Visited by an old friend

Leslie and Rick finally made their way to the camp.  She’s had infections that have prevented them from coming at the time of the two previously scheduled attempts.  This time, we had other friends here, but I think their presence added to the experience for Leslie and Rick. And for Mary and me, since their upbeat that positive attitudes helped keep the melancholy from overwhelming the weekend.

Les has been fighting a brain tumor for many years.  When it returned about 2 year ago (I could well have the time frame wrong), the doctors decided to treat it aggressively with chemo and radiation.  This was a second, at least, round of treatment. From what Rick says, the frontal lobe radiation seems to have very negatively affected Leslie’s functioning.  Obviously, Rick wishes treatment had more beneficial effect.

15 months ago, Leslie was driving to her treatment sessions.  Now, she gets stuck. She has to be coaxed through the activities of daily living, and needs to be helped from one place to another both for balance issues and for lack of the cognitive process to connect moving her feet with the objective of getting from point A to point B.

Rick has retired (or otherwise left IBM, which is another long story of corporate malfeasance) to take care of Leslie more or less full time.  They have people coming in to help from time to time, but that is minimal. Their daughter, Sophia, is also home to help at least some. She is an energetic young woman building a career in environmental advocacy.  Having her nearby at least part of the time is a big plus for Leslie and Rick.

I can imagine what Rick is going through as the caregiver, but I’m sure I don’t grasp half of the requirements and toll of the arduous task.  His entire existence is consumed by Leslie’s care. I suppose there is some backward blessing in the fact Leslie sleeps a lot, since during that time Rick can attend somewhat to his own needs, however inadequately.  It is certainly not an existence one would choose.  

My heart breaks for them both.  Their unfortunate example instructs us all to enjoy every day to the fullest.  Which hopefully, by their visit, they were doing.

We all played “Oh Hell,” on Saturday night, and on Friday, Rick and Les were able to go canoeing and enjoy the wind, water, and bright colors of the fall foliage.

As I helped Leslie into their car so they could depart, I gave her a kiss and a hug, remembering a similar embrace with our friend Ginny, gone ten (?) years now.  Tears welled up, so I turned away briefly before regaining enough composure to shake Rick’s hand and encourage them to come again anytime. I even managed a couple of silly one-footed, precariously balanced poses as Leslie waved while Rick backed the car out to turn around and leave.

They are headed to see Leslie’s Mom next weekend and another friend the one after that.  Mary wonders if Rick is taking her to see old friends before she can’t see them anymore. I would not bet against it.

We May Never Pass This Way Again

The mountains were very near their peak, though a few of us are well past ours.

For some, this is a repeat of a nice trip many years ago.  Why not, when a fine campsite and local points of interest beckon?  Even when hours of downpour greet you upon loading up your canoes and paddling to the campsite.  There was so much rain, it was questionable whether we'd know the difference should we capsize our overloaded canoe.

But no reason to broadcast, "Mayday!"  Or even, "M'aidez!"  A good part of the experience is taking inconveniences in stride so that the annual camping trip can provide excellent entertainment opportunities.

There was a vaudeville review.

After much precipitation,
one wakes up to fog in the forest.
There must be a wizard and a gnome back there somewhere.

The loons have no problem with swimming close to the campsite
before the sun melts the mist.

Less mist means more color.

Eventually, the sun breaks free of the haze
and boots can be dried.

Had there been a few more giant mushrooms,
we would not have needed a tarp the size of Rhode Island.

Rain and fog gone, the decision to paddle was unanimous.

After paddling, we hiked over mossy ground
on the way to Ledge Pond,
carrying the lightest of the canoes with us.

Plenty of color to be seen once there,
all the better appreciated from the canoe.

As a rule, ponds are not so aptly named.
Here is one of the ledges.
Had it been warmer and had we been more adventurous,
ledge leaping might have been the preferred activity.

A fine reward for a paddle and a hike, don't you think?

Here is a barrier put up by the government to keep undesirables out.
M. F. G. A.
Make Fishing Great Again!

Later that same day, the fishermen fished.
While no catches of great note were reported,
the fishermen didn't really care.

Later that same evening,
we were visited by a lumberjack who said, "I'm OK."

Even later, backsides were warmed.

And a disembodied head floated by.

Though the sky had been blue the previous day, 
the next morning provided evidence of rain during the night,
which continued through the morning.

Another paddle and hike were the orders of the day.
We left after the rain tapered off.
The bag hanging from the tree?  That contains our food.
At that height and proximity to the trunk,
it only discouraged underachieving bears.

Scenery worth paddling through,
regardless of the clouds.

Lots of it.

Time for intermission?  Too many pictures?  Always.  And this is the edited group!

Out of the boats and onto the trail to Long Pond Mountain.

We hiked the beautiful path through the pines, past a picturesque pond,
and up Long Pond Mountain.

Interesting mossy growth.

Weary bones enjoy lunch at the top.

Fabulous views!
Pay no attention to the man almost completely obscured behind the hiking stick.

He thinks he's hiding behind the stick.

We work to get to the pinnacle, but never stay long enough 
to fully assimilate the sights.  It is not possible. 
The photos never do justice to the views.
While one's head is larger than this picture,
it's impossible to get one's head around the vastness of the actual space.

The larger mountains have gathered in the far off mist.

The gang gathers on a second rocky ledge.

Green-clad Jim drank in the views.  "This is probably the last time I'll get to see this."

Oh, Jimmy, don't say that.  Even if it is 100% true, let us old guys have the illusion that encroaching age will not soon end this fun. 

But damned if Russ, the third of the "mature" campers, didn't tweak his knee on the way down, just to emphasize the point.  We could have rolled him down the steep spots, but chose to get him a walking stick instead.  We did not leave him, since he kept insisting, "I'm not dead yet!"

Sappy cones

Mossy shrooms.

A last look and then on our way.
We came from one of those water bodies way down there.

We departed and the butterfly had the entire mountaintop to himself.

Nosewood?

Mushrooms "Heart" NY, too.

A mushroom of the 4-fingered variety.

Delicate saprophytes on the forest floor.

Up there.  That's where we were.
Will we ever return?

We got back to the campsite just as another rainstorm arrived.  Dinner, another campfire, and outstandingly intellectual conversation ensued.  Maybe even an inappropriate song or two.  

The next morning saw us striking camp and hustling out of the woods.  On the 4th day in the woods, the call of the warm shower is strong.  But even so, the beauty of the land makes for a few delays.

The rocky summit of Snowy Mountain looms high above Lewey Lake.

And farther south, the lowlands of the Sacandaga River
 cause another short delay.

Under Pressure

The kegerator sat idle for too long.  Yes, I know, priorities. Abysmal.

Sadly empty.

Intent on correcting this error in my ways, I mentioned that I was planning to head to Johnstown, 20 miles to the southeast, to get a keg.  “We’re going west to Utica to see a movie,” said Mary. Why don’t you get it there?”

Great idea!  A quick search revealed that kegs were available at Marcy Discount Beverage, just across the Mohawk River and Erie Canal from Utica and the movie theater.  We’d take a slightly longer route to the reasonable facsimile of civilization where movies played. A few other stops along the way would complete our outing.

What could be better than dinner and a movie and a keg?  “Dinner and a movie and a keg and a new book for me to read,” said Mary.  So off we went, not without a twinge of guilt for leaving our little dog Ginger to fend for herself for half the day.     

The rain started almost as soon as we left, so our timing was good in regard to previous outdoor activities.  Most of an hour later, I stepped out into the drizzle in the Marcy Beverage parking lot and quickly returned with a ⅙ keg of Saranac Pale Ale.  

Canoe,   Water,  Hills,  Family.
More than enough to break down any sales resistance.

Yes, aficionados, I might have been able to get it directly from the F. X. Matt Brewery a few miles away, but this was quite a bit more convenient.  The keg and some ice were dropped into a waiting storage bin, and the entire assembly was covered with a ratty wool blanket usually enjoyed by Ginger. Please understand, Ginger.

Much later, after a lovely evening where we managed not to fall asleep in the reclining theater chairs, the keg was placed in the kegerator for safekeeping for tapping the next day. 

Not this kind of tapping.

Though the lines had been cleaned after the previous use, a year of idleness dictated a good flushing.  That complete, the CO2 pressure bottle that had been extracted from the unit while it served as a backup food refrigerator (sad duty for a noble kegerator) had to be located.  Of course, it was in the last place I searched, mainly because I stopped searching after finding it.  

Finally, all was ready for hook up.  The pressure line attaches to the tap via a metal-to-metal screw connection, and then the tap is pressed down and screwed ¼ turn into the keg.  The final connection step is to pull out the handle connected to the pin on the valve and swing the handle downward into the business position.

Gas comes in from the clamped red tube.
Beer goes out the top clear tube.
The paper collar is very helpful if you forget what you're drinking.

Now open the screw valve on top of the CO2 tank and then flip the valve to the keg.  Really good design here. Though the people who created the kegerator were undoubtedly drunkards, they kept enough wits about themselves to provide a two valve solution where a meter just after the pressure regulator allows one to know if there is gas in the tank without it being connected to the keg.  This way one can know if there is a leak, or if a trip to the nearest CO2 provider is called for, which in this case, was 20 miles away (if open). And of course, since I didn’t even know where the bottle was, I hadn’t checked prior to the procurement trip.

But I’ve often heard that the Lord protects fools (in addition to lovers and children, and maybe even the United States, if you believe Otto von Bismark), and this day provided supporting evidence.  There was gas in the tank. So it was time for the real test, and the tap handle was pulled forward.  

The first few ounces of what appears is not necessarily beer.  With the flushing of the system and residual cooties, who knows what’s in that first half-glass?  That goes down the drain.  

After that, there was flow which was probably the result of the efervescent pressure in the keg.  But then it stopped. The meter reads zero. Woe be unto me. All is lost. There must be a leak.

But there is recourse!  As Dad taught me, it’s time for the soapy water trick.  He applied it to an arguably somewhat more important issue while detecting natural gas leaks.  Dad wasn’t much of a beer drinker. But maybe he had a Scotch tap somewhere he never revealed to me.

Rising bubbles confirm the diagnosis.  The gas is leaking at the junction of the gas line to the tap.

The valve adjacent to the red tube is open,
but the pressure meter reads zero.
Not good.

Screwing down the plumbers clamp affixing the plastic line does not fix the problem, so cutting the tubing off an inch shorter and tightening it back down is the first step.  Careful, not too hard now, since too much pressure may tend to deform the plastic and create a leak. Also, don’t confirm an unlikely overabundance of testosterone by breaking the clamp.  Such juvenile behavior is punished with beer deprivation. Now clamp the tubing back down with a gap from the metal connector so it is more obvious where the leak is coming from, if it returns.  Which, of course, it did.

Upon closer examination, it could be seen that the bubbles were emanating from the metal-to-metal connection.  Gotta take it off the tap again. Sigh.

Staring at the disassembled connector, it became apparent that there was no way the mating of two less than perfect metal surfaces would ever seal.  In the tank's travels apart from the cooler over the past year, the mating washer for the connection must have gotten itself into the inter-dimensional portal into which single socks disappear.   A new gasket or washer was necessary. Thankfully, the payoff for hoarding provided just the thing. Asbestos is not a problem in the pressure line, is it?

After reassembly, with both valves open, the pressure meter holds above zero, unlike before.  Soapy water tells no new tales.

So now the real testing must begin.  The only way to be sure there is no slow leak is to draw that first pint, and then return to the kegerator at regular intervals to make sure motive pressure remains.  And the best timing for regular interval checks just happens to be the time it takes to empty a pint glass.

Maybe a little too much pressure now.
Adjustments will be made during testing.

41 pints of beer in the keg.

41 pints of beer.

Time for a peek, check for a leak, 

40 pints of beer in the keg.

I slept well with the knowledge that the pressure to connect things properly had been released.

--------------------------------------------

And now for a Special Bonus from the “Coincidence? You must be kidding!” file:

The movie we went to see was “Once Upon A Time In Hollywood,” Quenton Tarantino’s latest.  It garnered 85% on the Rotten Tomatometer. It is an interesting alternate reality treatment of the Manson/Tate murders.

Perhaps the least violent Tarantino movie.

Prominently featured is Lynette “Squeaky” Fromme, Manson’s second in command out at the Spahn Movie Ranch.  Remembering that she also attempted to assassinate President Gerald Ford, I decided to look up what prison she currently occupied.  

Surprisingly, she is free, paroled in 2009 after 34 years of a life sentence.  And she is now living with her also freed manslaughter-convicted boyfriend in...drumroll...Marcy, NY.

One can’t help but wonder if she was the elderly once-red-haired woman who sat behind us in the theater.