped my bike twice before I had a head-bleeding premonition and opted to walk my bike - and my helmet-less head - out of the woods.)

So last evening I picked up Kate (fellow MaineTodayer) and we headed north with our bikes strapped to the back, pressed for time and low on gas. We followed the signage as best we could, but as the road lingered on we decided that we must have driven too far and ought to turn around.

So we did. Or tried to, anyway. Soonafter my stellar on-road three point turn, my car began to sputter. The power steering went out and my gas pedal lost it's authority over the engine. As we coasted to a stop, I turned into the end of a stranger's driveway.

The horror flicks of my youth have taught me that two young gals stranded on a empty, rural road have only one option: meander up to the stranger's door, plead for help and pray the burly fellow doesn't have an axe at the ready.

Luckily this story doesn't end with Missing Persons ads or a meat freezer big enough for two. The gentleman at the door was very kind and brought us a gallon or two of gas from the shed. After profuse thanks, we continued on.

By the time we reached Bradbury State Park, the party we were intended to meet up with was long gone. As novice mountain bikers, I wasn't keen on the idea of venturing into the woods without a guide. Kate suggested we circle the parking lot until the group returned. I thought a hike might be in order.

But just across the lot I spotted three fellows prepping for a ride of their own. Heck, might as well ask them for advice. Sure enough they offered to show us the way to some less technical trails (and alerted Kate to the fact that her helmet was on backwards).

Five minutes and a few curse words later, we were feeling pretty confident. Considering how treacherous the sky looked an hour earlier, the weather turned out to be pristine. A setting sun, a cool breeze - getting up close and personal with nature is a wonderous thing.



Of course then there were the rocks.



And the frighteningly thin beam bridges.



And the middle-of-the-road trees.



And the God-forsaken mosquitoes!



But if you fight through it, the rewards are profound. Look that view up and down. Go ahead, drink it in. Of course, you should also look where you're going.



As falls go, this one erred more on the side of tragic/sad. I saw it coming 10 feet in advance. I mentally willed my bike to veer left! Veer left! But FYI, bikes are immune to mental willing.
It did prove that I'm at least an above-average blogger, if not an above-average biker. First words out of my mouth after the crash were, "Quick! Take a picture! I'll need to blog this." Was I injured? No more so than I was a week ago.

All things considered it was a fine eve. The bike ride was an experience made even better by the well-deserved post-ride recovery. I nursed the scrape on my knee with alcohol (by drinking it, of course) at Buck's Naked BBQ. I had never been there before and was delighted to reading the menu heading, "Stop being so naked!" That's a line that'll come in handy more than once. Am I right, people?

Many thanks to Pownal ponytail man (for the gas) and mountain biking Bruce (for the trail guidance) and MOAC (for the open invite) and for proving, once again, that Mainers are at the top of the good peeps pile.

Rafting the Kennebec: The river of truth

I've heard it said that what defines you as a person isn't what happens to you, but how you respond to what happens to you. And it isn't until you've experienced stress of some magnitude that your true colors emerge.

Maybe you don't consider white water rafting in The Forks a high-stress situation - but I do, okay, so back off! I was skittish. Bothered. Agitated. The entire drive north I did my best to maintain moderate calm in front of my friends (who had rafted before and who all appeared disturbingly lackadaisical about the whole thing). But that morning, with the raft looming, my stomach was feeling some internal rapids of its own. This is the vision I had in my head:

I came to grips with the reality that I likely would be the one jerk in the boat to fall out, so I took copious mental notes on what to to when I fell out and donned my life vest, which would keep me afloat when I fell out. Then I climbed into that inflatable raft with the expression of a death-row inmate.

I was excited, too, I think, somewhere deep down. But that didn't mean I couldn't frantically search for an escape. I even scanned the raft for some sort of hole or tear (which would, oh so sadly, force our party to remain on land). Finding nothing, I resigned myself to fate, sat quietly and began saying goodbyes in my head.

Goodbye Michelle, you can have all of my hats (except for the cop one, which I never gave back to Victoria). Goodbye Victoria, you can have my collection of pub coasters (and your cop hat back). Sell everything else, but someone please take care of my couch, lovingly known as Cocoa Microfiber, Jr.

And off we went.

I didn't freak out or fall overboard. I didn't shriek my way down the river. I paddled when told and "woohooed" when appropriate. I didn't freeze with fear or hit anyone in the face with my paddle. I committed no rafting sins. And somehow, shockingly, I found myself having a grand time.

In fact, by the looks of this photo, I not only look like I'm enjoying myself (second from front with perma-grin), I almost look like I know what I'm doing. I look like a professional. I could BE a professional. I could raft in the Olympics! I'm the best rafter in the world!

The great thing about high-resolution pictures - aside from being evidence that you did, in fact, go rafting - is that they offer a brief snapshot of river truth. Take a close look at both sides of the boat. On my side (closest to the camera) we're smiling like chubby kids in front of a make-your-own sundae buffet. The far side looks, well, miserable.

It's almost disturbing how pleased we look.

Just as disturbing, how unhappy they look.

In even closer examination, Phil appears to be having a mid-raft crisis of some sort. Is he crying? Is he holding on?

I won't hold it against him - partly because I'd like to think I'm a nice person and partly because there's also this picture of me:

I'm not ashamed. When you're looking at a rapid like this and the guide tells you to hold on, you do it:

Here's the highlight reel, which shows why guides are guides and we're not.

Yep, we're hardcore rafters alright. Or something.

The Forks: The lesser-known perks

Checked another "must do" off my list this weekend: Tackle white water rafting (even better, survive with my limbs, my skull and my pride in tact).

I went into the venture embarrassingly over-anxious. Having never done anything of the sort, I could only imagine the worst - and "the worst" got worse with each passing hour.

There's nothing scarier than the unknown (particularly when your cohorts insist on telling you stories about massive rapids, sinister guides and near drownings).

But the adventure up north was an overwhelming success and all in my party survived. I'm holding off on saying more, though, until I get my hands on some footage from the river.

So I'd like to take this opportunity to highlight the lesser-known perks of The Forks. Sure, the rivers are stellar and the view is okay, if you're into that pristine nature kind of thing. But there are so many other things to appreciate.

Top Six Completely Underrated Perks of The Forks (and thereabouts) that I had Corresponding Pictures For

1. The fate-tempters. At Moxie Falls, there's always that one guy who insists on relaying the dangers of the unstable rocks and the powerful current, who then climbs over the railing and sits precariously on the edge to "wow" the onlookers.

2. The unorthodox drinks. Here, you don't hide your penchant for tequila and pickle juice. You celebrate it. It's considered a staple at Northern Outdoors - the result of having tequila and nothing else to mix it with...but wait, there's a lonely pickle jar filled with juice in the fridge. Drink it.

3.The near-completion Appalachian Trail hikers. What they lack in antiperspirant (and toothbrushes and combs), they make up for in good old hippie altruism.

4. The wildlife. Up close and personal, sharing your beverage whether you invited them or not. Depending on your exhaustion/slap-happy level, such creatures can capture your unwavering attention for 30 minutes or more. Just a bug, you say? You try and look away.

(On a side note, we're all still perplexed as to what kind of insect that actual is. If you know, please share.)

5. The acceptance. You don't have to choose between your God and your gun. Around here, they go handgun in hand.

6. Wild Bill. He's a local. He's a hunter. He's a quotable compadre. He may also be looking to lure humans to his remote property in hopes of hunting them for sport.

Wild Bill-isms:

On hunting: "If it's brown it goes down."

On life's tribulations: "Issues are like tissues. They just keep popping up."

On himself: "I've been all over the world. I've been shot. I've died twice. I've met Satan and he ain't [censored]. The only thing I fear is God in Heaven. I fear no man."

So go thee to The Forks. Raft away. Enjoy the views. But keep your eyes peeled for those lesser-known joys that make such a trip all the more memorable.