You too can go on a trail ride with me!
Click on the pushpins on the left, you'll be taken to the location on the map. Cool!!
Monday, October 4, 2010
So Near, and Yet So Far
Although Dunstable is, compared to Lowell, "the country", there aren't a lot of places to trail ride near where I keep Dusty and Tico.
There are some small trails out behind the back fields, winding through the woods for about a half mile or so, but after a while it just seems a bit boring - even if occasionally, 1 or 2 or twenty wild turkeys show up wanting to share the path.
There is one trail though - out at the far end of the big field behind the Crystal Farm property, across a small street, along the power lines - that has been beckoning, just out of reach.
Over the years we've managed to get through and over the huge logs surrounding a 4 foot high 2 foot wide berm, across a tiny brook that Tico feels the need to leapfrog some - not all - of the time we cross it (he likes to keep things exciting), and onto a small street that people drive on as if they're practicing for the Monaco Grand Prix.
We've crossed the street, ridden down it for about 25 feet, cursing at drivers who won't slow down when they see a horse and followed a rutted, muddy path widened by ATVs,lined by scruffy shrubs and reeds, into an area that's really, most of the time, a nasty swamp.
And usually, we end up turning back because our horses hate getting their tootsies muddy.
Not that we let them get away with it - there would be discussion. Tico would, in his efforts to avoid the nasty black rutted wet goopy dirt on the path (which was at least partially packed down by the ATVs) dance sideways into the nasty black wet goopy dirt OFF the path, which he couldn't actually see was nasty black wet goopy dirt because it was covered with dead branches, roots, swamp grass, sad excuses for bushes, reeds, and other bog flora. It was however, in his mind at least, *safer*. Never mind that he'd sink in knee and hock deep - he'd rather thrash around in the underbrush than walk sanely across Oh My God MUD.
And to continue in the "keep things exciting" vein, he would occasionally walk up to one of the wetter mud patches, nose down and appearing to be mulling actually walking across it like a Big Boy, before gathering all four feet together and leapfrogging that as well.
So far, he has yet to deposit ME in the mud, but it's been close.
Why were we putting ourselves (and our dainty little flower equines) through this unpleasantness? Because, just past one last nasty wet deep pool of sludge and water, just beyond it, are real honest to goodness, DRY trails following the powerlines. Nirvana!
So...
This summer has been very dry and hot. We hadn't ventured out that way for a while -the deer fly population doesn't seem to mind dry heat; as a matter of fact they seemed to thrive on it. Suffice to say, being chased home by swarms of deer flies as thick as your worst nightmare about killer bee swarms is not enjoyable.
But about a month ago one of the other boarders, Elaine, and I, thinking that what with the fact that the other short trails (which had had some muck and water here and there as well) were now bone dry, it might be fun to give the Path to Nirvana another try.
We crossed the log and berm area, across the (now dry) tiny stream, managed to survive the Speedway, and started along the uneven path.
As we came upon the first of the previously formidable horse-eating areas, we started to rejoice. It was dry! The next one, the same. We wove around some more scrappy brush, and again, and again; except that the "trouble spots" were dry dirt and not grassy, you'd have not realized there had ever been a reason for equine vapors here.
But then we came to the Big Kahuna of muck. Not as big as it had been, though big enough to be heartbreaking: brackish standing water, dark mud, and who knows what all *in* the water that could grab hooves and cause injuries.
It may as well have been the Grand Canyon, there was no way we were going to get them into that, and at least in this instance we agreed with them. It's never a good thing to ask a horse to step into water that is probably barely a foot deep but so nasty you can't see what's underneath. At least you can *see* and avoid roots and broken bottles on dry ground.
We turned back, saddened but not defeated: Elaine had a plan...
There are some small trails out behind the back fields, winding through the woods for about a half mile or so, but after a while it just seems a bit boring - even if occasionally, 1 or 2 or twenty wild turkeys show up wanting to share the path.
There is one trail though - out at the far end of the big field behind the Crystal Farm property, across a small street, along the power lines - that has been beckoning, just out of reach.
Over the years we've managed to get through and over the huge logs surrounding a 4 foot high 2 foot wide berm, across a tiny brook that Tico feels the need to leapfrog some - not all - of the time we cross it (he likes to keep things exciting), and onto a small street that people drive on as if they're practicing for the Monaco Grand Prix.
We've crossed the street, ridden down it for about 25 feet, cursing at drivers who won't slow down when they see a horse and followed a rutted, muddy path widened by ATVs,lined by scruffy shrubs and reeds, into an area that's really, most of the time, a nasty swamp.
And usually, we end up turning back because our horses hate getting their tootsies muddy.
Not that we let them get away with it - there would be discussion. Tico would, in his efforts to avoid the nasty black rutted wet goopy dirt on the path (which was at least partially packed down by the ATVs) dance sideways into the nasty black wet goopy dirt OFF the path, which he couldn't actually see was nasty black wet goopy dirt because it was covered with dead branches, roots, swamp grass, sad excuses for bushes, reeds, and other bog flora. It was however, in his mind at least, *safer*. Never mind that he'd sink in knee and hock deep - he'd rather thrash around in the underbrush than walk sanely across Oh My God MUD.
And to continue in the "keep things exciting" vein, he would occasionally walk up to one of the wetter mud patches, nose down and appearing to be mulling actually walking across it like a Big Boy, before gathering all four feet together and leapfrogging that as well.
So far, he has yet to deposit ME in the mud, but it's been close.
Why were we putting ourselves (and our dainty little flower equines) through this unpleasantness? Because, just past one last nasty wet deep pool of sludge and water, just beyond it, are real honest to goodness, DRY trails following the powerlines. Nirvana!
So...
This summer has been very dry and hot. We hadn't ventured out that way for a while -the deer fly population doesn't seem to mind dry heat; as a matter of fact they seemed to thrive on it. Suffice to say, being chased home by swarms of deer flies as thick as your worst nightmare about killer bee swarms is not enjoyable.
But about a month ago one of the other boarders, Elaine, and I, thinking that what with the fact that the other short trails (which had had some muck and water here and there as well) were now bone dry, it might be fun to give the Path to Nirvana another try.
We crossed the log and berm area, across the (now dry) tiny stream, managed to survive the Speedway, and started along the uneven path.
As we came upon the first of the previously formidable horse-eating areas, we started to rejoice. It was dry! The next one, the same. We wove around some more scrappy brush, and again, and again; except that the "trouble spots" were dry dirt and not grassy, you'd have not realized there had ever been a reason for equine vapors here.
But then we came to the Big Kahuna of muck. Not as big as it had been, though big enough to be heartbreaking: brackish standing water, dark mud, and who knows what all *in* the water that could grab hooves and cause injuries.
It may as well have been the Grand Canyon, there was no way we were going to get them into that, and at least in this instance we agreed with them. It's never a good thing to ask a horse to step into water that is probably barely a foot deep but so nasty you can't see what's underneath. At least you can *see* and avoid roots and broken bottles on dry ground.
We turned back, saddened but not defeated: Elaine had a plan...
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Getting Old Ain't for the Faint of Heart.
I went to see my dad yesterday, and we watched the “Saturday Matinee” together. They get a Netflix movie in every Saturday, and the old folks at the assisted living facility he lives in watch it in the Common Room.
So we’re all in watching “Night at the Museum”, with Ben Stiller (and a small part with his mom, Ann Meara playing a job counselor), and half the old folks are having a hard time following the plot. My dad is a bit confused by it too – I think when there’s a lot going on, they just can’t keep up. Then again, it may be that, like my dad they none of them really use their hearing aids correctly, so can’t actually hear it that well.
But one little old lady was really struggling: “Does anyone know what’s going on?” “Oh! That scared me, too!” "What just happened?"
She started to get more and more agitated.
The aides were both off doing other stuff – not all the residents go in to watch the movie, but those that do, they pretty much don’t have to worry about for a couple of hours. It's the ones who don't, who are scattered around the facility, that they need to check on individually, who are a bit more worrisome.
Most of the old folks watching the movie are sitting in these really comfy upholstered swivel/rocking chairs. Once they sit in them, they all pretty much are stuck until someone helps them out of them. Having had to drag my dad out of one a couple of weeks ago, I’d put him into a comfy chair that didn’t move around, and sat in another next to him.
I looked over at the old gal a few times – she seemed to be getting upset, and kept wiping her nose, almost as if she was crying, though she didn’t appear to be. She would exclaim about something, everyone would look over at her sympathetically, but she otherwise was fine so we all would turn back to the movie.
Suddenly, she decided she wanted to stand up. There were a couple of old guys sitting behind her. “Hold the back of my chair, I want to stand up!” she demanded. They held it, but she got really petulant – “Hold the back of my chair!” “We ARE!” they said. "Well, hold it STILL!" she demanded.
She stood up, slightly hunched over, almost teetering forward. Slowly, she started pulling on her skirt, bunching it up in her hands. Pulling, bunching… those of us who could see her, sat there, curious, watching. I initially thought perhaps it had gotten wrinkled and uncomfortable underneath her, and she was trying to pull it straight, slowly strugging with arthritic fingers to make it right.
But no: with each scrunching of her skirt it came up higher, up over her knees, up to her thighs. We all watched, transfixed, as she grabbed the hem and lifted it up, pulling it over her head.
She was wearing pantyhose (thank goodness). I don’t think she had any underpants on. Now that she had the skirt up over her head, she wiped her nose on it, then started arthritically picking at the band of the pantyhose.
There was a floor to ceiling support in between her and my dad – he couldn’t see anything. “What’s going on?” he asked. “Nothing dad – watch the movie.” I sat there, torn between keeping him company or going over to her and trying to settle this poor thing down, and help restore her dignity.
My own discomfort kept me anchored to my seat. I feel shame for that - I wish I could have acted compassionately and ended the spectacle sooner.
At that point, the daughter of one of the old guys behind her walked in to the room, saw what was going on, and went to find one of the aides. Nini, the aide, came in and persuaded the old gal to go back to her room.
I am sure that this sweet old lady would have been mortified had she realized what she was doing. I suppose there's some solace in the fact that she didn't know what she was doing, and certainly won't remember doing it.
But that doesn't make it any less sad.
So we’re all in watching “Night at the Museum”, with Ben Stiller (and a small part with his mom, Ann Meara playing a job counselor), and half the old folks are having a hard time following the plot. My dad is a bit confused by it too – I think when there’s a lot going on, they just can’t keep up. Then again, it may be that, like my dad they none of them really use their hearing aids correctly, so can’t actually hear it that well.
But one little old lady was really struggling: “Does anyone know what’s going on?” “Oh! That scared me, too!” "What just happened?"
She started to get more and more agitated.
The aides were both off doing other stuff – not all the residents go in to watch the movie, but those that do, they pretty much don’t have to worry about for a couple of hours. It's the ones who don't, who are scattered around the facility, that they need to check on individually, who are a bit more worrisome.
Most of the old folks watching the movie are sitting in these really comfy upholstered swivel/rocking chairs. Once they sit in them, they all pretty much are stuck until someone helps them out of them. Having had to drag my dad out of one a couple of weeks ago, I’d put him into a comfy chair that didn’t move around, and sat in another next to him.
I looked over at the old gal a few times – she seemed to be getting upset, and kept wiping her nose, almost as if she was crying, though she didn’t appear to be. She would exclaim about something, everyone would look over at her sympathetically, but she otherwise was fine so we all would turn back to the movie.
Suddenly, she decided she wanted to stand up. There were a couple of old guys sitting behind her. “Hold the back of my chair, I want to stand up!” she demanded. They held it, but she got really petulant – “Hold the back of my chair!” “We ARE!” they said. "Well, hold it STILL!" she demanded.
She stood up, slightly hunched over, almost teetering forward. Slowly, she started pulling on her skirt, bunching it up in her hands. Pulling, bunching… those of us who could see her, sat there, curious, watching. I initially thought perhaps it had gotten wrinkled and uncomfortable underneath her, and she was trying to pull it straight, slowly strugging with arthritic fingers to make it right.
But no: with each scrunching of her skirt it came up higher, up over her knees, up to her thighs. We all watched, transfixed, as she grabbed the hem and lifted it up, pulling it over her head.
She was wearing pantyhose (thank goodness). I don’t think she had any underpants on. Now that she had the skirt up over her head, she wiped her nose on it, then started arthritically picking at the band of the pantyhose.
There was a floor to ceiling support in between her and my dad – he couldn’t see anything. “What’s going on?” he asked. “Nothing dad – watch the movie.” I sat there, torn between keeping him company or going over to her and trying to settle this poor thing down, and help restore her dignity.
My own discomfort kept me anchored to my seat. I feel shame for that - I wish I could have acted compassionately and ended the spectacle sooner.
At that point, the daughter of one of the old guys behind her walked in to the room, saw what was going on, and went to find one of the aides. Nini, the aide, came in and persuaded the old gal to go back to her room.
I am sure that this sweet old lady would have been mortified had she realized what she was doing. I suppose there's some solace in the fact that she didn't know what she was doing, and certainly won't remember doing it.
But that doesn't make it any less sad.
Friday, June 25, 2010
It's Amazing What a Little Sleep Can Do
Not that I got caught up particularly quickly - I have some issues sleeping, or at least staying asleep. But, a couple of days later, I was almost feeling human.
I had a whole lot more written, and then the internet connection crapped out mid-save, which meant nothing saved. :( Things have been great, We've done a bunch of dives, and I'll write more later. I just didn't want to leave it at "Vacation from Hell" because though it started out a bit roughly, things have been wonderful since and I'd only written those first few posts to give some background to the whole Wow, Things Are GREAT Now theme.
Later, dudes...
I had a whole lot more written, and then the internet connection crapped out mid-save, which meant nothing saved. :( Things have been great, We've done a bunch of dives, and I'll write more later. I just didn't want to leave it at "Vacation from Hell" because though it started out a bit roughly, things have been wonderful since and I'd only written those first few posts to give some background to the whole Wow, Things Are GREAT Now theme.
Later, dudes...
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Vacation in Bonaire - Inauspicious Start, Fini
As we dragged our luggage along, we checked the numbers on the doors and stairwells. In our overtired and overwrought state, it was as if we'd entered the Twilight Zone: 96, 98, 92, 94, 88... well, we found the one we would be spending two weeks in, unlocked the door, and dragged ourselves and our luggage in.
The room was a bit... used looking. As a matter of fact, it appeared that at some point in the not-too-distant past, someone had set off a bunch of firecrackers in the bathroom and entryway: the tiles were pocked with what looked like little burn marks. I went into the bathroom and noticed there was no shower curtain. The closet space still had the unmistakeable smell of ocean funk lingering. "I'll be buying some Lysol before I hang my clean clothes in there" I thought. I'm actually amazed I had such a coherent thought, I was so tired. The AC however was working like a champ and was cranked way up.
We dropped our stuff, and I walked back to the front desk to ask about a shower curtain. I was really looking forward to a shower. I got back to the room and Geoffrey was sprawled out on a bed, nearly asleep.
Unfortunately, I was now WIRED: Must Get Things All Sorted Out Before Resting. I dragged Geoffrey out to walk down the street to buy some Lysol and a couple of other things, and we spent some time at some of the shops.
When we got back, there was still no shower curtain. This time as I walked into the room I noticed the artwork on the wall for the first time.
I was beat. I read it as "HELL"
The room was a bit... used looking. As a matter of fact, it appeared that at some point in the not-too-distant past, someone had set off a bunch of firecrackers in the bathroom and entryway: the tiles were pocked with what looked like little burn marks. I went into the bathroom and noticed there was no shower curtain. The closet space still had the unmistakeable smell of ocean funk lingering. "I'll be buying some Lysol before I hang my clean clothes in there" I thought. I'm actually amazed I had such a coherent thought, I was so tired. The AC however was working like a champ and was cranked way up.
We dropped our stuff, and I walked back to the front desk to ask about a shower curtain. I was really looking forward to a shower. I got back to the room and Geoffrey was sprawled out on a bed, nearly asleep.
Unfortunately, I was now WIRED: Must Get Things All Sorted Out Before Resting. I dragged Geoffrey out to walk down the street to buy some Lysol and a couple of other things, and we spent some time at some of the shops.
When we got back, there was still no shower curtain. This time as I walked into the room I noticed the artwork on the wall for the first time.
I was beat. I read it as "HELL"
Still Exhausted
We wandered back to the front desk after eating breakfast. We were still shuffling hollow-eyed things, but we weren't hungry zombies anyway.
Our room still wasn't ready. Sigh.
We hung around in the office where there was airconditioning, and so we could at least dry off the sticky sweat. They had wifi, and I soon got my netbook connected.
Dive orientation would be at 9AM. The dive instructor to do the orientation wanted us to postpone it - Holland was mid-match in the World Cup and he was sitting at the bar watching it. Hope that our room would be soon available sprung eternal though, so we declined. Since the orientation would be taking place nearby to the TV at the bar, he could still see the replays if anything big happened. No, we aren't football fans. :) He was gracious about it.
Dive orientation over (with a couple of World Cup interruptions, but not too distracting), we again wandered over to the front desk. Our room was still not ready, and our strength and stamina was fading fast. We plonked down in the chairs in the office once again and waited.
"Soon!" the girl at the front desk said.
We joked with her, and asked after people we knew, and passed the time.
Finally, the room was ready. We dragged our luggage out of the back room and headed over.
Our room still wasn't ready. Sigh.
We hung around in the office where there was airconditioning, and so we could at least dry off the sticky sweat. They had wifi, and I soon got my netbook connected.
Dive orientation would be at 9AM. The dive instructor to do the orientation wanted us to postpone it - Holland was mid-match in the World Cup and he was sitting at the bar watching it. Hope that our room would be soon available sprung eternal though, so we declined. Since the orientation would be taking place nearby to the TV at the bar, he could still see the replays if anything big happened. No, we aren't football fans. :) He was gracious about it.
Dive orientation over (with a couple of World Cup interruptions, but not too distracting), we again wandered over to the front desk. Our room was still not ready, and our strength and stamina was fading fast. We plonked down in the chairs in the office once again and waited.
"Soon!" the girl at the front desk said.
We joked with her, and asked after people we knew, and passed the time.
Finally, the room was ready. We dragged our luggage out of the back room and headed over.
On Vacation: an inauspicious start
So, pretty much last minute (one month before takeoff) we decided to go on vacation to Bonaire again. The primary motivation being that it would be Captain Don's 85th birthday; the secondary being that I hadn't had a *real* vacation for 3 years and was starting to snap. All work and no play makes Susan a psychotic girl.
The flights were challenging, but they always are. It's just not easy getting to Bonaire. I ended up booking a 3-leg trip: Manchester NH on Friday afternoon through Cleveland, to Houston, and then the red-eye from Houston to Bonaire. My reasoning: with this itinerary, we'd have an extra day on-island.
I was a little concerned about making all the connections, especially the last as we only had 50o minutes between arrival and departure in Houston. It turned out I had nothing to worry about - there was a handicapped diving group, "Eels on Wheels", also travelling on this flight, so by the time they were all loaded we didn't actually take off for about an hour after the scheduled time.
One thing I hadn't banked on was just how grueling travelling for 12 hours really was.
Yes, checkin was it's usual unpleasant but grin and bear it experience: both Geoffrey and I have had both our hips replaced so we always end up being poked, prodded, and peeled. Then our luggage contains lots of electronic and camera attachment stuff which apparently look a lot like bomb-making instruments, so it's unpacked for us while we're being scanned and swiped. Then we have to repack it all, and try to fit everything back in. All this is time-consuming but once we clear security it's generally over with. We were able to stay in the secure areas for the entire journey, so once we got through that it was relatively clear sailing.
Maybe I'm just old, or maybe it's because I have a really hard time dozing on a plane, but after the half day schedule of fly-wait-change planes-fly-change-planes-wait-fly, I was a complete wet noodle when we landed in Bonaire. Where it was about 90 degrees at 6AM, and not a lot of air movement.
We gathered up our checked-in luggage, got a taxi to the place we're staying, found out that our room was still occupied. Not totally surprising, since checkout is around noon, so we piled our luggage in a back room and went wandering around. However, for whatever reason she couldn't ecen tell us the room we'd be in.
We were both zombie-like in our sleep deprived state. Not to mention, sticky, smelly, and getting grumpy. All we really wanted to do was get into our room and settle in, then go for dive orientation. We wandered back to the front desk and were told that the people in our room had checked out, but the maid hadn't cleaned it for us yet, so we'd have to wait.
Soon the restaurant was open and we wandered over.
We'd been here before, so knew it was a buffet breakfast. "Room number?" the cook asked. "We have no idea!" we told her, and explained our predicament. She remembered us from our other visits, so let us go through. As a matter of fact, she was able to determine our room number, and told us. The people here are beyond compare nice.
The flights were challenging, but they always are. It's just not easy getting to Bonaire. I ended up booking a 3-leg trip: Manchester NH on Friday afternoon through Cleveland, to Houston, and then the red-eye from Houston to Bonaire. My reasoning: with this itinerary, we'd have an extra day on-island.
I was a little concerned about making all the connections, especially the last as we only had 50o minutes between arrival and departure in Houston. It turned out I had nothing to worry about - there was a handicapped diving group, "Eels on Wheels", also travelling on this flight, so by the time they were all loaded we didn't actually take off for about an hour after the scheduled time.
One thing I hadn't banked on was just how grueling travelling for 12 hours really was.
Yes, checkin was it's usual unpleasant but grin and bear it experience: both Geoffrey and I have had both our hips replaced so we always end up being poked, prodded, and peeled. Then our luggage contains lots of electronic and camera attachment stuff which apparently look a lot like bomb-making instruments, so it's unpacked for us while we're being scanned and swiped. Then we have to repack it all, and try to fit everything back in. All this is time-consuming but once we clear security it's generally over with. We were able to stay in the secure areas for the entire journey, so once we got through that it was relatively clear sailing.
Maybe I'm just old, or maybe it's because I have a really hard time dozing on a plane, but after the half day schedule of fly-wait-change planes-fly-change-planes-wait-fly, I was a complete wet noodle when we landed in Bonaire. Where it was about 90 degrees at 6AM, and not a lot of air movement.
We gathered up our checked-in luggage, got a taxi to the place we're staying, found out that our room was still occupied. Not totally surprising, since checkout is around noon, so we piled our luggage in a back room and went wandering around. However, for whatever reason she couldn't ecen tell us the room we'd be in.
We were both zombie-like in our sleep deprived state. Not to mention, sticky, smelly, and getting grumpy. All we really wanted to do was get into our room and settle in, then go for dive orientation. We wandered back to the front desk and were told that the people in our room had checked out, but the maid hadn't cleaned it for us yet, so we'd have to wait.
Soon the restaurant was open and we wandered over.
We'd been here before, so knew it was a buffet breakfast. "Room number?" the cook asked. "We have no idea!" we told her, and explained our predicament. She remembered us from our other visits, so let us go through. As a matter of fact, she was able to determine our room number, and told us. The people here are beyond compare nice.
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