Rim-to-Rim-to-Hospital-to-Rim: The Grand Canyon in a Day

This is a long post, but it has lots of pix and is worth the read...minus the plethora of grammatical and punctuation errors because I refuse to proofread as an ongoing protest against the needless idiocy of the English language.

As I may have said in my earlier posts, I feel like the term adventure is overused. Adventure to me necessitates a certain level of isolation and risk. That's not to say one can't be adventurous in a controlled environment, (zoom-in on my complete self-butt kicking at the Five Borough Bike Tour) but generally if there's not the slightest risk of death, it's just not a good trip. Unfortunately, I came a bit too close to the edge in my most epic and death defying adventure yet.

The first look

The Plateau Trail

 There's a series of hikes that are fabled in the outdoors community. Said to be the most difficult day-hike in the North America, the legendary Rim-to-Rim-to-Rim hike, AKA R2R2R, is a 43 mile trek from the South edge of the Grand Canyon, through its winding and perilous canyons, to the North Rim. This would be foolhardy enough, but turns nearly unfathomable when you turn around to head back again all in the same day. There's warning all over the place that urging you not to hike the 12 miles to the Colorado River and back in a single day, let alone nearly quadruple that distance. In fact, it's so common that hikers fall ill, injure themselves or worse, that the first 10 miles of hike is monitored by a special crew of rescuers ready for the ill-fated. Did I mention it was August and 115 degrees? Because it was.

I made my way to the Canyon the day before I began my hike. After driving for hours from Phoenix I was more than ready to be inspired. What I witnessed at the edge of the Canyon, upon first glance, left my jaw so far hung open that I must have bared resemblance to an anime character. The depth of the valleys, the vastness of the Canyon and the brilliance of the hues of red and orange must truly be one of a kind on Earth.

After a riveting night of sleeping in my rented Ford Focus, I set off with a headlamp at around 4am. I wasn't the only one though, as hikers from far below made their way up, also with their headlamps aglow. I felt as if I was descending into a nest of fireflies, or the mines of Moria. I was well physically prepared for this hike. I had been running a round-trip of ten miles a day to the gym where I would lift. I was making such incredible time on my way down that maybe a dozen hikers coming from the opposite direction complimented my tenacity, speed and endurance.

My first stop of significance was a small ranch called Indian Gardens. I spent no time there, but I did take note of the large thermometer with a plaque hung above it, which read "This is your brain on sun." It was already in the 80's and it wasn't even 7am. I plowed ahead through a bizarre oasis of large trees and brilliant green plants. It was strange indeed, seeing how I was in fact in the middle of the desert. But a small tributary of the Colorado River gave life to thick and heathy tress, whose beauty offered a contrast to the gravel and stones that surrounded me otherwise.


My next stop was the Colorado River itself. Sure, it's just a river, but it was the river that formed the amazing Canyon over an unimaginable number of millennia. It was also much larger and more ferocious than your typical river. It invoked awe and pride as I knew I was killing the hike. By the time I got to the famous Phantom Ranch, where the equally famous Canyon mules reside, it was hot, blistering hot, sickly hot, dangerously hot. Forget anything you've heard about dry heat. 115 degrees is oppressive regardless of the humidity, and since I was at the bottom of the Canyon I had the pleasure of knowing that it was probably only in the 80's at the top of either rim.

I blasted out of Phantom Ranch and headed toward my next destination, Cottonwood Ranch. The hike from that point was in completely open exposure; no tress, no rock walls, no life....except the Diamond Back Rattlesnake in the middle of the trail that I gladly let pass after it shook its deadly behind at me. I had my first thoughts of turning around about here. I was miserable, too miserable to inspired by the scenery or the strength of my own determination. I wanted out in a major way. When I got to Cottonwood I was nearly trembling from the heat. I guzzled 3/4 of a gallon of water at the empty ranch, which ended up being my undoing, but more on that later. I trekked on, this time up the North Rim. With my quads bursting, sweat pouring, lungs gasping, head pounding and my shirt turned white from the amount if salt pouring out of my pores, I made it. I made it, but if didn't care. It felt good to sit, to see people again, to get some Gatorade and take my boots off, but I knew I had to go back. I didn't even care enough to snap too many pictures.

Beware of Diamondbacks

The hike back was alright until returning to Cottonwood. It was about there I starting thinking I wasn't going to make it. With the barren exposed portion of the trail ahead of me, I was feeling pretty depleted. I got back to Phantom Ranch after having wonderful conversations with momentary friends I made on the trail, but once there I knew I was going down. I slept for an hour on a bench in the shade, then woke up and was ready to devour my highest protein and calorie dense energy bar. I took one bite and became instantly horrified. Peanuts. I'm allergic to peanuts. Since I hiked a few miles outside of Phantom, it was too late to grab food there. My options were to eat the bar and risk vomiting, a sure way to guarantee a $10,000 helicopter ride out of the Canyon, or not eat and risk passing out, not being found and risking death on the trail. I took the first option.

I sat down by the Colorado river, and every 2,500 feet after that. Then every 2,000 feet, then 1,000. Soon I could stumble no more than 500 feet after every 5 minutes of rest. I was in trouble. Hikers were asking if I needed help, and after splitting off from a group of slow moving Korean hikers who were nice enough to leave me with a couple hot dogs, I decided I would ask the next hiker for help. He was a tall, blonde young man from Switzerland. He was more than happy to take my bag and let me walk uninhibited by its weight. This only got me another 1,000 feet until I collapsed again. He decided he would alert the Park Ranger and come back with help. I kept stammering along for another two hours and no one ever came....then it began to rain. My luck seemed almost out. At the rate I was going, I was two hours from Indian Gardens, had no cell reception and it was getting dark. It was about this time my leg muscles began involuntarily contracting so hard I found myself literally screaming from the pain. I decided to lay down on a clear slab of rock, nurse the gallon of water I had left and wait it out until morning, hoping nothing catastrophic was going to happen overnight. About then a crew of Minnesota hikers, all young and remarkably friendly stumbled upon me. They sent three of their friends to alert the Park Ranger and two stayed back with me.


By the time the Ranger got to me, the true gravity of my situation came to light. I was suffering from dehydration, but more seriously I was suffering from an electrolyte imbalance: my body had expelled practically all its sodium. A part of hiking in the desert that I was woefully unaware of was the need to enrich your water with salt, or run the risk of having the water you're drinking wash all the sodium out of your system. The Ranger tried to be comforting, but he later confessed he thought I was going to have to be evacuated via helicopter. He started his treatment by putting a pill on my tongue to keep me from vomiting. Next, he gave me something approximating Pedialyte and salt water. It tasted oddly comforting, but I could only sip on it. Between the five or six people present they were able to carry me back into the Ranger station. I've never been so grateful for the selfless kindness of strangers.

My hero!

Back at the Ranger station I was fed every salty dish available, primarily a giant bowl of life-affirming Ramen noodles; it was the best bowl of artificially chicken flavored noodles in my life. I slept the night in the station, was given Sprite in large quantities (it helps for a reason I can't recall) then I woke up feeling like nothing had ever happened and was mildly pissed I couldn't do R2R2R in a single day....next time! My name is Stephon and I'm addicted to hiking. I made the last six miles back with a pretty large crowd of hikers, including some tour guides that pointed out ancient painting on the rock wall.  I also ran into the mule train and the terrified riders who straddled their backs. I got to end the hike on a good note by finishing with a mother and her two young girls who only hiked a couple miles in and were on their way back. After telling them abut my night, the mother called me Superman, which her little girls gleefully referred to me as for the rest of the hike.

I didn't quite feel like Superman when I finally crested the South Rim, but I felt battled hardened with a touch of stupidity. Alls well that ends well though, and you hike, you learn. I would like to try the hike again, but maybe in January next time. You'll have to excuse me though, I have some Ramen to cook.

Hellos and Goodbyes: Stephon Gets a Job and Loses a Friend

A few rules of thumb regarding me: I can't spell and my grammar sucks, which I'm sure you've been whiteness to if you've been following me for a bit; I have an obsession with books, politics, and the mountains (clearly); but what you might not know about me is that I'm not a sentimental person.  Not a lot chokes me up and nostalgia isn't really an emotion I visit too often.  Unfortunately, I couldn't keep that up when one of my best friends, greatest pillars of support, drinking buddy, Brown Bear and often featured hiking mate told me she was going to move 6 hours away to Portland ME.  I knew it was coming, it wasn't surprising when she announced it, and I couldn't place one ounce of blame at her feet when she said she was taking off.  I would have to.  None of that mattered the day she left.  It was every bit as terrible as if she told me that morning.  I can only remember crying three times in my adult life.  Once when my mom passed, again when I was dealing with the fallout of leaving New York City, and the third time came about a week ago after I watched Allie get into Veronica (that's her car you perverts) and drive away.  I felt ridiculous, but there have been few kindred spirits like Allie and I.

Often envied.  I've never had a spontaneous adventure buddy quite like this.

Rarely understood.  I suppose society hasn't moved far enough along to understand that guys and girls can be just friends; we can have a Black president, gay marriages, but mixed gender friendships...what next?! Platonic hugging?!  It's felt like high school, the 40's, or Bible camp.  Luckily we've had plenty of practice circumventing questioning eyes in actual Bible camp, where we met 12 years ago, so Facebook has nothing on us ;)

Always drunk.  Can you imagine a time before I liked Guinness?  Because of Guinness's effect on my long-term memory, neither can I.  My first car bombs, shots of Jameson, and pints of brown glory were all shared with my Brown Bear.  She's been a great influence.

Terribly missed...Words can't begin to express how much I'll miss that girl.

The timing of Allie's departure coincided with another major happening in my life; I got a job!  After six years at the blue box known as Lowe's, all those degrees have finally paid off.  I'm the proud new representative of W.W. Norton publishing.  My job is to travel through Central New York and Northern Pennsylvania advising professors on the appropriate texts to be used in their classes and helping to integrate Norton's digital systems.  For this I get a brand new company car, phone, and shiny new Macbook Pro that I'm using to write this post.  Life is awesome.  Breathtakingly awesome.  Norton is also a 100% worker owned publishing house; no capitalists.  My Marxist heart could burst.

Training was in New York City for a week and then in arid Arizona for another week (stay tuned for my epic Grand Canyon post).  The stay in Arizona was at a 5 star resort nestled at the bottom of a mountain...one month ago I was installing refrigerators.  I have never been so humbled.

Lastly, my job requires me to relocate.  I will no longer be  resident of the snowbank known as Syracuse, but the People's Republic of Ithaca.  Ithaca is an eclectic and beautiful hippie town surrounded by stunning waterfalls (Ithaca is gorges!).  It's also home to Cornell University, where I'll be spending most of my time. I'm still in Arizona so Eva has had to do some of the legwork to set up our new place.  I could feel her excitement through her text message when she signed the lease on our new apartment, in an old converted church, at the bottom of a gorge, 800 feet from a waterfall.  Life is good.

It's been a wacky month balancing a torrent of conflicting emotions, all of which have been brutally intense. .."but somehow I can't shake, this feeling I might make, a difference to the human race!!!"

Cliff: The Swamp Mountain

Hike distance: ~15 miles
Peak: Cliff

As times goes on my trips to the ADK's with Allie and Brian have become less frequent, mostly due to scheduling issues.  That is a reason to be a bit sad, but at the same time, the reason that scheduling is becoming more difficult is that we're getting closer to the end.  The days of driving up in the morning, hiking a peak, crashing the night and leaving the next morning are over.  There's nothing left except 17 mile trips or longer, requiring us to stay two days or more.  Once again, the downside is that we're hiking less often, but on the up side, when we do hike we summit 2-5 mountains per trip, not too shabby.

Getting on the trail with my friends for the first time since March was an awesome thrill, almost from the second I laid foot on the trail.  The mission for the day was Cliff and Redfield, two remote peaks that require a 17 mile hike to bag them both.  After a sleepy drive up (see pic at the bottom) we were ready to hit the trail.  Hiking out of the ADK Loj requires an 8 mile hike before the climb even begins.  It was about then I realized how remote these peaks were and began contemplating whether we were going to have enough day light to summit both.  The day was cloudy and a bit ominous because of our terrain. The trail was a swamp, no I don't mean wet, I mean swamp.  I didn't think swamps existed above 3,000 feet, but it was a day for learning.

Navigating the trail was a mixture of acrobatics and luck.  The trail snaked along the most shallow portions of the swamp, with 6 inch wide log bridges allowing you to avoid outright wading through the muck.  I would have bet every penny to my name that Allie was going to fall face first into the grime, shortly after a series of shrieks and "Nooooooo!" (Her balance is notoriously and hilariously awful).  Somehow we all managed to avoid swamping ourselves...sorta.

Neither Cliff nor Redfield have maintained trails to their summits, just heard paths where past hikers have climbed.  Once at the junction for the climb we decided to take on Cliff first, given the fact it has no views (another peak below the 4,000' mark, but was mis-measured decades ago).  The trail up Cliff was miserably muddy and claustrophobic.  Branches reached out and touched you from both sides of the trail at practically all times.  The march was made so much better by the mud that was knee deep in spots.  After about an hour we were on what clearly seemed to be the summit.  There's only a small and faded trail marker indicating the summit, which was impossible to see in the clouds.  Eventually I had Brian pull out his altimeter as we started going down in elevation again. "3,890 feet" he said.  "Turn the hell around!" I shouted.  We had descended dozens of feet and the mountain is only 3,900 odd feet tall; we walked up and over the summit.

After what was the most lackluster summit ever, we began the march back.  I had the misfortune of slipping knee deep into the grossest mud ever.  After unleashing a torrent of obscenities and grunts Allie was kind enough to break the post-rant silence with "That's what she said, all of that, even the grunts."  I was slightly less irritated after the laugh.  The march back was chilly as it began to rain and the wind joined in.  Unfortunately, I was correct and we didn't have enough time for Redfield, no matter though, we were camping next to a BBQ joint that was going to eliminate all of our pain.  Now, it's a given that you're going to smell after a long hike, however this was freaking stunning.  We've never held quite a stench as magnificent as this one.  I blame Brian.  The car ride back involved rolled down windows despite the rain.  A bit later, showered and starving, we begin chowing down on Memphis burgers (pulled pork on a half pound burger) and fries with Maple syrup dipping sauce (don't knock it tip you try it).

The night ended the way all nights should end, drunk with friends and laughter.  Allie and I became reacquainted with our favorite black man (other than me), Guinness, while Brian nursed a Canadian, Labatts.  For a second we were at a loss for drinking games, until it was discovered Allie had never played the most common one under the sun, Kings.  She was thrown into the fire, as Brian and I were more than happy to interject bizarre rules and not explain the normal rules all that well.  Eventually she got the hang of it and produced my favorite moment of the entire trip.  Brian and I both broke a rule, making it so we both had to take deep sips of our beers.  First she called out Brian, then after her realization I had broken a rule too, Allie leapt to her knees, took a deep breath, pointed at me like she had just discovered the body of Jimmy Hoffa, and shouted "BOTH OF YOU DRINK!", before falling back to her butt and nearly falling over into the wall of my tent.  I can't remember the last time I've seen excitement with such reckless abandon...giggling followed.

Bonus picture of Brian sleeping like a fool!

The next day we took on another peak, but I'll save that for my next post.  For now I leave you with the words of Sublime, whose music was playing in my internal soundtrack all night.

Love's what I got

Don't start a ri-ot

You'll feel it when the dance gets hot

First Steps: Appalachian Trail, Great Barrington MA - Springfield CT

Having been an avid hiker, Bill Bryson fan, and one to romanticize absolutely everything, it has always deeply bothered me I had never been on the Appalachian Trail.  The AT extends some 2,000 miles, running between Maine and Georgia.  One will summit the distance to Mount Everest several times while trekking its entire length, as several hundred hikers do a year (called thru-hikers).  Given my chaotic schedule it's always made more sense to hike it in chunks (called section hiking).  For the first time in the years I've been imagining it, I did it!

My hiking trips normally come out of two places.  Firstly, a genuine love for everything outdoors; secondly, and not necessarily as dreary as it sounds, to clear my head.  Hiking will save you hundreds or thousands in shrink fees and you'll get a much more fulfilling result.  As are many of my hiking trips, my mission on the AT was motivated by a bit of both.  After a long and ultimately unsuccessful job search (more on this later) my mood was not the greatest.  Syracuse has a way of feeling like you're living in a lung, every couple weeks the walls start to breathe and close in on you with every inhale, exhaling the stale stench of mediocrity and lost opportunity; I want to choke it to death.  I was in one of these moods when I decided to take a three day weekend and hit the AT.

Hiking the AT can be a complicated task when doing it in sections.  Getting to and from the trail either requires a friend to drop you off, a fellow hiker on an internet forum who doesn't mind picking you up, or some stranger benevolent enough to grab a hitchhiker from the bus station; I was lucky enough to find the last.  After a couple of miles of walking from the bus stop a pickup truck pulled along side me, rolled down its window, and a young man asked "Appalachian Trail?".  After a quick nod I hopped into the truck bed and was whizzing down the road, but not after the man who picked me up commented on how soaked I was from the torrential downpour, and implied I was silly because it was New England and "They pick up hitchhikers here."  I was never so greatful to get a ride, despite the fact that hitching felt wholly and completely weird to me; I guess I've see too many horror films.  No matter though,  I was on the trail!

My feeling of awe, aimed at both the trail and myself for deciding to walk 50 miles in the woods, by myself, in a part of the country I had never even laid eyes on, was interrupted not even five seconds later by my first trail friend, Lauren.  Lauren, who I greatly regret not taking a picture of, was a friendly Southern Bell that majored in Classics at a top-notch university.  We walked together for nearly half the day, with her entertaining me with her fluent Latin and tales of Greek tragedies.  I think I showed a bit too much interest as she would not stop talking after every question I asked.

The trail in Southern New England is generally flat, a bit rocky, and takes you past many farms and country roads.  The sights were gorgeous, but the morning storm turned the trail into a swamp.  I was getting sick of the puddle hopping and mudslinging.  Just as I was about to get annoyed, Lauren and I made our first assent up a steep hill.  Looking at Lauren one would be surprised to know she has run marathons or would attempt the AT, but she stuck with my above average pace all morning.  After the first climb though, it became apparent I was going to have to leave her.  After giving a friendly wave good bye, I was on my own.

I started flying from there, wanting to make up a bit of lost time.  The trail was incredibly slick at the higher elevations; moss, limestone and a hiking pace close to a jog was not a good mix.  As I bopped from hilltop to valley back to hilltop, I must have slipped 20 times, some falls worse than others.  The day had cleared a bit around noon, but at five the clouds rolled back in.  While admiring the erie scene I had put myself in, I took my worst spill of the day, jamming my finger into a jagged boulder as I was trying to slow my fall.  I'm writing this post a month after my trip and I can still see where the chuck of my finger had been ripped off.  At this point I was 25 miles in for the day, soaked, muddy, and still 7 miles out from the shelter I wanted to camp at.  After adding "bleeding badly" to the list, I was completely sick of the trail.  I had no choice but to trudge on though.  I summited the Connecticut high point, just to read the plaque marking it and verbally reply "I don't give a s***."  After being almost completely defeated by a midget 2,200ft high "mountain", I was finally at my destination, Brassy Brook shelter.

Sleeping by myself in the middle of the woods was the part of the trip I was least looking forward to; I thought I would be creeped out and uneasy.  Oddly enough, I was right at home, only bothered by the occasional scurry of animals I couldn't identify.  I woke up the next morning feeling proud of myself, not only for having no fear of the night, but for having no fear at all.  I felt a lot of things on the trail,  but fear was never one of them.

My initial plan was to take on the Connecticut Challenge and hike the entire CT section of the trail in a single grueling day.  Given the trail condition, I knew that was impossible.  I cut off the trail early and headed back to NY on foot.  My trip back to Syracuse involved a 130 mph trip in a Maserati, two trains, and a hippy bus.....no, I'm not making any of that up.  Hitchhiking and mass transit is an adventure in its own right, but that's another story.  In the first days coming off the trail, I had had it with hiking for a while. Hiking 30 trail miles and another 20 on the road, all in 36 hours, had me feeling pretty adverse to even walking, let alone climbing.  I knew it wouldn't last long though, and I'm already planning my next jaunt on the AT.

The Five Boro Bike Tour: AKA The Day I Almost Died by Bike

I love bike riding; I just do!  I may have been born to run and hike, but given biking's ease on my body and high speed with minimal effort, there's nothing like riding.  Besides, it's a bit thrilling to ride in the streets and tick off cars that don't understand I'm legally required to do so when making a left turn at an intersection.  There's bike riding, racing and this year I was introduced to touring.  Touring normally involves a long, yet self-paced ride around somewhere picturesque.  Allie skipped picturesque and opted for a 46 mile tour of New York City.  She started riding in the famed Five Boro Bike Tour three years ago and has been a die hard rider every year since.  This year she invited Brian and I to tag along.  Brian opted to sit the ride out given the effort required, but I was more than game.

Typically, before a race one loads up on carbs.   We did that, but probably with the wrong types of carbs.  Or maybe stouts do count?  If so....we were LOADED.  Our night was filled with the sounds of gay piano bars in Greenich Village and the luscious glory of a high powered stout we had far too much of.  In fact, we loved it so much we decided to keep the glasses it was served in.  After covertly passing a glass to Allie underneath the bar (this was her idea keep in mind), she promptly put it back on the bar top without realizing what she had done; this was a real Ocean's 11 style job.  After a completely hilarious subway ride/walk back to the hotel, we got the Dr. Guinness prescribed 3 hours of sleep.  The next morning it became apparent we were consuming the wrong types of carbs.

The tour starts at about 7am in Lower Manhattan, right in the shadow of the newly constructed World Trade Center Tower I.  It was chilly, we were already exhausted, but the mood was electrifying.  The ride gathers some 30 thousand participants, all enthusiastic as could be.  As I peered around waiting for the start signal I noticed all types of bikes.  Unicycles, tandem bikes, three person bikes, people with their kids and dogs in carts behind or on their bikes.  My favorites were fat bikes, those are bikes with extra wide tires made for getting extra friction on ice, snow or sand; those were the real inspirational riders of the tour.  However, most folks were on beautiful top of the line road bikes by Cannondale, Trek, and Specialized.  I, of course, was on my rad and classic 90's Nishiki mountain bike; beat your hearts out $5,000 bikes.

With a blast of a horn and some early morning techno jams we were on our way.  We road up Sixth Ave in the Manhattan morning sun, passing food carts just opening their gates for workers looking for a bagel and coffee before starting their grind.  The ride was leisurely and gorgeous in Manhattan.  We passed within a block of The Empire State Building, Times Square, and wound through the heart of Central Park.  On 58th street we were treated to the sounds of Adele and to live reggae in Harlem.  The Bronx portion of the ride was kind of what happens when you throw a cat in water, slight touch and screaming out.  The Bronx gets an undeservedly tough rap sometimes, but the organizers seemed to believe all of it; we simply rode through the Bronx to say that we did.

A few minutes later we were back in Manhattan and barreling towards the Queensboro Bridge.  The bridge is one of my favorites in the city because of its Gothic and skeletal structure.  Riding on the bridge was tremendous, but coming off the bridge leads the riders through a spiraling set of roadways that felt like riding down a drain; it was easily one of my favorite parts of the tour.  Queens is a vibrant city of over a million inhabitants, but the tour took us through one of the quieter parts of the borough.  It was about then I decided to snap a moving pic of Allie and I that nearly ended our ride.  Right as I went to snap the photo I leaned a bit too hard to my left and nearly wiped both of us out.  Moral of the story, selfies kill.  Somehow we managed to both stay up and keep a smile on our faces, the pic even came out pretty well!

Brooklyn is one of my favorite places in the world, but this is where I hit the biker wall.  After the riveting night of eating yogurt and not much else,  I skipped breakfast given the dubious state of my stomach.  My legs were exhausted without a doubt, but after 24 miles of biking I ran out of all my stout carbs and was at a loss of energy in general.  Every revolution became a serious effort, breathing was like sucking air through a coffee stirrer when pedaling up hills, and the fact I was on a mountain bike sure wasn't helping.  I felt awful most of all because Allie stilled seemed bright eyed and bushy tailed; I hate slowing people down.  The ride through the Greenpoint and DUMBO neighborhoods gave way to a rest stop where I ate 5 bananas, 2 tacos, and guzzled some water.  I felt half human until the next major bridge, where I went back to feeling like a mix of being shot and choked.  The miles seemed like they would never end, until finally we came up to the last and biggest obstacle of the day, the Verrazano Narrows bridge.  The bridge connects Brooklyn with my former home of Staten Island.  Allie thought it would be a good idea to lie to me and say we had another 4 miles to go once we crossed the bridge. I never felt so relieved to find out the bridge marked the end of the race; thanks for the lie Brown Bear.

The end was marked by a party, popsicles, and a picture that Allie and I awesomed up as always.  After being in such great shape for an obstacle race I ran just the week before, I figured the tour would be a breeze; I had biked well over 46 miles before.  The combination of poor carb loading, a heavy bike, three hours of sleep, and making the mistake of assuming running = biking were all costly mistakes.  It was a lesson well learned that I'll keep in mind for next year, although I have a feeling I'll still be drinking car bombs at 3am the night before...  

 

The People's Republic of Vermont

Traveling to a town that's not only nestled in the mountains, but is also so vehemently Left-wing it's often dubbed "The People's Republic", seems like a fictitious city that I would make up.  In reality though, the People's Republic of Burlington is a real place, on the shores of Lake Champlain in the People's Republic of Vermont.  It's only about four hours from home, but the hippie haven of 50,000 people has somehow eluded me through the years.  After a half decade of longing to visit, Eva and I finally made the trek, and no, we were not disappointed.

A mural paying tribute to everything Vermont.

The main strip in town is a pedestrian thoroughfare filled with seemingly endless bars and restaurants named Church Street, which is ironic given Vermont's status as the least religious state in the country.  At the first eatery we stopped at, a very authentic feeling Irish pub named Ri Ra, we picked the outdoor seating so we could watch the parade of freethinkers bustling about.  The crowd was mixed in every possible sense of the word, age, ethnicity, style, and subcultures all varied greatly.  I could not help but to notice the level of new and old-school styled hippies though.  Birkenstocks, tie dye, dreadlocks, and peace signs were ubiquitous, probably purchased for the Peace and Justice Shop; I felt right at home immediately.

After downing my Guinness burger (highly recommended), we hit the town.  The city is filled with eclectic shops, murals, tea houses, and the most badass outdoors shop I've every seen.  After day dreaming of the adventures I could have with the hundreds of packs and drooling over the bikes I can only pray to afford, it was time to check out the Lake.  Lake Champlain is a gorgeous body of water, most famously known for its namesake, Samuel de Champlain, and America's own Lock Ness Monster, Champ.  On the other shore the Adirondack High Peaks loomed.  it was weird being so close, but not climbing one of the summits.

  

There was only one thing left to do, visit every bar and pub in town.  We failed, but came real close.  Zero Gravity is quirky micro-brewery with a giant wood fired stove in the middle of the dining area, and bar taps consisting of tools you'd normally find in a shed.  Lord knows how they knew what they were pouring.

The Whiskey Room lived up to its namesake, it had every whiskey under the sun.  Ken's Pizza and Pub (what a brilliant combination) was so dark inside that I felt I had been sentenced to a dungeon, but the Montreal Meat Pizza (no idea what it was) was too good to care.  After bouncing from bar to smoke shop (Marijuana is decriminalized in the state that elected the only socialist in the US Senate), we came across the best bar I've ever seen.  Think of the best dive bar you know. Got it?  Good! Now think of the show Portlandia.  Put them together and you have Radio Bean!  You can sit in the turn of the century looking booths, while sipping on a $5 shake (Oatmeal Stout, Espresso, and Vermont syrup), while listening to music that sounds like a monastery/acid trip.  Or you can buy a bottle of wine from the mattress skeleton frame that holds them.  What's not to love?!?!  After making a friend who recommended Nectars for reggae night, it was time to get my Bob Marley on.

Radio Bean

Burlandia's soundtrack

All you need to know about Nectars

 One day to see Burlington is not enough, but it's all we had.  We took the long and scenic route home, passing through the greatest place on Earth, the Ben and Jerry's factory.  After a quick tour, some free ice cream and some even better vibes the state capital was next. 

Montpelier is the smallest state capital in the country, with just 19,000 residents.  I would have guessed it would have had a small town feel, but it was oddly bustling for a Monday afternoon.  The state house is often called the most beautiful building in the country and for good reason, it's stunning.

The People's Republic treated me well and soon I'll be back once all the ADK High Peaks are conquered (VT has 5 of its own).  If you're ever wanting to get in touch with your inner hippie, but are too far from Boulder or Portland OR, Vermont is waiting for you.