Auf wiedersehen

This will be the final Germany post until I go back and write something more detailed for a couple high points, like the time I flew a plane (pun intended), or meeting the apiary colonists.  The day we left Berlin was mostly a lot of time in the car. I'd already decided to try fighting a vicious European head cold by then, so I was relatively content to sit in the back, stare out the window, and try to remember what it felt like to breathe.

The Bridge of Spies

Our drive took us to Potsdam, with a stop at the edge of town to see the Bridge of Spies. I was excited about that, because I'd heard of it already, but I honestly didn't have any idea how it had gotten that nickname. The only sign explaining why it was the Bridge of Spies was in German, so I didn't find out until I got home and had Wikipedia access that it was used during the Cold War to exchange captured spies and political prisoners because it served as a physical link between East Germany and West Berlin.

One of the statues on the Bridge of Spies: a swimming centaur strangling a fish.

We had no particular plan (that I knew) for Potsdam, but it's a nice town for wandering. We looked in a few small shops, and walked down streets full of pedestrians and cafe furniture, with little to no room for auto traffic. I liked those streets.

Residential Potsdam.

A long row of these tiles were the only indication of the route of a bike path across a wide plaza.

I later learned that there was a plan for Potsdam, but it had been plotted in German, working on the assumption that I would, as always, go with the flow. They were right.

At some point, the King of Prussia (not the town in Pennsylvania) built a palace here. I was led to believe that it was his summer home. Not a bad place to hang out with some lemonade.

You can tell it's a grand palace because my camera lens didn't have a wide enough angle to photograph all of it.

Now the palace grounds are a public park, and you can get tours of the buildings for a small fee. We still had to get to Frankfurt, so we were content to walk through the grounds looking at fountains, gardens, statuary, and immaculately groomed paths. It's good to be king.

Google Awesomed this photo. I'm ok with that.

I think this statue shows how to harvest Sea Babies. Honestly, I was just impressed at how much negative space is in that net. 

The rest of the day was Car Time. We checked in to a tiny hotel which turned out to be literally (correct usage) around the corner from Ginko's building. We met him again that night for dinner, and he got up early to join us for breakfast as well (at a cafe which was on said corner. We planned well for Frankfurt).

In Germany, it's legal to walk down the street drinking a beer. We tried it. It felt strange.

No mints on the pillows here. Germany is weird.

68

One year ago today, I crossed the border into Maine, the state where Mom was born, on her 67th birthday. I was about two weeks from the end of my thru-hike, and I started the day in high spirits, even though the four friends who'd been hiking with me since Vermont had decided the previous evening to part ways with me for a few days.

This year, I'm working on getting my manuscript published.  I've written a book about hiking the Appalachian Trail, what led me to the trail in the first place, and why I took Mom's ashes with me.  Agents have been queried; now it's a matter of waiting for a favorable response, and constantly agonizing over whether my work is good enough to impress anyone.

Let's find out. Below is an excerpt from the manuscript, a single chapter from late in the trail. There are a couple references to earlier chapters, but I think it still stands alone well enough to be readable.  Why this chapter, instead of one more inspiring, uplifting, or funny? Because this chapter covers that day, one year ago, when I brought Mom home.  Happy Birthday, Mom.

Alone Again

          My friends left me.  The hike from Pinkham Notch had been harder on them than I’d realized, and during the night at Imp Shelter, they decided to stop at a hostel the next day.  I passed the hostel before noon, and was certain that they wouldn’t catch up with me by the time I reached Rangeley, our next planned resupply town.  They had tried to convince me to join them, plying me with the promise of beds, showers, laundry, and good food, but they lost me when they revealed their plan to slackpack for a day or so to conserve energy.  Slackpacking is when you hike with only a daypack, and a shuttle either drops you off at the start, or picks you up for the return, and you generally spend both nights at the same place.  Many hostels along the AT offer this service for free, even supplying the daypacks, because it encourages hikers to stay a second night and spend more money.  My decision wasn’t motivated by thrift, but conviction.  That wasn’t how I wanted to hike the trail.  I had never slackpacked, yellow blazed, or taken shortcuts, and I wasn’t going to start less than three hundred miles from the end.  It wasn’t my idea of thru-hiking.  I saw the hostel, gave the signs advertising baked goods and cold drinks no more than a passing thought after three meals from Simon and Irene, and kept hiking.  My friends had slept in, knowing they didn’t have far to go that day.  Doyi’s toes were in bad shape, and Ginko was getting crabby and short-tempered.  We all needed a rest, but I didn’t allow myself a break.  It required some rough climbing and difficult terrain, but that night I was rewarded with white lady’s slippers on the side trail to the Gentian Pond Shelter, which was oriented to provide a stunning view of the sunset over the valley below, and a few steps from the shelter I could hear where the pond drained into a waterfall that worked its way down to the valley.

          I left at five the next morning, June 23, my 106^th day on the trail, and what would have been my mom’s sixty-seventh birthday.  That was the day I entered Maine, the state where she’d been born, and where we would finish our 2,185.3 mile hike together, a dream we’d both had for decades, but only I would see completed.  The weather was beautiful, and I was filled with hope for the day, my eyes damp with all the importance I had heaped upon it.  As soon as I realized, days earlier, that I would cross the border on her birthday, I felt it would be auspicious.

          It was miserable.

          I’d had Gentian Pond and the shelter to myself for hours, and fell asleep by seven, excited at the prospect of nine and a half solid hours of sleep, but two section hikers I’d met and forgotten arrived at eight, making lots of noise, and tried to maintain a conversation that didn’t interest me.  I didn’t get to sleep again until well after nine.  My energy level was low throughout Mom’s birthday, and the trail was very rough.  In the south, I’d estimated my arrival times based upon a walking speed of three miles an hour, and I often arrived earlier than I’d expected.  In Maine, I would estimate arrivals based upon a speed of two miles an hour, and I was later than I’d hoped every single day.  Maine was brutal, and I was never sure whether it was because it was brutal all on its own, or because I got there after hiking almost two thousand miles in under four months.  The hiking machine was rapidly losing steam.

          The day I entered Maine, it took me almost twelve hours to go a little under fifteen miles.  One of those miles was Mahoosuc Notch, a section of trail described by my guidebook as the “most difficult or fun mile of the AT,” a jumbled maze of boulders I’d actually been looking forward to navigating, thinking that as a rock climber, I’d have a distinct advantage.  Before we stopped at Imp Shelter, we had planned on hiking through Mahoosuc early in the morning, when we were fresh, and helping each other through as a group.  I arrived at Mahoosuc in the afternoon, already tired, accompanied accidentally by Pack and Big Hungry.  Pack had a barely-noticeable lisp, and had already hiked the Pacific Crest Trail.  Big Hungry was a fourteen pound rat terrier he’d adopted from a shelter just before starting the AT.  She was so small that she didn’t carry a pack, as many trail dogs do, but spry enough that she had less trouble navigating Mahoosuc than Pack and I.  In one spot, she darted out of the way just as Pack fell on his way over a sedan-sized boulder and landed on his backpack where Big Hungry had been just a moment earlier.  I proudly congratulated myself internally, knowing that my skill and experience as a rock climber would easily get me over the obstacle, and moments later fell at exactly the same place after my foot slipped off exactly the same edge that had failed him.  I dropped six feet with windmill arms and wheelbarrow-handle legs before landing so hard on my right ass cheek that I was certain I’d be limping for the rest of the trip.  It took a minute or two before I could even stand up straight, and I was later surprised to see that I wasn’t purple halfway down my thigh.  I’ve never bruised easily off-trail, and I’d always assumed that it was thanks to a high-protein diet, but the jar of peanut butter I ate every four or five days didn’t seem enough to protect me after that fall.

          It took over an hour to get through Mahoosuc Notch, and the physical difficulty in passing it was only one factor; it’s not a well-blazed section, and Pack and I often had different ideas about where the trail went.  Sometimes neither of us knew, and it wasn’t until one of us found a new blaze and yelled to the other that we both got back on track.  I tore a new hole in one of my shoes, and then painfully drove the exposed toe onto the jagged edge of a chunk of granite on the north end of the notch, after I’d thought the worst was over.  By then, any excitement I’d had about Mahoosuc Notch had evaporated with my high hopes for Mom’s birthday, and the last shreds of my good mood from my final day in New Hampshire.

          Two hours later, I arrived at Speck Pond Shelter and creaked slowly to the floor.  I changed shoes and busied myself sweeping the shelter and arranging my bunk, then took what I needed to stock up on water from the spring, but returned with only enough to get me through the evening.  The blackflies in the area were fierce, and I only found relief from them by wearing my entire rain shell, because they easily bit through everything else I had.  I put on my other pair of socks, because the camp shoes Liz had mailed to me in Delaware Water Gap were made of a mesh material that provided easy access to my feet, and I constantly brushed my hands against each other and my face to keep the blood-sucking bastards off of my flesh.  One of them snuck in under my watch band and bit me on the wrist.  When blackflies bite you, you almost never feel it.  Blackflies carry an anticoagulant in their saliva; the first indication of a bite is pinprick marks on your flesh that bleed like open wounds.  Later, those pinpricks itch like crazy.  I realized I’d been bitten under my watch because when my sleeve pulled back, I saw a bright smear of blood on the cuff of my yellow rain jacket.  I spent most of my evening swearing and miserable, on the brink of tears.  Happy birthday, Mom.

          I stayed at Hall Mountain the next night, and felt a bit better because I’d eaten a filling dinner at Speck Pond, did a better job of hydrating, and to my boundless delight, Hall Mountain wasn’t clotted with fucking blackflies.  I still had one problem: because we’d stopped at Imp instead of Rattling River three nights earlier, I was no longer sure I had enough food to get me to Rangeley.  I’d planned on cooking a large dinner for my friends to celebrate entering our very last state, but we parted ways before that happened, so I knew I had enough dinners—I just didn’t have enough hiking food for the days between the dinners.  I was working out that math early in the afternoon when I stepped out onto B Hill Road, and as I looked for traffic, a van pulled up and stopped beside me.  Even before the gravel stopped crunching, Doyi leaned out of the passenger window, and a moment later the sliding door opened to reveal Socs, Ginko, and Catch Me.  They had gone from one hostel to another, and invited me to join them, but I was still adamant about not slackpacking.  Then they asked if there was anything else I needed, explaining that they were on their way into town for a resupply when they chanced upon me popping out of the woods.  “Actually, yeah—could you spare a couple granola bars, or a Snickers?  I have almost enough food to get to Rangeley, but I’d feel a lot better with two or three more snacks.”

          Doyi couldn’t reach his pack, but Ginko, Socs, and Catch Me immediately started handing me food, and I soon had more than I’d need—in fact, I had enough that I had two extra snacks that day as I finished my hike, and I would be hard pressed to decide whether the extra food or seeing my friends did more to boost my morale that afternoon.  Whichever it was, when I reached Hall Mountain Shelter at the end of my 107^th day on the trail, I was in such a good mood that I left my pack in the shelter and practically jogged up the mountainside behind it to an overlook—several days after I’d started giving the finger to “viewpoint” signs along the trail.  Socs had taken over my planning duties for the rest of the group, and she assured me that I’d see them again in Rangeley in two days.

Berlin

Last week was a break from Germania because I was out of town for a few days, and I didn't get a chance to write more about our recent trip to Europe.  I've been busy with a couple other things, one of which may become a Pretty Big Deal soon. Are you excited? I know I am!

Meantime, want to see some pictures of Berlin? We spent a few days there, seeing what we could manage in the time we had. The Girl's cousin (second cousin, whatever) served as a tour guide and a translator for those of us who can't get by in German (me).  As luck would have it, he's a bit of an expert on the division and later reunification of Germany, and the Berlin Wall.  I joked that we could take him blindfolded anywhere in the city, remove the blindfold, and he'd know whether we were in East or West Berlin, and how far we were from the wall, but I really think he could have done it.

Berlin's official past time seems to be graffiti. Almost every building is covered up to about eight feet. This wall is set up specifically for graffiti; anyone can come and paint it whenever they like.

We saw a LOT in Berlin. On one afternoon, we took a bike tour of sites with a historical connection to the wall and reunification.  We visited an art museum, an Allied History museum, and a German history museum.  It was all fascinating, but it was also pretty heavy. I never realized how much empathy I had until I tried to digest a steady stream of Berlin history for four days straight. As I told our guide/second cousin, "It's no wonder you people drink."

Tiny wooden people helping each other in an alley.

A sculpture outside the Allied History Museum celebrating the liberation of Berlin.

There are still a lot of reminders of World War Two and the division of Germany. Older buildings (and a few monuments) still bear bullet holes and scars from heavier artillery. We saw at least two prominent churches which had suffered heavy bombing, but the damaged remains are still standing today--and mysteriously free of graffiti, as though there are some lines nobody will cross.

After the Nazis were defeated and Russia occupied East Germany, they built a monument to the Russian forces in Berlin. When they left during reunification, part of the agreement was that Berlin had to preserve and protect that monument. It's surrounded by an eight foot chainlink fence, and a gate that closes each night. It doesn't get many visitors.

The view from the top of one of Berlin's tallest buildings.

The Brandenburg Gate.  The tiny vertical line in the distance is the Victory Column.

One afternoon, we had a tour of the Bundestag (or the Reichstag, depending on your generation). This is like touring the Capitol Building in DC; it's their seat of government. It's been bombed, burned, and rebuilt. You can see the styles of three different architects, but the most prominent feature is the enormous glass dome on top. It has a separate access from the rest of the building, so you can see it just by getting in line and going through a security checkpoint. We went up there before taking a tour of the rest of the building.

The mirrored funnel shape reflects heat and light through a large window in the floor to the legislative assembly chamber below. The sides of the dome are glass, but the very top is open to the elements. It's an amazing structure.

The Bundestag.

The Jewish Memorial. The ground level drops as you cross, so the columns eventually block your view. It's meant to show how families were separated, and didn't know where their lost people had gone. It's very effective, and a little creepy.  The building in the background is the American Embassy.

A set of wings outside the Mexican Embassy, perfectly designed for photos.

Scweinshaxe, the manliest meal I've ever had. It broke my knife.

Azaleas!

The last time she took me to the National Arboretum, I had just arrived on a red-eye flight from Oregon.  The next day, after I'd had some sleep and became human, she laughed at how she liked me better when I hadn't had any sleep, because I was "easier to control."

I should have sensed danger, I know.

This time, I was in much better shape.  I was a little tired, sure, but at least I'd had SOME sleep the previous night, the azaleas were in bloom, the weather was perfect, and we got a chance to see the bonsai exhibit.

Do you have any idea how many azalea varieties there are?  Me, either, but judging by what's on display at the arboretum, it's in the neighborhood of "are you kidding me??"  Suffice to say, I don't know the names of anything pictures here; even non-azalea species I can only paint with a wide brush like "lily."

This tree was in the herb garden by a sign reminding you to not pick the fruit.  This particular fruit is used to flavor drinks.

This trellis was full of carpenter bees.  The Girl refused to walk through it.  When I went through, I could hear the buzzing drone surrounding me.  Not to worry: carpenter bees have no stinger.

On an otherwise bare hillside stand 22 sandstone columns which used to be part of the Capitol building.  Each of the Corinthian tops took a skilled carver 6 months to form.

The Bonsai exhibit might have been my favorite part.  It made me want a tiny tree.  The variety of species and forms on display was extensive, and I got to see a lot of stuff I'd never known about bonsai.  For instance, there are sometimes more than one tree, and the artist has trained not a single plant, but a tiny forest.

"...with a path running down the middle."

This project was very detailed.  The gravel path wound between larger rocks, with trees looming above.  Looking very close, it seemed like any number of places I've hiked...

...But the whole thing would fit in a large serving dish.

Looking upward under one of the tropical varieties.  Limbspan was about three feet.

There were a few flowering bonsai (azaleas, coincidentally).  Quite striking, and entirely unexpected.

After the bonsai exhibit, we wandered through the Northern Forest area, with trees and plants more familiar to me.  And a frog pond.

The locals were very patient.

I like the structural detail when you look really, really close at blooms (Iris. No idea what variety.)

Even closer on another iris.

Sparrenburg Castle

Sometime in the thirteenth century, Sparrenburg Castle was built to watch over the trade route through Bielefeld. It also held the mighty coffers; safe passage required a toll, and all that money had to be kept somewhere.

It's not pertinent to the tour, but I liked these plants.

Foundations of the old armory buildings. Tunnels connected the armory (and adjacent barracks) to the two nearest towers.

Naturally, it became a bit of a target.  It was attacked and besieged numerous times in its past, but it was never, in all of those engagements, captured.

Part of the wall of one of the corner towers. A tree has spread its roots across the wall; that small alcove is full of votive candles, like a tiny shrine.

A model of the castle's original structures.

I got most of my information about Sparrenburg from The Girl's cousin, who doubled as our able tour guide for the final few days of our German trip.  He got the information from the official tour guide at the castle, who conducted the tour in rapid, detailed German.  My translator did his level best to keep up, but there was a LOT of information to convey, and I eventually assured him that I was paying very close attention to where we were throughout our tour, and if he could remember later where he was when he got the tidbits he parsed out to me, I could connect them to their rightful places in my mental files.

Armory foundation and the central tower.

The Girl demonstrated tower wall thickness, and window smallness.

We climbed the tower ourselves, before the tour began, for an aerial view of the city below us.  The base of the tower, in local custom, had at one point been used as a prison, and was later converted for use (a door was installed) as a store room.

Tower stairs

The view from the top.  (click to enlarge)

Most of the castle has been rebuilt and restored from the rubble left at the end of World War II, among other destructive conflicts in the fortress's past, and the restoration continues.  Today, only the foundation remains of some of the outbuildings , but the castle's main walls show the overall size of the structure, and the central keep has been rebuilt and is used as a restaurant.

At one time, there really was a drawbridge. Entry by that entrance was strictly for the VIPs. Everyone else had to come in through an opening at the base of one of the walls, passing by five thick oak doors. Each of those doors would be barred when the castle was under attacks; vertical shafts would allow castle defenders to pour rocks, hot oil, and other unpleasantness on encroaching attackers.

Our tour took us through the grounds, and later underneath them, to tunnels which served two of the towers at the fortress's corners.  Cannon emplacements to protect from ground troops are at the lowest level, as is the bakery which fed the forces protecting the castle.  Our favorite nugget of castle knowledge: although bread was baked fresh every day, it was stored until it had begun to stale before serving it to the troops.  Fresh bread is delicious, and you want to eat a lot of it.  Stale bread is more of a chore than a pleasure, so you eat less.  Feeding the soldiers old bread meant feeding them less bread, which saved a lot of money.

Note the hole in teh ceiling directly above the fire ring. This room (well under ground, beneath one of the corner towers) is where defenders fired cannons at attacking ground troops. It is also where defending troops would stream out and attack any attacking forces which made it past the cannon fire.

Shelves in the bakery.

One of the vertical shafts above the commoners' entrance tunnel.

When we finished at the castle, we walked through town for a little while before dinner. It became a running joke that Germans love pizza, because we kept finding (and eating at) places that specialized in it.  It was a little strange for us Yankees, because when a pizza arrives at your table in Germany--even one meant for a single person--you notice two things. First, it is enormous. Second, it is never cut. You do that yourself.

Classy, totally non-threatening table lamps at an Italian restaurant in Germany.

See the common table knife beside this huge pizza?  And people think American portions are too big.