PeterGlenshaw.com

Into the Woods

Now that triathlon season is over and open-water swimming is finished (last swim: October 5th), it's time to head into the woods. 

Bugs disappear. Leaves crunch. Vistas appear. And, at least for a while, trails reveal. Whether I'm trail-running or mountain-biking, at this time of year, the cool weather means the grassy plants that otherwise hide trails in the heat of summer do a retreat. I was biking in South Royalton, Vermont, about three weeks ago, for instance, and unexpectedly came upon a network of single-track trails that had been hidden from me all summer. At Oak Hill in Hanover, New Hampshire, I came upon a Class V road for the first time this fall that took me far from the outer reaches of the Outback loop.  

Fall means not only that training demands drop slightly, but that a series of happy suprises await the enterprising athlete. Sunsets against color leaves. Deer bounding down the hill just ahead of my mountain bike. Geese flying in formation to warmer climes, their cries echoing across a valley as I descend a hill. 

It's really great. All of September and the early part of October -- when it's still warm, colorful, and in the midst of turning from one season to the next -- become workouts of color and surprise. The woods beckon and delight, and there seems to be no end in sight to the happiness. 

Until, of course, it does change. Each year, the shift from friendly fall to freezing fall is different. Last year, it came in early October. This year, it came only five days ago.  

Here's what happens. Temperatures drop from an avg of 50-60 F during the day and 40-50 F at night to at least 10-15 degrees cooler.  The difference means everything. I move from wearing short shirts and pants (whether running or biking) to long shirts and sometimes even running tights. Today was typical. I awoke to 32 F, went mountain biking at 48 F, and got home from the ride in the darkness with temps already at 45 F. 

After living in the Upper Valley for 13 years, I've learned to pay strict attention to the temperature and wind in terms of how to dress for exercise. For instance, last week, I ran in 45 F weather under cloudy conditions and with a wind at 20+ mph. The response? An outfit more sensible for winter than fall -- hat, gore-tex jacket, running tights, and a long-sleeve shirt.

Which means these forays into the woods become something else. Instead of a frolic amidst the leaves, it becomes a slight struggle against the oncoming cold and darkness. It means being really aware of when sunset occurs or disciplined enough during the workday to schedule a workout during the day.  Oh, and then there is this: the trail disappears once the cold arrives.

The arrival of steady cold weather also means there is another reality with which to reckon: most of the leaves have fallen. And with it, those once-revealed trails disappear. Good luck trying to find your way on a single track trail once 90% of the leaves have dropped. The trail is filled with mis-direction and sometimes disappears altogether. I'll never forgot pursuing a single-track trail on Oak Hill late in the fall only to find myself atop a hill, surrounded by deer, and no sense of how I had gotten there or how to return. Trail turns to woods. What seems like the next step forward is anything but. 

But even when the weather shifts, it's hard to resist the call of the woods. Maybe it's the fact that the woods will be impossible to ride and run for most of the winter, assuming snow cover is decent.  Maybe it's because even late into Fall, sometimes as last as Thanksgiving, the views and colors and smells are so incredible. 

It could also be this simple truth: in the fall, the woods show their true colors. It's not yellow, red, and orange of the leaves, but the capacity for the woods to both reveal and hide. Maybe this is why hunting primarily occurs at this time of year. This is a tantilizing time, full of joy and mystery. A person enters from the civilized world of roads, sidewalks, and street lights to find what? Trees, paths, hills, leaves, and special views. 

It usually ends for me around Thanksgiving. A final run, a last mountain-bike ride. Near-full winter gear for both efforts. Once the first serious snow falls, it's pretty much curtains for the woods, save the trails cut and groomed for cross-country skiing. 

I've got at least five weeks to go. And wouldn't miss it for the world.

 

 

 

The End of Summer 2011

The economy is terrible.  Our national politics are worse.  A tropical storm just devastated friends and family in Vermont.  But, somehow, the summer of 2011 will go on record in the Glenshaw household as one of the best ever.  

Go figure.

Tropical storm notwithstanding, the weather was amazing: warm, with little rain, and lots of sun.  The kids went to camp, earned money, travelled far and near, and played loud card games into the night. Elizabeth and I acted as if we were 25 again -- running, biking and swimming with enthusiasm, though maybe not with the results to support our effort.  

We ate sweet corn, sweeter tomatoes, and celebrated four birthdays with 8 or 9 birthday cakes. We walked to the country store for soft serve ice cream.  We celebrated Lyme's 250th anniversary over a 24-hour period that still seems like a magical moment of harmony and transendence.  We welcomed my sister, Annie, and her wonderful family from South Africa, to Lyme, NH, for a long weekend after a longer five-year absence from their presence in the United States.

Amidst the happiness, we also said good-bye to two dear family friends this summer -- Barbara Colliton and Bob Redfern.  A good and decent neighbor in Lyme also died this year, and my last conversation with her is one I will never forget.  Somehow, these moments also made the summer magical. 

Maybe they added to the moments of transcendence.  I will never forget hiking a few mountains, playing soccer and football in the tropical storm, or learning new card games every few weeks.  Add to the mix the joy of demonstrating old water-skiing skills, new jet-ski tricks, and Hannah and I playing tennis 2-3 times every week since early June (and in the process, learning both new skills and a better appreciation for one another), and it quickly becomes a tableau of other-worldliness.

Closer to earth, we went to Fenway and saw Tek drive a two-run homerun into the bullpen.  

We learned to drive, we learned the best route to drive to a new job, and one of us even began tentatively working on a new book.  It was that kind of summer -- crazy wonderful, loving, creative, and fun, fun, fun.  

I've made myself a pledge.  One day, I will return to my childhood and have a full summer vacation -- no work from mid-June to the end of August.  Barring that year, this one will go into the books as one of the best ever.  

I am grateful to everyone who helped make it so.  Here are some pictures that capture the best way to bring a close to a great season. 

Making Sense of the Flood

Hurricane Irene has passed, and it has not spared the great state of Vermont.  And yet we hardly got hit in New Hampshire.  Why?

Noah, the namesake of our third child, was someone who knew a thing or two about floods. And yet his whole story, at a very basic level, is very disturbing for anyone who thinks 1) of God as loving and benevolent, and 2) of so-called natural disasters as being "natural." Here, for instance, is the passage from Genesis 6:5-7 that sets up the story for Noah, his infamous ark, and the flood which made it all possible.

The Lord saw that the wickedness of humankind was great in the earth, and that every inclination of the thoughts of their hearts was only evil continually. And the Lord was sorry that he had made humankind on the earth, and it grieved him to his heart. So the Lord said, ‘I will blot out from the earth the human beings I have created—people together with animals and creeping things and birds of the air, for I am sorry that I have made them.’ 

Today, as I tried to make my way from my home in Lyme, NH, on the western-most side of New Hampshire, to Vermont Law School in the near-center of South Royalton, VT, it was hard to think anything benevolent behind the devastation I saw.  

Roads gone.

Homes destroyed, and carried downriver.

Bridges taken out.  Farms flooded.  Cattle dead.  

Human lives -- at least three so far -- destroyed. 

Towns and neighborhoods trapped -- unable, for now, to reach the rest of the state and region.

What kind of God would allow this occur?

Students of religion know this kind of question is not new.  Why does God permit suffering?  Why do wars or worse (e.g.,the Holocaust) occur?

It's a complicated set of questions, and the responses which come forth are not easy to summarize in a blog post. Some argue that God uses these moments as a test, not simply to separate the wheat from the chaff but to help us see the divine. Others suggest God is not so involved in the day-to-day of human affairs, and that these events occur either because God permits human agency or the randomness of life unconnected to the divine.  I'm strongly inclined to towards the latter point-of-view, but the existence of suffering nevertheless poses really challenges to anyone who cares both about divine and the human condition. 

How to reconcil?

It helps, in this situation, to have a bit of historical perspective on how we, as a species, have reacted to natural disaster.  Simon Winchester's very interesting book from 2006, A Crack in the Edge of the World, outlines two very contradictory but important responses to the 1906 San Francisco earthquake.  On the one hand, it led to an increased interest in a scientific explanation for earthquakes (keep in mind that the initial theory plate tectonics, now widely accepted, dates only to 1968).  At the same time, the earthquake helped to fuel the growth of the Pentecostal religious movement, which began just four days earlier on Azusa Street in Los Angeles. 

No wonder Michelle Bachmann, a Republican Congresswoman from Minnesota who does not believe in evolution, has claimed that Hurricane Irene was, duh, a wakeup call from God to "get the attention of the politicians."  Sure, less than 24 hours after making the statement, Congresswoman Bachmann now claims this was a joke (judge for yourself here: http://wapo.st/qTlfYP), but even the most devoted of believers in her Presidential campaign would admit that her comments nevertheless tapped into the deep ambiguity we feel regarding floods and other disasters that don't appear to have the direct hand of human intervention.

What hath God wrought?

Tomorrow morning, I will drive to Vermont Law School in South Royalton, VT.  I will take the long route from I-91 to I-89 because the shortcut over VT-132 and VT-14 are gone.  And once I get off the highway, I will travel along the Back River Road -- past the farms whose fences are bent and destroyed, past the field with the boat in its far corner, and past the mobile home half-filled with silt and mud from the White River.  

Before I travel, though, I said nightly prayers with my son (the same Noah).  It was a prayer which we say every day.  After thanking God for our family and friends and asking God to keep them safe, it ends with these words: "Please mind all of those people who don't have safe home like our's tonight."

Did that prayer work last night?  Did God listen?

There's a lot more to say on this subject, but let me suggest one approach: God listens, but does not dictate.  More specifically, floods such as Irene happen for a 1,001 reasons, but our faithfulness (or lack thereof) is not among them.  Yes, we are sinners.  Yes, we must do a better to lead lives that are closer to God.  God forgives and, most importantly, does not specifically stage events like Hurricane Irene in order to test us.  Such an understanding of the divine involves trivializing that which cannot be so diminished.