Akron, NY...Caves, Falls and Abaondoned Mines

Let's go back, shall we to the morning of 26 June, 2011.  It is a Sunday, it is sunny and John and I are heading out on the motorcycles to go see the world.

OK...so maybe not the world so much as a small part of our part of it. 

John has gotten it in his head that he wants to go find either the mines or the caves that are located somewhere either in or around Akron Falls, NY.

This is John....

I haven't the foggiest what it is that he is looking at, but it's irrelevant.

John's my buddy.  We've been friends for...ohhh...hmmm...let me count back...17 years now?  Yeah, something right around there.  We met one afternoon as my (at the time) girlfriend and I were coming back from a paddle in our fiberglass canoe down Ellicott Creek.  And yes, the composition of said canoe is relevant.  Incidentally, one of my students--a senior--once asked me what a "can-oh-ee" was.  Until I walked over to his computer, I had no idea what word he was saying and, upon discovering what the hell he was talking about, contemplated, for only the 3,000th (or so) time my career choice.

ANYWAY!

As the ex and I were cruising into our pull out spot, we discovered that there were two men fishing...on our spot...in our way.  Much to our delight, they immediately, and chivalrously I might add, pulled their lines from the water and stood up to help us bring the canoe ashore.

Unfortunately, our delight was short lived as John and his friend Gordy rather dragged the canoe from the water over every rock and branch that, I think, had ever falling into the creek.  Thus, my reasoning behind including the composition of the canoe in the retelling of this little vignette.  Needless to say, the nearly flawless canoe was decidedly less so once it had made it to shore.

Nonetheless, I had a friend for life.

I think everyone has a John in their lives.  That one friend who won't walk away from you (no matter how hard you try some days), who will participate in any hare-brained plan you come up with and who will most likely not be bailing you out of jail, as he will be sharing the cell with you.  He may be a tad boorish from time to time, perhaps a bit over bearing, perhaps downright flee-worthy, but he's genuinely got a good soul and you know that he is true blue. 

Historically, my girlfriends (he has been through 5 of them with me) have not much cared for John.  His boorishness and excitability can be a little off putting for someone who hasn't learned how to compartmentalize.  And, admittedly, sometimes he just wears me right the hell out, but a girlfriend will drop many points in my estimation for saying a negative word about him. 

Well, when this latest relationship hit the ocean floor, John realized that he had his play buddy back again and we started to do things.  Somebody might want to just kill me now before my mother spends the rest of her days agonizing over whether or not they will ever recover my body.  John takes some foolish chances from time to time and I am always ever so happy to traipse merrily along beside him.  He's going to get me killed because neither one of us has any sense.

The first thing that John decided that we were going to take the motorcycles out for a ride one Sunday morning.  He asked me if I'd ever been to Akron Falls, which I had.  He said that he'd been doing some poking around online and wanted to see if he (read we) could find the abandoned mines that he'd read about in a couple of blogs.  Never one to turn down any of John's stupid ideas, I said that I was in. 

We met at his house and from there, drove the 20 miles to Akron Falls County Park in Akron, NY.

Having only a vague idea of where we were going, we parked the bikes at a nearby do-it-your-damn-self car wash and walked into the park.  Being John, he took no real notice of the fact that we were crashing through the pavilion of some family's day at the park.  We eventually excused ourselves and continued onward.  Until we reached a trail...and this fence:

Since I was forced (by my incessant need to travel as unencumbered as possible) to use my camera phone to take all of this trip's (and next one's too, if you must know!) pics.  For those of you who can't read what the signs say, how about this:

I'm sure I don't need to tell you that we ignored both of them.

But, if you will, allow me to slip in an aside here.  I was raised a good Italian Catholic in a long line of good Italian Catholics...Sicilians, if you want to be a stickler.  Even though I haven't stepped foot in a church (other than when I was curiously poking around or attending a concert in a reused space) in more than 20 years, my heart still does a little clutch every single time I break a rule.  Stupid Catholic Guilt!  Moving right along...

John and I jumped over one guardrail, slipped under another and went crashing through the brush until we discovered a well worn walk down to the water:

Don't worry right now about how I got that picture, I'll get to it next time, and don't worry, at all, about who those people are; I have no idea.

Once we made it down to the water's edge without killing ourselves or breaking anything, We were about to take in our surroundings:

Being the people that we are, we (of course) felt it was necessary to see just how close we could get.  Incidentally, I believe this the the Lower Falls.  Don't quote me on that, as we never have a map or anything more than a vague, general idea of where we are going. 

So...closer, we went:

 And closer:

And closer still while John stopped to contemplate god knows what:

The closer we got, the more slick the rocks got:

Until we couldn't go much further without taking a dip:

Which is what I decided to do so that I could get the next two shots:

And:

Eventually, John and I made our way back to the top, taking (of course) a much more treacherous route than we had down...just because...well...why not?

Unfortunately, I couldn't take pictures, as I was too busy using both hands to stop a bone breaking fall back down to the bottom of the ravine.  We made it back to the top uneventfully, climbed on the motorcycles and headed for home.

Next Time:  Akron Falls Redux



Beginning Again and Moving Forward

So…I’m in the process of getting left.  It would seem that I have been for a while now, but the official date of the “I can’t do this anymore” conversation was 24 June.  Yup.  Irony abounds.  At about the minute they were passing NY’s gay marriage bill, I was having the talk.  Hardy har har.

Now, here’s the thing, this was a LONG time in coming.  I mean years long, long.  So, I’m not exactly what you’d call heartbroken.  I’m not going to go into the whys and wherefores, as the story is excruciatingly complicated, but it should suffice for me to say that the both of us were miserable and I was waiting for her to put this dog down.  Which she did.  Thankfully, as I would probably never have told her that it was time for her to go. 

So, why am I sitting here telling this little story?  Because if I don’t sit down and write through some of the anxiety I’m feeling right now, I may wind up going downstairs and pushing her Craigslist perusing ass right the hell out of her chair and onto the floor. 

And also, because it’s sort of the background to the things that I am doing and the life that I’m starting over…again….this time, at 40.

The relationship went for five and half years.  But, it never really got off the ground right…or well…or easily.  It was difficult almost from the start and despite our squabbles being part of what she called “growing pains,” ultimately we never really fixed the squabbles, so much as we kind of ignored the elephants in the room until walking around them became more an exercise in labyrinth maneuvering than problem solving.  If we weren’t catching our clothes on their tusks, we’d be face deep in their asses.

Before we struck up the relationship, I’d had—what I considered—a pretty ok kind of a life.  I had a stable, albeit difficult job, money to afford everything I needed and some of the things that I merely wanted, I went places with friends and was able to find myself time to do what I wanted to.  The only downside was that my lifelong struggle with insecurity and shyness kept me in a rather…mmm…chaste existence.  But, even that was tolerable.

Since the relationship, I didn’t much socialize, money for play things was nearly non-existent and money just for survival was…well…you’d think I was trying out for a professional spot on the US Bill Juggling Team.  They say money can’t buy happiness, and I suppose, for some, that’s true, but money can buy a certain amount of security that brings a sort of happiness with it. 

But, again, I don’t want to rehash this relationship, so much as I just want to say that I’m’ doing some stuff now.  I’m going places again (though, it’s hard to feel comfortable out and about in the world when you spent the last five years of your life stressed out thinking that you had to get home before there were consequences, big or small).

So, I’m going to try to get some of them in here from time to time.  I’ve done a couple of interesting things in the past few weeks, and I guess I’d just like to share…

So…next up, Akron Caves in Akron New York.  I’ll bring you a little bit of that, the next time I sit down with you here.

A Protein Shake with Strangers

OK....so it's been a while since I've been here.  I'm not convinced I am letting down a single soul (other than myself), so I'm not exactly penitant. 

On a side note, my girlfriend of five and a half years is in the process of leaving, so things 'round the old homestead have sort of taken precedence over coming here to hang out.  Naah mean?  (read that as "You know what I mean?"  City slang attributed to teaching junior high/high school English for way too many years)

Anyhoo...

I met two guys this morning.  Town workers who happened to be paving in the area and happened to be walking toward the entrance of the grocery store coffee shop at the exact time that I happened to be exiting my Jeep to do the same.  The younger guy--somewhere in his early to mid 20s--was dressed in a chartreuse town shirt and jeans and the older guy dressed similarly in an orange town shirt.  I smiled at them as I exited the Jeep...y'see...here's the thing.  The red Jeep--the (ex?) g/f's--has been lifted approximately six or so inches.  Not much in the big scheme of things, but considering that Jeeps already sit a tiny bit higher than cars, that six inches might as well be a mile.  Where as I can exit my own Jeep sideways, one leg at a time, this Jeep, I sort of have to hop out of.  If I try to slide out one leg at a time, I end up having to hold onto the steering wheel and sliding out like an infant trying to get off the couch.  What I have chosen to do, instead, is turn myself sideways in the seat so that both legs are hanging out of the door at the same time and just hop out.

Here's the rub.

Depending on how far forward I've ratcheted the seat, sometimes the distance between myself and the steering wheel isn't exactly great enough for me to make a smooth egress.  Yeah...It's not real graceful. 

So, as I ungracefully made my way out of the Jeep, I glanced up at the two guys that were looking at me and grinned. 

Arriving at the entrance door at about the same time, the older of the two guys swept open the door for me in a chivalrous gesture. 

Fast forward to our simultaneous approach to the coffee counter where he, once again, chivalrously offered a "ladies first".  For the next few minutes, we made small talk as we waited for my drink and his turn to order.  He told me that he'd eaten WAY too much seafood the night before (and, in rattling off his fare, I couldn't do anything but agree with him) and I told him of a recent weight loss that a meal like that would have destroyed.  Younger guy rolled up at that point and stood to the side listening to our conversation, but not adding anything of his own.

When it came time for older guy to place his order, he went with a "Mango/Pineapple Protein Smoothie" with a banana thrown in for good measure.  I thought he was joking, and wound up looking at him like his was joking. 

He wasn't.

And he told me that I now had to wait around until it was finished so that I could try a taste. 

I gotta admit; I was a little stressed about the familiarity of the action with such an unfamiliar person.  But, as I am 40...and recently singled, I informed myself that I would be doing a lot more things than I have historically done.  Add to that mix that I really hate telling people "no," and well...there you have it.

We continued to make small talk for the next few minutes...about his job, flying and motorcycling (which he doesn't do because he fears "blue-haired old ladies in the welding goggles, late for their hair appointments - which were yesterday--that were going to be the ones to take his leg off."  Point taken.)

He peeled the end wrapping off a straw and extended it to me and when he dropped the paper on the floor and I bent to pick it up, he, in a friendly way, jostled me out of the way and told me not to dare.  I jostled him back and let him pick the paper up.

Evidently, the girl behind the counter was listening to everything we'd said, as, when she handed him his drink, she handed me a small one of my own.  It was a tasty as he said it would be.  And, at this point, the younger guy spoke up and added, "They have strawberry/banana too," and nodded.

So, there's the story.  I'll not comment, and leave you to your own comments on it.  Suffice to say, Western new York really does have some really nice people.

Is it Really Just a Number?

It’s been said that a rose by any other name would still smell as sweet.  True, but is a theory you’d want to test out if the rose was instead named the All-American Summer Armpit?  I don’t know that I’d be brave enough.

All that to say, I’m having trouble with this “40” thing.  And I kinda have been, actually.  Since, like, I don’t know…I was 39 or so.

At first I was excited.  Big time.  I have, what is known in some circles as a “baby face” and I thought, that if people at least knew that I was 40, that they would give me a pass on the face and think me more cultured and mature.  Turns out, I was sort of deluding myself a bit.  People are shocked when they hear that I am 40, but it hasn’t bought me any more “boy, you must have some real life experience” credits than before.  Kind of a bummer. 

All that aside, though, I’m starting to feel a tiny bit of…well, what can only be described as panic.  There are a lot of things that I am no longer, at 40.  I’m no longer able to metabolize yesterday’s stack of comfort pancakes, for example.  They seem, now to simply reform themselves, much like the Robert Patrick terminator, in my stomach, where they proceed to turn on their end and push outward against my belt. 

I am no longer able to find an occasional gray hair.  I see them every day, every time I look in the mirror, as they stand up to say good morning no matter what hour of the day.

I am no longer able to drink a six pack and wake up the next morning ready to drink another.  For that matter, I am no longer able to get in the morning without grunting, groaning, inhaling sharply, cracking or popping something or farting. 

I am no longer able to walk into a bar wondering if I will need to grab my id out of the glove compartment. 

I am no longer able to take for granted that, if someone is wildly interested in what I am saying, it’s because he or she really wants to fuck me.  Further, I am no longer certain that a dinner invitation means I’ll be working off the meal later that night.

I’m no longer able to tell myself that my Harley isn’t a mid-life crisis vehicle, that I don’t look like I’m trying to hold onto youth when I’m driving my Jeep, or that playing my radio too loud isn’t more annoying than cool.

I think my days of free passes are over. 

So yeah…40 is stressing me out.  I’m hoping that, by 41, I will be a little more comfortable in mid-life shoes.  That I will embrace my adulthood with a “yeah, bitch!” attitude and the confidence to match.

I hope.

On the Road Again...

So…last year, I bought a motorcycle.  My first.  Not only had I never driven one in my life—well, unless you count that time a friend of mine let me try his out in a parking lot and upon stopping (after approximately 18 feet of driving), promptly went over on my side.  But, I don’t count that one.  So, not only had I never really driven one, but I’d barely spent any time riding on one. 

But I have a friend, John.  And, I suspect we all have a “John” in our lives.  He’s the friend that agrees with you when you say, “I think that a quick jog down the middle of Main Street wearing nothing but a clown nose is exactly what I need right now.  What do you think?”  Last year, when I said, I’m thinking of doing the Coney Island Polar Bear swim the first weekend of March, he’s the guy who came with me for the seven plus hours in the car with the stop off in NJ to visit Shades of Death Road. 

Anyway, John started cruising Craigslist when I once cavalierly announced that I wanted a Honda Rebel.  And then he got me cruising Craigslist…just out of curiosity.  I, to this day, have no idea what possessed me to call on the ad that went in one Saturday morning for a Honda Rebel for $1,000 obo.  And I have no idea what I was thinking when I told the guy that I’d like to come look at it.  And I sure haven’t a clue why I ultimately bought the thing for $750 that I didn’t have and had to borrow from John. 

But, all those “no ideas” notwithstanding, I bought the thing and when we got it back to my place, John said, “ride your bike up the driveway.”  I, literally, looked at him as though he’d spoken Farsi in a falsetto voice.  I just couldn’t comprehend the idea that I was going to get on a motorcycle—my motorcycle—and drive it…even such a short distance as the length of my driveway.  But I did.  Holy shit, I drove a motorcycle and didn’t crash and didn’t tip over and didn’t kill anybody.  Holy shit, I just drove a motorcycle…my motorcycle.  Heh.

Despite his ache (and my own) to do something wrong, something harmlessly illegal, something victimlessly criminal, John wouldn’t take me riding until I’d gotten the bike registered and insured and passed my motorcycle permit test.  Understandable, as I wouldn’t have wanted to get caught, which I was certain I would.  I had melodramatic visions of pulling out of my driveway and immediately be surrounded by police cars racing from either end of my street to box me in and pull weapons before I could make an heroic getaway a la Thelma  & Louise.  A helicopter would be circling overhead, its floodlight pinning me to the street like an insect to a specimen board. 

Melodrama aside, I got my permit; I got the bike registered and insured and John and I went riding.  He came over one night and said, “Let’s go.”  And we just went.  No fanfare, no drama, no jerking around.  We simply got on the bikes and rode. 

Terrifying.

Exhilarating.

Addicting.

Terrifying.

Exhilarating. 

I don’t have a short clue as to why I ended up waiting so long before I did this.  Seriously.  I let my apprehension…cowardice…get the best of me sometimes.  I exaggerate things in my brain and then just get frozen in place.  It’s stupid, but it happens.

Anyway.  It wasn’t long before I had my eye on something a bit more grand in scale. 

In poking around—as I am often wont to do—I discovered a relatively new bike in Harley’s line of Sportster models.  The Iron 883. 

When I was younger, I’d seen someone, somewhere on a Sportster.  I couldn’t tell you the model, the color, the anything more than I immediately fell in love with it.  It was another The Terminator moment in my life.  When I was a freshman in high school, the original terminator movie came out.  And, I don’t know if you remember, but at the end, Sarah Connor (Linda Hamilton) was driving off into the Mexican sunset in a topless red Jeep Renegade, German Sheppard at her side.  Since I’d already fallen in love with her ninety minutes earlier, I fell in love with the Jeep.  Being who I am, I knew that, when it came to be time for me to buy a vehicle, there wouldn’t be another one that would make me happy.  In 2000, I finally got my own Jeep.  It’s black, not red, and I haven’t yet driven off in to the Mexican sunset, but I have taken it cross country, top down, music blaring. 

It was just about like that with the Iron.  It was not exactly what I thought of when I thought of Sportsters, but it was better.  Matte black tins and tank, low to the ground, me sized.  I fell in love at first sight and knew that that was “the one”. 

In July 2010, I bought my very own Iron 883. 

It’s in the shop right now.

Once I get over my anger at it for making a second trip to the shop in about a month, I’ll post you further. 

Dear You...

I feel like I’ve written this a hundred times…and that I’ll be writing it a hundred more.  Of course, it hasn’t been nearly that many, but…it might be some day. 

Through all of the writes and rewrites, what remains consistent is the fact that I am utterly taken by you.  No matter how hard I try not to be, I can’t seem to help it or get over it.  No matter how much I reason with myself, nothing I say makes enough sense.

I see you here and there; I know a little of you—enough to make me want to know more—and I can’t help but wonder what it might be like to hold your hand…to sit down somewhere and talk, just you and I…to look you in the eye through it all.

I know…you have yours and I have mine…I might stray; I would never ask you to.  Were I someone else, someone a little bolder, a little more confident, a little more reckless, I don’t know that I wouldn’t.  But I’m not, so I guess that means you’re in the clear.  Right?

God, I don’ t know what it is about you!  What is it that makes it so damn hard to get you out of my head.  I read books, I watch TV and movies, I fill my days with work and distractions and still, the minute that I am unencumbered, the minute my head is free, you slide back in like water through the slightest opening in my wall, filling my head with images of someday being allowed to kiss you.  Moving pictures of our lips meeting and the intoxication that always accompanies those first kisses.  Inevitably, the kiss will play itself out in my head, sometimes a gentle brush of our lips leading to a measured, rhythmic ebb and flow of kissing, sometimes a frantic, near manic crush of mouth on mouth.  Whatever the beginning, whatever the act, the dream always leaves me feeling as though I’d been physically struck.

Sometimes, you come to me at night…inhabiting my dreams, convincing me that you are real, that you are really looking me in the eye, touching my skin, kissing my lips.  Sometimes, for long minutes I believe that you are there, that we are together, that all of the images that fill my head are finally becoming something more than lingering thoughts and desperate wishes…….

But then, invariably, I awaken to find you are not there, that all I have is the memory of what it felt like for our lips to meet……..

Gray Hair "Down There" and Some of the Other Indignities of Growing Old

Oh, the indignities of growing old.  They are broad in scope and without number. 

I started going gray when I was in my mid or late 20s.  But, it wasn’t anything I was going to get overly excited about.  It was only one or two and I only really noticed them when I was in bright light and they were sticking straight up out of the top of my head like my head had been discovered by an outside nation and they planted their flag in claim.  I’d always look at it with a mixture of exasperation and smug joy.  The exasperation came from the mere fact that it was so very obtrusive, so proud to be intruding that it just had to stand up tall.  But that smug joy?  Well, that came from being absolutely convinced that that gray hair would bring many more with it and once they stood unified, I would be looked at with a certain measure of respect for the very fact of being old…er.  Y’see, I have what’s known as a baby face.  I could post my first grade class photo and anybody who knows me would take no time at all to identify me amid the cluster of faces.  Problem is, since then, they only come in at the rate of approximately two per year.  They’re not helping the “baby face” situation…at all.  They do, however, subject me to the occasional comment about them from some student who is taller than I.  Fabulous.

Gray hair notwithstanding, growing old has brought a really interesting set of changes to my life.  And read “interesting” as “what the fuck?!” 

How about the morning’s first pee?  You know, the one that starts just as I’m pulling my PJ bottoms down?

That’s not good enough for you?  How about those little red freckles appearing on your chest?  Yeah…those are cute…if you’re trying to look like a six year old with chicken pox…or, even better, a teenager with wayward bacne.  Great.

The sneezing/farting syndrome, an (or two) errant chin hairs, less than perky breasts, looser extra weight than before, the inability to eat one peanut’s worth of calories more than your scientifically calculated recommended daily caloric intake without either gaining weight or being constipated for three days.  Gahd! 

But all those things…every single one of them would be rather tolerable were it not for the truly astonishing discovery of one single gray hair “down there”!  DOWN THERE!! 

In glancing down whist perched on the bowl one afternoon, something odd caught my eye.  At first, I thought, “Can’t be!”  I was SURE that it was a reflection of the light pouring in from the skylight just overhead…and a few feet to the left…and a foot or two forward.  But light does funny things….right?  Right?? 

A shift in the offender’s placement proved to me that, no matter what  the light was doing at that precise moment in time, it wasn’t reflecting off of the single hair that was, in fact, gray.

Dammit.