From Josh Field, Advertising Producer:
March 14th: I left my Park Avenue apartment in Baltimore, Maryland, and walked through the damp, salty morning air to Penn Station to catch the train. I got there a bit early, picked up my coffee, and climbed aboard the 7:10 to New York City. As the train chugged its way northward the sky seemed to thicken with ominously dark clouds. By the time I reached Penn Station New York, it was beginning to rain but since my interview was just a few blocks away on Park Avenue, I decided to hike it rather than take the subway. New York is so deceiving in terms of navigability; one never anticipates having to stand on the corner for two minutes waiting for the light to change.
I was soaked for my interview and suffered through it as best I could, thinking mostly about dry socks. On the way back to Penn Station, it really started to pour. I bought a three-dollar umbrella from a street vender who seemed happy enough about the sudden downpour.
On the train home I recalled the destinations involved in the day's travel. Park Avenue (Baltimore) to Penn Station (Baltimore) to Penn Station (New York) to Park Avenue (New York) and back again. The unfamiliar seemed familiar...
April 19th: I climbed into my little red car, packed full of the odds and ends that didn't fit into the U-Haul Trailer, and headed for Williamstown, Massachusetts, and Tripod. It was a beautiful spring morning, a light chill in the air and spring crocuses in the park. My girlfriend and my dog were in the little car with me, my comrade followed in his truck pulling the trailer. As we moved through Pennsylvania, we noticed a distinct cooling trend and by the time we reached New York state the cooling trend had intensified to the point where we began to see snow flurries. It was disconcerting, to say the least. Much to my dismay, after an arduous ten hours (it's an eight-hour drive if one doesn't get pulled over on the Taconic Parkway for having a commercial vehicle a U-Haul trailer is a commercial vehicle?) we made our way into Williamstown and found a foot of snow on the ground.
I knew the route well. I was born in North Adams, which is adjacent to Williamstown, but moved away when I was very young. I used to visit Billsville during the summers of my teenage years, and I certainly didn't anticipate so much snow. The familiar seemed unfamiliar.
Two weeks later I traded in the little red car for a big Mitsubishi Montero with four-wheel drive and no air conditioning and suddenly felt empowered against the elements.
June 16th: I decided, along with one of my neighbors and my colleague Matt Quann, that I was so emboldened by the power of four-wheel drive that we would take our chances on a local trail a trail that three people had, on separate occasions, told me was unpassable. We bounced and crashed about in the woods for an hour or so and had a genuinely good time until we met what turned out to be our match. This was not a little puddle but a five-foot deep pond of thick, stinking sludge. Oh, we could have circumnavigated but we decided to go through instead. This was pure temptation. With myself behind the wheel and no one discouraging me, we geared up to about twenty-five miles per hour and hit the sludge head on. All seemed to be going well until, three feet from the shore, we began to slow down abruptly.
"I think we're stuck," Matt grumbled nervously as I gunned the engine in desperation.
Indeed, the former city dweller was stuck, regardless of four-wheel drive and big tires. I rolled down the window, and the pungent stench from the muck below flowed in. We were in deep, so deep that we had to crawl out the windows and walk across the hood of the car to get to the opposing shore. We tried every conceivable means of getting traction, to no avail. We were completely stumped and considering various unconventional methods when a big, rusted Ford truck pulled up. The driver stepped out, shaking his head and muttering profanities. After he admonished us as fools for having gotten stuck (and adding that we were not alone in our foolishness, seeing that we were the fourth party he had extracted from the bog this month), he eyed the situation and pulled a rather large chain from his truck. Once we were hooked up, he blasted forward with a determined growl and gave the little truck a mighty jerk but the Montero didn't move. He attempted the same maneuver a number of times, but the Montero was an anchor in the mud.
The Ford driver got out, cursed some more, and after a variety of choice phrases decided that he would pull my truck diagonally. This was very disquieting, considering the model of truck I own is prone to tipping over. Matt was convinced that I was going to be eating mud in a matter seconds, but we were clear and on our way with a few more violent whiplash-inducing tugs. After thanking the man profusely for his valiant effort, we drove to a few more spots. We respectfully tested and declined the muddier areas, having learned a valuable lesson in particularly unfamiliar territory.
Read more "Letters from Tripod" in the archive.