Il Vogalonga

This afternoon, while downing a gooey and satisfying serving of Amy's GF Mac & Cheeze, I flipped through a magazine I found in my work's bathroom. The magazine was Departures, a grotesquely luxurious magazine devoted to all things grotesquely luxurious and published by American Express for all of their well-heeled clients. This issue in particular was devoted to Venice and spent a good deal of its pages covering food and wine and extravagant accommodations but, toward the back, I found an article about Il Vogalonga. Reading it, I was filled with immediate and nearly unquenchable desire to head for Italy.

Il Vogalonga ("The Long Row") is an annual celebration of the "people of the oar," the people who make their passage without motorized assistance through the canals and waterways of Venice. No motorized vehicles are allowed on the water but any other kind of craft from kayak to scull to more traditional Venetian barcas can have their way with the waves.

Venetian rowing, I learned from Michael Hainey, is done standing up and even an outsider can participate. If you are a rower yourself, you can rent a boat of your choice or you can contact one of the rowing clubs for lessons prior to the event.

I can only imagine what kind of beautiful chaos takes place every summer when 1600 or so boats descend on the waters of Venice. Reading the article, my breath was halted so I would think that the event itself could border on rapturous making this one of the many things on my Travel Wish List.

For more information, Il Vogalonga has a website in Italian and English. Some of the rowing clubs Hainey mentions are:

Querini
Bucintoro

There's still time before this year's event on June 12th. In fact, it's so easy you can even enroll online!

Read more after the jump.

Two Good Things

1. I was reading through one of my favorite blogs and, as is frequently the case, I wound up falling through an internet rabbit hole and ended by landing at Gadling. Sure, I was enticed by their Flip Winter The Bird travel contest but, more than that, I was drawn in by their informative and often funny articles about all things travel. They cover a lot of gear/tech stuff, recognize the fact that there is a Nat Geo photographer in all of us and give useful camera tutorials, report on interesting travel news (Did you know there is a new GLBTQ museum in San Francisco? Because I didn't!), and even do quite a bit of water travel coverage (aka cruise ships and other craft). Guess what blog was just added to my bookmarks toolbar?

2. A friend of mine and I have a weekly practice of emailing one another our creative and business goals, outlining some of our successes and challenges for the week. This is a way for us to keep in contact after she moved out of state AND a great attempt at keeping ourselves accountable. Sure, we forget some weeks and I, for one, find that I am not nearly as productive as I'd like to be but so far it's been a really inspirational tool. My friend sent me, in her most recent installment, a link to The Art of Non-Conformity, specifically a link to his article on how to conduct your own annual review. This guy is my hero! Not only is he enviably anal for all anal types such as myself (who doesn't cream over an Excel document designed to help you plan your life?), but he's proudly and successfully doing his own thing. One of those things is traveling and traveling and traveling. He went to 27 countries in one year! I believe I have a thing or fifty to learn from his blog so count that as another addition to my bookmarks toolbar.

Read more after the jump.

Bar Harbor In the Winter

Hoping to escape from the general insanity of holidays with my family, my husband and I decided at the last minute to take a 4 hour drive up to Bar Harbor. Don't ask me why we chose that place. Perhaps it was because we'd never been there. Perhaps it was because we couldn't think of anywhere else to go quickly enough. We were considering Montreal or Quebec City but had ruled them both out because the drive was too long for the three days we had available. Bar Harbor seemed like the perfect getaway once it had popped into our heads but our resolve weakened as we found fewer and fewer accommodations open after Thanksgiving.

We were absolutely desperate to get away and relieved to find one motor inn that was still booking. We had a tentative list of things to do to beat back boredom but mostly we planned to sit around in our underwear, watch television, and eat a lot of food that we wouldn't be cooking ourselves.

We put in a few hours of work and then set sail in the early afternoon, forgoing the beautiful drive along Route 3 from Augusta so that we could make good time before the sun set. We passed countless hotels, motels, and rental cottages that had been shuttered for the season and more than a few powerful sea vistas along the way before arriving at Hanscom's.



From our first impressions of the town, we could see that it is likely chaotic during the summer time, swollen with all manner of tourists eager to get a taste of Maine living. Acadia National Park, a place we decided to hold off visiting until better weather permitted, is essentially Bar Harbor's back yard and it was obvious from the preponderance of souvenir shops that Bar Harbor may not be the place for us when things get into full swing come summer. It became apparent pretty quickly that winter on the island was definitely more our speed.



That first night, we had dinner at Geddy's, a kitschy, tourist establishment in downtown Bar Harbor. Geddy's definitely catered to the "people from away" with their lobster, lobster, lobster and their humorous take on the best and worst of Northern New England lifestyles. In fact, everyone around us in the place (a surprising number for the ass-end of December) was from elsewhere, even our waiter. The food was tasty but certainly nothing exceptional.

No, the best meals we had in Bar Harbor (and the highlight of our trip was certainly all the eating) was dinner the second night at McKay's Public House and breakfast one morning at Mad Hatter.

McKay's is in a Victorian house in downtown Bar Harbor and the seating is intimate and warm. What was once parlors and sitting rooms, family dining and bedrooms have been converted to close (but comfortable) dining, softly lit by table lamps and holiday lights. We couldn't stop running our hands over the copper tabletops while we waited for our feast: a 1.5 lb boiled lobster for the hubs, the winter pan chicken for me, and scallion potato latkes as a mouth-watering appetizer.



If you've never been to Maine in the winter (or anywhere that gets snow enough to accumulate over the course of long, cold months), you might not realize how difficult it is to park on the street. You have to sidle up close to sometimes enormous snow banks that eat up precious space in the street, try not to dig your tires into the snow so that you'll spin out when you leave, all while parking far enough away to allow passengers to get out without losing your drivers side-view mirror. I was engaged in just such a maneuver, letting the hubs out at an opening in the snow and backing into my spot, when a truck came up beside me and swiftly backed into my space. I rolled my window down to ask my husband if there was space enough for me to park with the truck in the space I was just trying to back into. He shook his head with a grim look when the truck driver jumped out of the truck and approached the hubs, apologizing profusely for the snub. I pulled up to the next block and found another spot and, when I joined my husband, the man was still apologizing. Frustrated though I was when it happened, the man was so extremely nice and charming that I immediately forgave him. He walked in with us, called the host by name and told him what he had just done to us and insisted that we be treated well. Perhaps that experience went a long way to color my perception of the evening but I definitely think dinner there was the highlight of the trip.

The breakfast at Mad Hatter's is another story entirely. We had no clue what would be open in town when we wandered in around 11am. As soon as we turned onto Cottage Street, we saw a breakfast sign in a storefront, threw the car in park, and beat a quick path to their door. We must have caught them opening because we were the only people there and the two staff were busy putting down chairs and taking care of all of the other business of starting a restaurant day. I felt as though I was imposing and considered leaving, but they graciously seated us and served us a most delicious and surprising meal. The venue looked, with its bright green walls and arcade games and big screen TVs, like a sports bar so we were completely floored when they served us beautifully presented breakfast foods that were a far cry from the deep fried hangover meal we were expecting.



Mostly, we were true to our plans and spent the majority of our time sitting around in our underwear in the cottage watching the non-stop cheese fest that is Burn Notice but we did venture out one afternoon to find The Ovens. The Ovens are cave-like formations cut into the cliffs of Mt. Desert Island by the whims of a sometimes vicious sea. I had read that they were best reached at low tide and, after a scramble down the cliffs (no small task with snow and ice involved), we hiked along the beach for about a mile until we found them.



We took a few photos, arranged lobster carcasses as sculpture on the black rocks, and played with the giant icicles like they were swords before hoofing it back to spot where we climbed down just as the tide began to come back in. We were so wiped out that we took a long nap before dinner and generally did precisely what we were supposed to do: relax.

Read more after the jump.

I Like The Night Life

I still haven't purchased a Flickr professional account so that I can post photos of all of the awesome adventures I've been on this summer in and around Maine but, as on this most recent adventure I forgot my camera, there's nothing to miss.

When we first moved to Maine, I read Elizabeth Peavey's book Maine & Me and even posted about it before. After reading it, I forwarded some links to my husband with birthday wishes and he listened, signing us up for a nighttime sea kayaking adventure where we would be able to see bioluminescent dinoflagellates.

As it turned out, he was able to book the last one of the year just a few days before my birthday through the same company that Elizabeth used, Castine Kayak. We were instructed to get there at 6pm so that we could get suited up before dark. We planned to leave Portland around 2pm so we could get there with enough time to spare.

As is usual, we were late. Although, this time, our lateness was epic. Read: ONE HOUR LATE. Needless to say, by the time we arrived, I felt like the world's biggest asshole, making us so late that we likely missed the departure of the entire group. With Castine in sight, we flew through the small roads into town and frantically tried to find the wharf where the tour was located. When we walked into the office on Eaton's Wharf, tears threatening to spring forth from my eyes, we were met by an extremely forgiving woman named Karen who was still willing to take us out despite the fact that we were tardy beyond belief.

After getting us suited up in waterproof windbreakers, water resistant kayak skirts and life jackets, Karen took us out to the pier and taught us how to get into the double boat, how to get out of a capsize, and how to move through the water. And then we were off, out into the open water, the stars above us, the lights of the dock and the houses on the shore disappearing behind us. Once we made it out to the dark pocket of Hatch's Cove, we could see exploding around our oars small, bright white flecks that looked like sparklers under the water. Occasionally, they would cling to our oars or our hands or light up in the wake of our boats. There, in the darkness and stillness of the bay, with the water aglow and the moon low in the sky behind us, was such a magical experience, one of those once-in-a-lifetime kind of adventure that I will remember forever.

Neither of us had any real kayak experience but Karen made us completely comfortable and, despite the harsh winds that day, the harbor was smooth and easy. We used red lights on our boats so that we could find one another in the dark, though she never ventured very far from us and even managed to avoid us deftly when we seemed hell-bent on hitting her. After two hours, neither of us felt tired or sore and we came out of the boat completely dry. I only wish we had more time to explore Castine, perhaps have stayed at one of the bed and breakfasts in town and spent some time on the water during the day. Castine Kayak provides more extensive sea kayaking training as well as overnights and half-day trips, all of which would have been wonderful to try. Castine is also home to two museums: Castine Historical Society and the Wilson Museum. It is also the home to the Maine Maritime Academy which appeared to have a beautiful campus as we whizzed past it in our frenzy to find the tour company.

I am so thankful that I have a husband who wanted to do something wonderful for me for my birthday and even more thankful that Karen was so gracious and accommodating. I certainly didn't deserve it but it was perfect. I wish everyone could have the same wonderful experience, adrift on the ocean under the cloak of darkness with electrifying single-celled organisms for the most excellent of company.

Read more after the jump.

Don't let my silence fool you...

I've been traveling, oh yes I have. I have a number of adventures about which to write but, see, I haven't been able to afford to purchase a flickr account and I've reached the limit of what I can do there for free. Sure, I could upload them to a number of websites I maintain but then my anonymity would be compromised. That's not much of a fugue state, is it? Still, I feel pretty strongly that photographs of some sort, even my low-quality, shaky variety, should be included in any travel writing so updating will have to wait.

Possibly, maybe, I'll be able to get up to speed in the next week or two at which time I will be posting photos and descriptions of Macworth Island, Portland, Bug Light, Deering Pond, the Cactus Garden, a What To Do In Vegas post and some others that I've dreamed up on long car rides but have certainly forgotten in this long, long absence.

For now, though, I should mention that I am reading We Took To The Woods by Louise Dickinson Rich. On top of being an absolutely superb and engaging writer, she manages to make the isolation of Maine's North Woods enviable. I have been staying up late at night poring through the local library's copy (which I've renewed TWICE now) and am considering buying a copy so that I can add it to the collection of books I keep by my bedside and that I reread constantly. I highly recommend it, even for people who have never set foot in Maine (and who may not be able to find it on a map).

Read more after the jump.

Urban Exploration and the Journey of the Self

I admit, I fell prey to the bug that was sweeping 20- to 30-somethings all over Detroit that caused otherwise law-abiding citizens (speeding tickets and public intoxication aside) to break into other people's property. I like to rationalize my brief foray into criminal activity with how much it taught me about a city I hardly knew but came to love. Walking into a building that has been absent of life for long periods of time can be simultaneously haunting and magical, a kind of Kasper Friedrich-brand of sublime that celebrates the beauty in decay, the dark poetry of man-made structures slowly worming their way to dust. Sitting sometimes alone amidst a modern-day ruin filled with light and growth, I often considered how like the living thing these monuments to man's industry are, how much a metaphor for the dying body they become, moldering away in the rotting casket of a city. We humans become the fly, the ant, and the rooting seed becomes the bacteria, nibbling away, returning matter to energy, copper piping becoming air conditioner sinew, antique fixtures becoming someone's much needed cash. All this may be why I have no readership.

Obviously, I digress. The urban exploration fever isn't isolated to Detroit as evinced by sites such as Infiltration and the plethora of talented photographers on Flickr who have broken into all the same places (and more!) that I have, but who documented it far better. Rest assured, somewhere in the world right now, eager suburbanites are pulling back broken boards over the windows of some crumbling behemoth with hearts full of entitlement and tinged with fear. Wait. Did I say "entitlement?" That's right, I'm going to get preachy on your asses.

But not before photos:

First, there is the Packard Plant on the East side of Detroit. Commissioned in 1903 and built by the ubiquitous (in Detroit, at least) Albert Kahn^[1], the factory fell into disrepair after its closure in 1956^[2] and appeared that a portion of it was being used as storage until fairly recently.




Our friend, in a desperate attempt to see as many of Detroit's abandoned beauties before heading to San Francisco, put an ad out on craigslist for exploration buddies. We had gone on several sorties with him, usually just the few of us, but, when we joined him this particular time, we met an enormous group of exploration virgins who stuck out in the neighborhood like a glowing white hipster sore thumb. They came completely unprepared, some in sandals, and turned out to be a much larger liability than going in alone might have been. By the time we visited Packard, we were tried and true explorers, and so we found ourselves giving stern lectures to everyone as soon as we were all safely inside the walls of the building. Some important things we've learned that no one else should learn the hard way:

1. Use the buddy system
2. Wear close-toed shoes, with thick soles
3. Bring a backpack
4. Bring a flashlight
5. Bring extra batteries
6. Bring a cell phone (with a charge)
7. Bring a basic first aid kit
8. Bring gloves (work or latex or both)
9. Bring a respirator or at least a cloth face mask
10. Bring water and food if you can't go more than a few hours without eating
11. Let someone on the outside know where you'll be and when you're expecting to return
12. Don't park outside the building
13. Don't be a dick and hasten the destruction of the building
14. Don't set fires
15. Don't disturb any people (or their belongings) who might call that building home
16. Use the hiking rules of "pack it in/pack it out"
17. Don't take souvenirs
18. Be respectful of the people who live next to the buildings

Now that we've gotten that out of the way...

Second, we visited the Roosevelt Warehouse (aka the DPS Warehouse) on Michigan in Southwest Detroit.



Walking into this building was, at first, disappointing because the first floor is largely empty and, at the time we went, the basement was flooded and frozen. We thought we were in for an empty space when we climbed the stairs to the second floor and discovered piles upon piles of school supplies. When we went to the building, we didn't know what it was, only that it was connected to the train station (below) by an underground tunnel that we had tried to manage previously. Looking at all of the supplies, it became apparent it was a warehouse for a school but not knowing anything behind it made it, perhaps, more special. The wonderment that comes with discovery was pure, the feeble mind trying to piece together the complete picture of an experience before your own. What I was unable to capture, because my camera batteries died (how I learned Rule #5 above), was the astounding third floor. Though the racks of late 1960s school books were amusing (in content and artwork) and their sheer volume overwhelming, my breath caught in my throat when I turned a corner to witness a section of collapsed ceiling that had been completely reclaimed by the urban wilds. Such a thing was beautiful enough to trigger an emotional response that would make Stendahl proud.

Sweet Juniper ^[3](whom I linked to earlier and who has photographs of that third floor) is the only easy source for the history of the building which is, in short, that it was built as the city post office, then purchased by the school system before it succumbed to fire in March 1987. The fire is certainly apparent when you visit the building and the piles of disintegrating school supplies makes for an exceptionally heartbreaking experience. While we were living in Southwest, there were two fires that I was aware of, though they were small which did more damage to the building in the time since we've been there. The changes in what we saw (in early 2005) and what Sweet Juniper documented (in late 2007) in the two and a half years between our respective visits was staggering and I suspect that, while some of the damage is the inevitable force of reclamation, much other of it is by people just like us who wanted to see it with their very own eyes, to feel the complete 360-degree phenomenon.

Lastly, for the pièce de résistance, we also had the opportunity to visit the Michigan Central Station.



I originally likened visiting this building first of all of the abandoned buildings in Detroit to losing my virginity to a porn star, meaning that nothing would ever compare in intensity and joy but, in truth, of all of the buildings we've been in, they are uniquely beautiful and so color our memories of a city we've come to adore with every fiber of our being. And here is where I pull out the soapbox.

See, we participated in this urban exploration because we wanted to know the city, we wanted to understand, and I think that, on many levels, that's why predominantly white kids from the suburbs of cities around the globe like to spend their bright Sunday afternoons in places that everyone else has rejected. The funny thing that happened, once we moved into the city and became involved in its everyday life, was that we stopped going to those places. Living between two abandoned houses in Southwest Detroit and working with the homeless and drug addicted in the city, I came to a fuller understanding of all that abandoned structures are, all that they mean, and the manifold roles that they play in a community and stopped seeing them as this disregarded thing that existed simply so I could conquer it.

Three situations changed my perspective and quenched forever my desire to enter another abandoned building.

The first situation was simply living between two abandoned houses and being a part of the daily vigil to prevent them from being vandalized and burned. While I fall on the very far left of the general US population when it comes to issues of squatting, property rights and theft, I didn't want to feel physically vulnerable in the place that I lived, be it from fire or assault. And, being a part of the community (meaning, I knew all of my neighbors and similarly cared about their well-being, as well as knew some of the people who might make those houses a home and cared about those neighbors, too), wanted to prevent the kind of fear and instability that can deteriorate the sometimes delicate infrastructure of that community. Timid growth in a depressed area can be immediately eroded by happenstance or carelessness or outright maliciousness and I loved my neighborhood and my city enough to not see it suffer because some people might be of the notion that certain members of our society are allowed to trespass and make silly while others are not.

Secondly, as a social service provider in the city, I came to understand the greater political and social issues associated with building abandonment, race and class. My neighbors taught me that abandoned buildings can be shooting parlors, shelters, hideouts, storage units, homes, rape sites, and tombs. One of my clients died in an abandoned building, an association that many people who have lived in the city their whole lives share. To many people in Detroit, abandoned buildings are a constant reminder of oppression, poverty and pain which is only worsened when the people on the other side of that wall of suburbia come in at will like some colonialist expedition to view the noble savages and their vicious jungle habitat. That seems harsh and I certainly don't mean to offend, either with my metaphor or with my criticism, but I think it's necessary to illustrate a point because I think that urban exploration and colonialism come from the same place, albeit on a decidedly different scale, and that is a place of entitlement. There are people in the world who look at the wonders it furnishes and believe that, because those wonders exist, they must exist to be conquered (or at least viewed). And then there are the people who are trod upon in the conquest who may well be like the former if they had the means. A fair amount of our earth's bounty has been razed or consumed in the pursuit of conquest and that need-for-the-panoramic-in-the-flesh experience.

Lastly (although this happened early on in my exploration), I got caught by the police in one of the buildings. The getting caught isn't actually what did it for me, it seemed an inevitability over a long enough span of time. No, what made me think was what happened after we got caught. I was at the Fisher Body 21, participating in a photo shoot that ran into the night. I should say, many of my aforementioned rules were learned that night. As we were all shivering in the snow, the police officers berating us with not-so-hyperbolic stories of junkies, murderers, and wayward white kids, one of the officers took me aside. They had picked up all of our licenses and were threatening to tow our cars when we first exited the building and I quickly learned that the only reason I was singled out was because I was the only city of Detroit resident in the bunch. From that point forward, I was someone apart. The officers spoke to me in a much gentler way and, on the whole, treated me like I was one of them which I found curious at the time. Later I realized it was because those officers knew that, by living in the city every day, I should have developed a certain level of common sense and respect for the ways of the mean streets that they couldn't be certain my companions shared.

I'm not saying that no one should explore abandoned buildings or that those people that do are all entitled white kids from the suburbs (despite my fervent generalizations to the contrary in my post, I realize) but I am saying that we should be aware of the impact our every exploration has on the planet and on other cultures (or communities) in addition to the impact we hope it will have on us. From someone who fights her own issues of entitlement and burning thirst for exploration to any others out there, sometimes maybe a photograph should suffice.

[1] - Detroit News

[2] - Wikipedia

[3] - Sweet Juniper

Read more after the jump.

Stumble Upon

Since we moved back up to New England, I've had an abundance of time on my hands. When that time can be spent without ever having to leave the bed, more's the better (particularly when you've spent the last 48 hours on death's door from what appears to be food poisoning). Now, I'm not exactly an early adopter when it comes to teh intarwebs. Though I frequently hear about things pretty early on, I'm steadfastly resistant to fads, making me often refuse to adopt something just because it's the cool thing to do. I know, I'm a luddite.

Anyway, I finally jumped on the social news site bandwagon and started following sites like Stumble Upon, Mixx, Reddit and, the sausage party that is Digg.

I was "stumbling" around this early morning, my sleep interrupted by sleeping for much of that aforementioned food poisoning episode, and happened upon a great article about off-beat hotels around the world.

I'd heard of the Ice Hotel and the Capsule Hotel before but I had no idea you could actually stay in the fairy caves in Turkey. In the absence of real adventures of my own at the moment, I have to feed my wanderlust with reading about other people's marvelous adventures.

Read more after the jump.

Red Hill: Grand Views From the Top!

My husband and I were facing an exceptionally small bank account and an enormous cross-country move when I tuned in to a local radio station one afternoon. Instead of the latest in alternative rock, I heard the DJs talking about a contest they were running and marveling at the fact that, after two weeks of clues, no one had found the prize. Twice per week, during the morning program, they would read clues as to the location of a special ticket and, as each clue passed without solution, the prize grew. By the time I tuned in, the ticket was worth a cool two thousand dollars.

I fell immediately prey to the excitement and, thinking myself a clever sort of girl, thought that I could certainly figure everything out before my fellow competitors. I listened carefully to where the previous clues were posted and stopped by one of the participating stores on the way home to quickly scribble down the rhyming couplets that comprised the clues. Then I rushed home and began furiously unlocking each of the riddles, dissecting their double meanings and every nuance. Soon, I realized, the ticket was hidden somewhere in Center Harbor, New Hampshire.

The morning of the next clue, I was crouched with my ear to the speaker, trembling in anticipation, pencil at the ready. I had to work that day and was dog sitting for a friend but I calculated that I could make a run to Center Harbor with the dog immediately after work and have at least an hour and a half before dark fell to search. The moment the clock struck 6, I locked the door to the shop, picked up my husband, and ran to my friend's house to get the dog. Then we drove as fast as we could to the place I had become convinced held the winning ticket, Red Hill.

Every landmark we passed seem to confirm my suspicions: the bells of the church, the town pound, the cemetery, the bicycle sign. The time was nearly 7pm when we rumbled to a stop in the tiny gravel parking lot. Like pilgrims toward a shrine, we climbed the path to the top, passing a marker proclaiming the spot where Henry David Thoreau stopped to rest. When we reached the top, the sun was setting so we searched in a panic around the few sheds and fire tower, looking for an indication that a prize had been hidden there. As the light faded, we finally stopped to appreciate the view which was quickly becoming clouded and dim as a storm rolled in across the Lakes Region. In the dark, we descended the hill, without a flashlight or water or any idea if the way we were following was truly correct. The dog, a brave and confident golden retriever named Ruby, seemed to know the way and seemed just as anxious as we were to get back to the car in one piece. Somehow, we found our vehicle, kissing the hood of the car in thanks, and then we drove home in an exhausted and disappointed silence.

As soon as we got home, I started researching the mountain and its trails and I stumbled upon something called a letterbox that was hidden at the top. After reading everything I could about the box and discussing it with an equally excited Remy, we decided to go back at first light to find it. Again we climbed, my muscles burning from ass to ankle, my heaving breathing attracting mosquitoes. The excitement in my ears drowned out my body's protest as we worked our way up to the top, over unique volcanic rock, past slithering snakes and camouflaged frogs.

Once we had made the summit, I pulled out my compass and set about finding my treasure with the seriousness of a pirate. I stood on a geodetic mark and sighted 100 degrees, 22 paces and then another, sighted 110 degrees, 18 paces, 80 degrees and 20 paces. My heart pounded in my chest as I scrambled down the huge rock and, getting down on all fours, peeked underneath until I found it. A letterbox! My virginal letterbox! In my excitement, I spread out the contents of the box on the dewey leaves: an eraser stamp of the Red Hill fire tower, a red stamp pad, a little artist sketch book and a pencil. I pulled out my own log book and stamp and pad that I had made the night before and traded stamps with them. I checked the box three times, flipping through every scrap of paper, looking for the prize but it was nowhere to be found. Somehow, the discovery of a new hobby was consolation enough for two days' worth of effort. I nearly skipped to the bottom of the hill. Before heading down, however, we actually stopped to take in the breathtaking view from the top of the mountain. Standing in the fire tower on a clear day, you can see nearly all of central New Hampshire, or so it seems. We were rendered speechless by the vista.

A few days later, the radio station made their next and final announcement of a clue. We were already en route to Center Sandwich when they broadcast the last riddle. Since our adventures on Red Hill, we had researched more of the area and thought that we had found another likely hiding place for the golden ticket, Chamberlain-Reynolds Memorial Forest. Unfortunately, hundreds of other people had the same idea and we found the park teeming with every possible assortment of people looking for the prize. We developed a sort of camaraderie as we explored, greeting one another and conveying news of false tickets and updates from the radio station to one another. In the end, a college student found the prize in the cemetery, ignoring a red herring the DJs had planted days earlier that steered people away from the very spot.

The week of effort did little to help fund our move but it did give us a lasting impression of the state we were leaving as well as the opportunity to experience it in an entirely unique way. My memory of New Hampshire will forever be linked to the grand views I had from the top of Red Hill.

Read more after the jump.