STICKY DOORKNOBS

Mount Washington: Breathtaking? Yes. Lunch taking? Yeah maybe. Terrifying? Absolutely (just don't tell anyone)

OK, it's just you and me here now. No more false pretenses or embellishing. Just the honest to goodness truth.

Psst.

I gotta tell ya something ... last Wednesday wasn't one of my finest hours. And I'll be the first to admit it. Just keep it to yourself.

It happened when Karen and I were on vacation, visitng New Hampshire to celebrate our anniversary.

I threw out a simple suggestion to her.

Hey, how about we go to the top of Mount Washington?

The notion of such a mind-blowing trip, which consists of a vertical gain of almost 6,000 feet, was preposterous in my mind. My wife has never been much for heights and I figured she'd turn me down flat and be spared any embarrassing moments on our way up the Auto Road as I navigated the way safely for her, peering out like a bald eagle soaring bravely amid the beauty of the White Mountain landscape.

"Let's do it!" she shot back. The sound of an exclamation point at the end of her sentence told me she was serious.

Any hope I'd have of saving her from being humiliated with her fear of heights was gone. I figured our whole trip might be ruined because of this ridiculous suggestion I'd made. I kinda felt sorry for her.

Mt. Washington is a picturesque mountain of 6,288 feet. it is the tallest peak in all of the northeast. It towers majestically over its lesser surroundings and scientists confirm that it is consistently home to the harshest weather in North America because it is positioned at the confluence of three jet streams that often converge on the mountain top creating horrific conditions. There is even a building at the top of Mount Washington that is literally chained to the ground (left). If it is not chained to the ground, the story goes, it will blow clean off the top of the mountain. The highest wind speed ever record, 231 mph, was recorded at the summit.

But we were goin' anyway.

The day we went to the top, you could see forever. To the west lie Vermont's Green Mountains and to the southeast the Atlantic and the Maine coast, which could be seen earlier in the day, but not so much by the time we started our ascent, about 2:30 p.m.

The ticket taker at base camp (who has probably never been to the top of the mountain if her self-assuredness was any indication) gave us a helpful tip: "They say the trick to making it up and back and not being bothered by the height is to just look out onto the faraway vistas and see all the beauty and avoid looking down at the mountainside just below you, which is when any fear of heights will kick in."

Sure enough.

My wife bobbed up and down in the second seat of our four-row van like an excitable puppy trying to see out, as Rich, our driver, shifted into auto-guide using his finest mountain road commentator voice. Should he be talking and driving up a dangerous mountain road at the same time, I wondered?

I held down the third seat, snapping photographs as we gained altitude. Some of the photos contained only sky. Some of them had glimpses of a few peaks in the distance. A couple of photos were merely of blades of glass speeding by or scenes of blackened blurry asphalt (right). It's hard to focus in on a picture when you are lying prone in the backseat, holding your camera above your head, aiming at something you cannot see and hoping it will take a good picture by itself since you are too chicken to sit up and look out the window.

Karen continued to ooh and even ahh at the appropriate places in the driver's commentary. (Should he be talking and driving at the same time? I wondered. Still.) I clutched at seat backs, jackets, door handles, my wife's clothing, and finally my own throat as the world seemed to close in around me.

I was OK as long as there were trees outside my window. But when the trees disappeared, so did I. And Karen had a nice little laugh about it. Here I was, successful hiker of two of Texas' tallest peaks, unable to merely sit up and look out the window. There she was -- someone who had once been petrified to sit in the mezzanine section of the Ballpark at Arlington -- bouncing up and down like it was the most exciting trip of her life.

It's hard to explain a fear of heights to our driver Rich, someone who has been driving up and down the mountain every day for 25 years as easily as I have driven Andrews Hwy. for the last 20. What am I gonna say? I developed my profound fear of heights from riding the glass elevator to a bachelor's party on the 22nd floor of the Bank of America building a few years ago? Had I been a fighter pilot shot down in combat, I might have been able to justify the feeling that my death was certain and near.

Rich was driving 10-15 mph around hair pin curves when there was nothing out the passenger side window except the end of my life. By the time we got into his van that afternoon, it was his third trip to the top THAT DAY. Yet I was certain that after there had been no reported accidents or deaths on the mountain road since it opened in 1861, today was the day that it would finally happen. And I was the victim.

We arrived at the summit and I was astounded at just being there. Getting there was one thing. Being there was quite another. I felt alive, refreshed, renewed, as if I had just accomplished a major hurdle in my life (note the look of serenity and calm on my face at left). So what if I did it lying in the back seat whining like a baby that I was about to die and would never see my children again? I walked around the mountain top with a measure of confidence, admiring the spectacular views that the mountains provided and full of self-gratification that I had made it.

And then Rich walked up.

"Van leaves in 5 minutes, you guys ready?"

As if someone had let the air out of my knees I began to wobble like a nudged bowling pin. I began searching frantically for the nearest trail to the bottom. Karen caught me in time, poured me back into the van, and had the audacity to ask me if I wanted to ride shotgun on the way down.

"What, you want me to die a half second before you?" I asked her.

Fifteen minutes later, the evergreens and firs began popping up at the side of the road and I found I too could again sit upright.

I wiped the sweat from my brow. They said the trip up and down would be breathtaking. No one mentioned anything about lunch taking.

"You doin' OK back there, sweetheart?" Karen asked me.

"Piece a cake," I said. "Ready to go again."

Psst.

But between you and me ... my palms were sweatin' a little.

The kind of patriotism from which we could all benefit

It was a privilege to visit New England this past week where my wife and I celebrated our recent wedding anniversary. We used to tell ourselves when we moved to Midland that we would stay here for a couple of years and then move to the northeast, so it was fitting that 25 years later, we finally got there ... even if it was for only a week.

New Hampshire is one of the most beautiful places I have ever been, from the lakes region in the central part of the state to the White Mountains up north. (A private guided tour in a van to the top of Mount Washington, the highest peak in the northeast, was one of the most terrifying 30 minute trips I have ever taken. They said the views on the mountain were breathtaking but they said nothing about lunch taking.)

New England is a fascinating place, filled with rich slices of American history and miles of rollling and beautiful landscapes, from Franconia Notch -- where Interstate 93 narrows to two lanes as it passes between two peaks in northern New Hampshire -- to the gray, cool coast of Kennebunkport, ME, home to the Bush family compound, made noticeable for the Texas flag that hangs side by side with the Maine and U.S. flags.

The food there is great and the people polite, and were I able to export just three things from this gorgeous place it would be these: The blueberry coffee (straight black is mouth-watering, but I'm told a drop of creme and sugar make it even better), lobster rolls (Skelley's on 109 near Moultonborough, NH, if you want the very best) and the patriotism found here.

We drove a lot during our five days in New Hampshire and invariably, in every city we toured, American flags hung utility poles on every downtown street, and on many front porches around every corner of these small towns. And when there were no poles from which to hang flags, there was red, white and blue bunting hanging from balconies.

I asked one man at Mount Washington State Park if the flags were up for a reason, thinking maybe Memorial Day was observed here a few days early.

"Nope," he said. "We've just always been a very patriotic state."

Think of it. Flags everywhere. Every day. Why not?

Even the remote lake house where we stayed, and where few people ever stay for long periods of time, came adorned with an American flag which hangs year round.

Midland is home to two presidents and a spirit that it dotes on routinely for good reason. We could do ourselves even prouder if someone at city hall, or maybe a private corporation in town, would dip into a petty cash fund somewhere and see to it that American flags are hung from poles and porches throughout our downtown and beyond -- and kept there year round.

Can you imagine what Wall Street would look like decked out in stars and stripes on every utility pole from the Federal Building west to Andrews Highway? What a great way to show off our hometown. Think of the patriotism we would teach our youth if Illinois was draped in red, white and blue, particularly in front of Midland High. And imagine the views from the offices downtown, looking onto the streets below where a view without seeing Old Glory, or 10 or 20 Old Glories, would be impossible.

Hats off to New Hampshire, a place filled with so much history, and with a people who are reminded of that history through a daily show of true patriotism. It's an example cities every would do well to follow.

(Photo: Alton, NH)

Gone fishin'

Back when I catch somethin' ...

Maybe the best hamburger in Texas?

 ... Unfortunately it's in Bryan, about 442 miles from my doorstep. But almost worth a drive that long.

You could be a winner

OK I need to know two things: First ... the name of the mountain range farthest away in this picture. Secondly, as precisely as you can tell me, from where was the photo taken.

First person to correctly name both is a winner. Unfortunately, there aren't actually any prizes other than the satisfaction of knowing that others will be properly awed by your intellect.

Good luck ...

Jp

Got rustic?

90 miles NE of Midland, you can escape for a weekend of total seclusion and relaxation at the Windmill Ranch Preserve

SCURRY COUNTY -- Eight miles west of the White Buffalo Statue on the square in downtown Snyder, turn north onto Farm Road 1606 and go for about a mile. After a left, take another half mile trek down an unimproved road, you're there.

You don't necessarily think you're anywhere special, but that's really what makes this patch of Texas ranchland so special. The Windmill Ranch Preserve, a privately run facility spread out over 1,000 acres is so remote, so tucked away from the hustle and bustle of all our every days, it is the ideal place to spread out, kick back, relax and do nothing. And it's worth every penny of the $129 a night price tag on either the small guest room or the ginormous tents large enough to accomodate four in two giant feather beds and still have room for lounge chairs and a bathroom.

Windmill Ranch would have been the ideal bed and breakfast option for cowboys who rode these lands a century ago. Proprietor Marianne Randals opened the getaway a little over a year ago on the land that has been in the fmaily since her father bought it piece by piece after World War II. It is also designated a prairie dog reserve, which might explain (but probably doesn't) the noises of critters that add to the outside aural ambience after the lights go out at night.

Karen and I were the only visitors this last weekend, and when the proprietor/chef to guest ratio is 2-to-2, that amounts to some mighty good service.

Which brings us to the food. The Windmill Ranch chef is Robert Dupuy, a Snyder resident who is also a house painter and chef elsewhere in town. His cooking has been described in Texas Highways magazine as equal to a five star hotel. Whether it's the scrambled egg-bacon-sausage-ham-hashed brown-toast treat for breakfast or the mouth watering crab cakes in lemon sauce with sweet potatoes and grilled asparagus tips in the evening, Robert most definitely knows his way around a kitchen.

Marianne and son Bill (as well as Robert) bring also bring a taste of the personal with the other amenities. The conversation in the facility's gathering room while waiting for meals will make you feel like you're a resident of not just the ranch but Snyder itself, a big part of what makes this place so down home and unique.

For Karen and I, though, the highlight of the weekend was Saturday night. Marianne and her grandson went in to town to see "Godspell," staged by the high school drama department, leaving Karen and I alone on the property. Out behind the complex of buildings at Windmill Ranch is a band stand and a stage, lighted by a strand of white light bulbs that criss cross in the middle. The stage also features a bale of hay in each corner. Marianne left the light on the dance floor on for us. And with a handy personal stereo along for the weekend, we plugged it in and danced under the stars to a little Michael Buble. Talk about scoring some major points.

My recommendation: Get away. Call Marianne. Have yourself a great, do nothing weekend.

Windmill Ranch Preserve. 1.325.573.3200. Or visit their website.

Games Married People Play

Now is probably as good a time as any to dote a little on my wife. For several weeks, she has been planning a mystery trip. The payoff weekend was this weekend. It was to be a time during which just she and I would escape to spend a little time together, just the two of us.

I have had zero clues the whole time. Nada. Nothin'. She'd told a few mutual friends, all of whom wouldn't even tell me even what county we were headed to, much less whether it was east west north or south of our permanent day to day environs in Midland. I had fewer clues than Britney has brains.

Being clueless, though, does not necessarily mean one is not without a few guesses and otherwise strong sneaking suspicions.

I even put together a fabulous little scenario, and how I figured it would all play out.

People's Exhibit 1: Karen had been to Seattle on a business trip a couple of months ago and therefore I figured she had amassed a few hundred frequent flyer miles and so wherever it was we were going must be by air.

People's Exhibit 2: Combine that solid piece of knowledge with the fact that our daughter had made a seemingly innocent remark -- "Get ready for your LOOOONG car trip, Dad" -- and that only added to the reality of an airplane trip in my future.

People's Exhibit 3: Karen had told me a couple of weeks ago that it was OK if I took my iPod with me but I could not take my Bose docking speakers. That of course meant it was because they wouldn't fit on an airplane.

People's Exhibit 4: To wrap everything all up in a neat and tidy package with zero mystery, Karen said late last week before we left,"We need cash."

It was quite obvious to me: We were going to Vegas. There was really no question about it. Frequent flyer miles. No Bose speakers. A "LOOOONG" drive, and cash. Where else COULD it be? Neither of us have ever been to Vegas and we had both talked about visiting someday, even though our gambling habits consist of, for me, fantasy sports and a 1-penny bet made in the fourth grade which I won but never received the pay out for. Karen's gambling history consists simply of marrying me.

You can imagine my surprise, then, when we headed north out of Midland, in the general opposite direction of the airport. Ten miles up the road. she sprung it one me. No Vegas, chump ... we're going to ...

OK, so it wasn't exactly here ... but it was very, very close to here.

Extra bonus points if you know where it is I am standing.

Where did we go? That's in our next installment ...

Rocky Mountain 'Hi'

Thanks, to most of you, for talking amongst yourselves for a few days while I slipped away to a little slice of heaven. There's something about this place,

The Rocky Mountains, like Big Bend, is spiritual, mystical, and allows for a time of commune with your maker. You feel small here, small as a thimble on a huge swatch of nature's fabric.

It was one of those father-son trips that The Boy will hopefully remember and maybe even take his own son on 20 years from now.

I'd love to tell you about it, and will, but we're not home yet.