Sprang

Back from a rousing, rollicking hike with my brother. We started out up Old Mountain Road wtih the intent of driving to the parking lot and making our way up the blue trail to the Summit House, the same as we always have.
Instead, I impulsively pulled to the side of the rutted dirt road halfway to the parking area and we began to ascend via the red path, past the cabin maintained by Mount Holyoke College. However, once we reached the open swath of land which traverses the peaks and valleys of the Seven Sisters, the alleyway cleared for the powerlines, we decided to follow it. And so, up and down the rocky, bramble-covered hills we went, over several streams, past four or five conduit towers. Finally, we reached the base of a near vertical slope, the farthest visible from our starting point and our reason for attempting this route. Scattered the extent of this towering obstacle were the rusted-out corpses of abandoned cars, crushed like tin cans, their upholstery replaced by fern and lichen.
We scrambled slowly, desperately up the elevation. We sweated and strained, digging into the copper-colored scree. Surrounded by the wrecks, in t-shirt and cargo pants, clambering over red and black rock amidst weeds and thorns, I felt like a character in some post-apocolyptic film. My brother made for the tree-line and picked his way up the hill. Upon attaining the summit, he proceeded to playfully throw rocks in my direction. One of the above mentioned stones richoceted off a boulder to my right and struck me on the ankle. Smarting duecedly, I pulled myself over some rock formations and also attained the summit.
After reaching the top of that seemingly insurmountable rise, we made our way east toward the Summit House, visible, over several peaks in the distance. We slid down a precipitous wooded decline to a surging stream, and thence back along the red path and finally around to the truck.
All in all a fine adventure.

There is much to discuss since our last encounter, Dear Reader. I will opt to go in reverse chronological order, as that seems the only way I'll remember everything.

Yesterday, the 11th, I participated, with my brother and father, in the 3rd annual Leprechaun Plunge.
For those unfamiliar with the event, it is a drunken, white-trash costumed clusterfuck for charity involving hordes of goofballs running and leaping into the near-freezing Connecticut River.
I feel that such charity events say something negative about the human condition. I am all for car washes and spaghetti suppers and silent auctions. In those, good-hearted folks volunteer their time and energy and then other good-hearted folks give them money in exchange for a service and the money goes to a worthy cause.
I have never quite liked the practice of folks offering to do something difficult so that other folks will donate money to unrelated charities. "Here, if you give money to Habitat for Humanity, I'll run naked through the Mall." "If you're willing to give just twenty bucks to the Salvation Army, I'll ride my bike for fifty miles . . ."
Why not just solicit donations for donations' sake? Why must someone perform some completely separate unwelcome task to persuade people to be generous?
Be that as it may, it was an enjoyable time, and no mistake.
The day was bright and blustery. The event, at Brunelle's Marina was well attended.
I was petrified at the prospect of submerging myself in the icy water.
(I do not do well with the cold. Much though my Nordic ancestors might scoff, my blood runs more for the tropics than the tundra.)
The air was redolent with the familiar mixture of car exhaust, cigar smoke, spilled beer, and charred grilled burgers.
I associate these smells with the sounds of loud, desperate, jocular talk and amatuer marching bands warming up. The brazen horns and jarring drum beats echoing through the clear, crisp air.
To give you some idea as to the extent of my trepidation: I stood in the mass of plungers, clad only in a Speedo, goggles, and sneakers, directly behind the entire South Hadley High School girls' lacrosse team. The girls giggled excitedly, shivering. The spritely teen in front of me shook her head back and forth, her long pony tail tickling my frozen nipples. I was so scared I felt absolutely no stirring of desire. Not even the several toasty swigs of Irish liquid courage from my hip flask lessened my anxiety.
Before I knew what was happening, I was up. My brother tore off first, impetuously, and skipped jauntily to the river. I followed, along with the rest of our group. Adrenaline pumping through me, I didn't notice the cold until I was about thigh deep. Then the icy knives began to work their way in. I took this as my cue to dive. Muscles clenched, eyes riveted on the murky grey water, I plunged headlong into the river. Oddly enough I was more conscious of the silty, swirling sight of the water than the temperature. I sprang up from the drink, shook vigorously, and dove under again. And then it was land-ho again. I skipped, blood coursing with adrenaline and oblivious of the cold, out from the river. I beamed at the assembled spectators, exctiedly slapped my chest and hooted like a gorilla.
Then the cold came over me, slowly. Shivering, I retreated back to the Jameson.

The weather has been truly magnificient as of late. It fills me both with heady anticipation and also with a daunting fear. The warmth and brightness heralds a triumphant Spring and Summer, potentially filled with rousing adventures, sunny days, hikes, cycling, motorcyle rides, beach trips. I want to sit on the benches overlooking the ponds at Mount Holyoke College and sketch landscapes in between feeding the ducks, I want to take my canoe out on the river and spend a whole day rowing north, docking possibly in Greenfield for lunch. I want to drink Summer beers with citrus garnishes and chilled white wine. I want to relax by outdoor fires, breathing in the cool, fragrant night air.
The thrill of these possibilies is mitigated by the knowledge that I have to actually get off my ass and do them. It will require planning and effort on my part and I do not have the greatest track record when it comes to taking chances and making the best of my situation.

Alas. Let come what may.

I cannot sing loudly enough the praises of a new audio book to which I've been listening; Professor Moriarty: The Hound of the D'Urbervilles, by Kim Newman. It uses the template of the Sherlock Holmes canon, but usesHolmes' nemesis, the wicked Professon James Moriarty, and his henchman, Colonel Sebastian Moran as a twisted mirror image of Holmes and Watson. Moran, like Watson a veteranand newly arrived back home in London, winds up cohabiting with and working for Moriarty, and he narrates the adventures just as Watson did.
The stories are exciting, ribald, raucous romps, told with rich characterization and clever twists. References abound to other Holmes stories and other literature in general, with many famous heroes and villains making cameos.
An absolute treat.
\
I feel there is much more I wanted to discuss in this post, but it all has slipped my mind for the moment.

I will touch back soon, however.

My advice to y'all? Try a dip in the river,