Dispatch From The Rattle River Trail

Everything seemed to turn into immediate nostalgia as we began our Harvard years with the First-Year Outdoor Program (FOP). In fact, the whole journey to Cambridge seemed like excellent material for the next Alex Keshishian film. Picture the opening scene: a horde of FOP leaders charging Sever Quad and performing a rain dance which, unfortunately for all who are involved, is all too successful.

The participants, who included almost one-quarter of the Class of '98, quickly became acquainted with their classmates' origins and interests. After the usual small talk, the conversations inevitably turned to the woman with the multiple body rings in Store 24 and how much trouble she must have going through airport metal detectors.

By nine p.m., we had all converged on Herrell's Ice Cream Store in what must have seemed like an Eastern Mountain Sports convention. (Understand that when we arrived at Harvard, each FOPer was individually deloused and all his or her worldly possessions were put into storage. The most important of these items was jeans. Thus we were garbed in long underwear, wool pants and the item most indispensable for all crunchy people: the fleece pullover.) Over dessert some FOP members pondered whether it might be better to be locked in the store's marine-themed "vault" for a week than go on the nature outing originally planned.

Alas, all FOPers did depart after a night of mental and physical preparation. 314 first-years, loaded down with their frame packs, boarded nine buses and two vans for a week in the wilderness.

Hiking the heights of the Northeast proved to be better spent in communication than in solitude. Our debates raged on everything from godless religion to national health care. Gorp (Good 'Ol Raisins & Peanuts, for those unfamiliar) breaks tended to be welcome punctuations. All our food, and even the iodized (and sometimes not) water, was drooled over.

On one break, our FOP leader though it a good idea to initiate his group to both the elitism and cynicism at and about Harvard. He taught us this little cheer, which is to be spoken in a deliberately slow and pronounced British accent:

H-A-R

H-A-R

H-A-R with a V.

V-A-R

V-A-R

V-A-R with a D.

Hahvahd!!!

The nights proved just as interesting. In the log cabin shelters our group encountered Pan Pipe and Gourmet John and Wandering Jew II, thru-hikers trekking the Appalachian Trail from Georgia to Maine. These were the more pleasant evenings. On one occasion, our FOP group had the less pleasant experience of sleeping under a plastic tarp set up on a steep hillside so that all eleven group members were hugging each other. Group bonding at its best!

On the trip's last day, I sat down by the road as we awaited the arrival of the "rescue" bus and jotted in my journal: "So we made it through the Carters. Even down the Black Angel. And now at the end of the Rattle River Trail, still inside the White Mountains, we agree that it was a successful trip. All the cries of 'I'm not built for this' and 'I'm really a city person' fade into the accomplishment."

So it was saccharine--halfway, no, totally nostalgic. In it I was trying to capture the aching soles of my feet and the soreness of my quads, the strain on my back, my much-in-need-of-a-massage shoulders and my terribly upset stomach. But I also intended to reflect every inch of the nine miles per day we hiked UPHILL. The entry was meant to represent our initial cynicism and our ultimate optimism.

Perhaps next year's introduction letter should include the following warning label:

CAUTION: YOU WILL HIKE WHEN YOU HAVE NO MORE ENERGY TO DO SO AND EVEN WHEN YOU HAVE NO MORE SKIN ON YOUR FEET. YOU WILL EAT NATURE BURGERS AND WORSHIP CHEDDAR WITH MUSTARD ON A PITA. YOU WILL SLEEP IN THE RAIN. YOU WILL WEAR SWEAT-SOAKED T-SHIRTS AND DON FLEECE SWEATSUITS THAT LOOK AS IF THEY CAME OUT OF A '70'S JANE FONDA VIDEO. YOU WILL LEARN WHAT IS POSSIBLE SIMPLY THROUGH PHYSICAL EXERTION. YOU WILL STRETCH THE BOUNDARIES OF WHAT YOU CAN ENDURE. YOU MAY EVEN HAVE A GOOD TIME.