It was my longtime pal, the Skipper, urging me to remain calm as we endured the commencement speech at the Dartmouth College graduation in the Summer of '93. My daughter Kelly was grabbing her diploma from that prestigious institution and I was proud to be there. Unfortunately for me and my wife, Linda, and our friends Dave (the Skipper) Erickson and his wife Betty the day would require us to sit through the aural emissions of liberal gasbag Bill Moyers.
(Bill Moyers...Better than Somenex!)
Dave and Betty, who live in Georges Mills, New Hampshire had been Kelly's local parents while she attended Dartmouth. Hanover, the home of Dartmouth, was just a few miles up the road from them and they had been happy to be there for her when she needed support or important things like a fake I.D. The Skipper even loaned her a couple of his beloved lighted beer signs for her dorm room. (I get misty just thinking about this.)
Betty and The Skipper in front of Katz's Deli in NYC
Anyway...about ten minutes into how horrible America is, except when the Dems are in office, I decided that Mr. Moyers could finish his speech without me. The Skipper and I adjourned to a nearby wobble water emporium and left our wives to stare glassy-eyed at the guest speaker. The dive that we found was already filled to the gunwales with other dads who had taken the liberty of hiring a runner to keep tabs on the commencement and report back to what was now Dad Headquarters. It was perfect. Dave and I returned to the ceremony when the runner reported that they were just about finished handing out diplomas to the "B's". I got there just in time to snap a shot of one Ms. Kelly Copper glomming on to her Dartmouth sheepskin. I felt like a real Mr. Touchdown.
The next day Linda flew home to her teaching job in California and my brother Steve and I remained to join the Skipper on a two day sojourn to what he referred to as "THE CAMP". The Camp is owned by Dave and a couple of his buddies. It is located on Lower Jo Mary Lake in Northern Maine. It is only accessible by float-plane and is...ahh...rustic. Everywhere outside of Maine, it is called... a DUMP.
"The Camp" in the early days....
The people in the picture are all now slumbering in the Mahogany Hilton, but the structure remains the same.
As you can see from this more recent photo, the camp has a wonderful beach. (If your idea of a wonderful beach is a bunch of guys sitting around around drinking whiskey wondering where the women are.)At sometime during our stay as far from civilization as I have ever been, Dave suggested that Steve and I might enjoy hiking the Appalachian Trail. The famous trail actually begins along the shores of this remote lake. It seemed like something interesting to do besides counting the hours until we would once again be within walking distance of a 7-11. Frankly, my brother and I had both begun to worry about how long the whiskey was going to last. So, this was good! Dave would take us by boat to the other side of the lake; drop us at the trail head and we would hike back to the "camp" having tackled the Appalachian Trail. A story for the grand kids!
No sooner had we been deposited on the opposite shore and begun our trek, when we were attacked by a killer grouse! I am not making this up. We had taken about five steps on the trail and out of the weeds came a hissing puffed-up monster who sent us scrambling back to the shore of the lake. We hailed for the Skipper to turn his boat around and come rescue us.
Killer Grouse...WHO KNEW?
Dave called us pansies, but I didn't see him lingering for a better look!
I present this as a warning tale to all of you who may be considering a hike in the New England woods sometime in the future.DON'T!
New England is a very dangerous place. The people talk funny. And...if Bill Moyers doesn't get you, the Killer Grouse will!
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