The Shindenburg, as told...

She got about 15 miles to the gallon, and only when it didn't have a gaping hole in the fuel tank could I fill all 15 gallons to capacity to go wherever I was going. And that probably wasn't too far.

The Green 1996 Jeep Cherokee, 2.5 liter, 5-speed, 4 door, 4-wheel-drive that I owned for 6 years was one of a kind. On many levels. It was the only 4-cylinder Cherokee I had ever heard of, and every mechanic that worked on it said the same. There were many of those, too. And it always gave them problems, and time in the shop always exceeded what they originally thought would be.

She was one of a kind in a different sense, in that she was one of many kinds of Jeeps that could make it from point A to point B with more than a handful of problems that needed fixing. Talking to other Jeep owners I realized that this is true: if you need to get somewhere in your Jeep, you can get there. On a prayer, on a bad track bar, or on one good U-Joint.

She was one of a kind because when it failed to start up, usually a hammer on the gas tank and a few slaps on the dash could right the problem. Sometimes it would take the threat of calling Triple-A and having the truck driver say "You won't get by on that trick for long, that fuel pump is gonna go soon," only to have the Jeep make them look like a fool. I never replaced the fuel pump and kept my trusty hammer in the trunk for 2 years. Started up every time.

But her reign as "Top-Piece-Of-Junk-On-Four-Wheels" had to end at some point, and it did this week. As it was affectionately known by my friends as "The Shindenburg" (I'll get into that in a minute), the final chapter of the legacy now punctuates its last sentence as a trade-in in the parking lot of Merlin Motors on Forest Ave. I asked people to post their favorite memories that surrounded the Forest Green 1996 Cherokee 2.5, 5-speed, 4-door, 4-wheel drive. Here are some of the stories.

"All the rides to the beach, me having control of the radio and dancing to "Last Night" in the front seat, and having fun in the back seat while you were driving HAHAHA"

-Ali

Oh boy. I guess I have to bring up how the 'Burg was a dirty taxi sometimes. But only once did someone else start "rounding the bases"...if you will... other than me and I'll spare you the details, and who it was.

Going to the beach was and still is a very important part of my summer. In 2007, I would go almost twice a week to Higgins, my favorite stretch of sand, mostly for the surf. Ali and I came up with a system where one of us pays for gas (usually me) and she would pay for the $10 parking fee. For some reason, as Ali attested to, the rides to and from Higgins became memorable just because of the tunes we listened to on the commute. It's where I discovered and started to enjoy bands like My Morning Jacket--to Ali's credit.

As to Ali's baseball game in the back seat, lets just say I had no idea what was going on. So, sorry to those of you who sat in the back seat after that little incident.

"You, me, Hambone and Jordan digging out the Green Monster out of two feet of snow so we can go riding, then during the ride slipping on the road doing a full 180"

-Pete

A lot of these stories come from Sophomore year at U-Maine. Especially from the 2nd semester, because she sat dead in the parking lot for most of the first semester.

Sophomore year was particularly snowy that winter, and we must have had at least 4 snow days between December and March, an un-precedented number for a U-Maine school year. These snow days led to "The Igloo," and rides through the snow in the only vehicle that could handle it among our cars.

Yep, the Shindenburgh had a trusty 4-wheel drive that can attribute to my claim of NEVER getting stuck in it. There were close calls though.

One of those close calls came during one of those snow days. Probably the snowiest of those snow days, and if you've never been out driving during a snow storm in a trusty truck or SUV, you don't know what you're missing. That's exactly what we wanted to do that day, so we spent almost a half hour digging it out and reversing through a snowbank, and off we went through tbe backroads of Orono and Old Town.

Most of them were unplowed, or gone over just once from the town trucks with salt & sand. Nonetheless, the roads were pretty sketchy. But we carried on through the storm and the empty roads, taking it slow and keeping it in 4. Only when we started going around a sharp corner did the Jeep loose traction and started to skid. A low point on the side of the road caused the back tires to slip and fishtail to the right. Being a 5-speed, I let off the gas and tried to re-gain control, but to no avail. We slid 180 degrees around and ended up backwards in a snow bank on the other side of the road. No one in the Jeep freaked out, but the lady snow-blowing her driveway just ahead of us was caught by surprise to say the least. We gave her a wave and went on our way.

"[The ones] I don't remember. Oh and the dead jellyfish"

-Moose

OK, here's the disclaimer: I did not intend on having existent blackout memories and stories originate from my Jeep, nor was I blackout or impaired while behind the wheel at any point during these stories.

But some of these stories are just too good to omit.

Dead Jellyfish? Really?

Not exactly, but in the imaginations of a few passengers during freshman year, yes. Dead Jellyfish. And other sea creatures.

It was all part of the epic Magical Mystery Tour. The cast: Me, Pete, Mackay, and Moose.

There are some parts of the story that I'll leave out for obvious reasons, but here's a breakdown of what it was.

Magical: A few things. Magical because Maine is an intriguing state, and lures those who have not explored outside the metro areas of the southern part with a childish curiosity. Magical also because...well...there were some substances that enhanced Maine's magic and incorporated ones own imagination to make the intangible...well...illusional. Use your imagination.

Mystery: I was the captain of this event because I had the vessel that would carry us through the journey. So I wanted to keep a few surprises in store for my friends who were all from Massachusetts on the itinerary.

Tour: Multiple locations, multiple events. That constitutes a tour, right? Well, leaving at midnight from U-Maine, going to Mount Desert Island to walk on an imaginary ice shelf at Sand Beach, being followed by the cops, ducking into a secret hideout where we saw dead whales and dodged pine trees fits that description. Going down to Belfast then catching a sunrise on the Stillwater river after breakfast at Dysarts. Yes, it all was magical, mysterious, and...tour...ish.

Upon our return, we realized that the Ice Shelf was just frozen sand, dodging pine trees was just winding our way through a heavily wooded dirt road, and the dead jellyfish and whales were just tidal rocks with seaweed on them in the moonlight. How could that be?

It's just magic, ok? Let's leave it at that.

"Driving to and from Sunday River. Good times"

-Rob

Good times. Thats what it's all about. Great story Rob!

But yes, driving to and from the ski resorts of Maine was part of the Jeep's duties. During high school, I volunteered with Maine Handicapped Skiing at Sunday River, and many tired drives back from the mountain through the backroads of Cumberland County got me home after a day of skiing.

One of the most treacherous drives to go skiing happened senior year, during yet another blizzard. Me and Mike Browne loaded up at 5 am bound for Sugarloaf. One lane of I-95 was plowed, which didn't help much because it was snowing almost a foot per hour. Going 35 down the highway really cuts into your ETA, but I was in the right vehicle to get the job done.

Another ski adventure was at the biggest non-resort skier destination in New England. Otherwise known as Tuckerman's Ravine. That in itself is another story that I will post to this blog, but the three of us (Dan, Mike and myself) conquored the journey and skied the Ravine in November, an unwise decision looking back because there simply is not enough snow to make the wall exactly skiable. We could only go half way up before it got too steep to go any higher, and after hiking in with our ski boots on, it was all of the energy we could muster. But the Jeep carried us home, just in time for Dan, where he ended up with a stomach virus from drinking out of a stream and was up all night puking. Lesson: don't drink out of a stream when you're hiking. Seriously, don't even think of doing it. Deer and squirrels and mice take craps in the streams you know.

"Riding out in the wee hours of the morning including but not limited to puking, harassing, unintentionally sleeping, drooling, eating and being beligerent/ignorant. And Sea Kayaking!!!"

-Hambone

Drooling? OK Hambone, maybe I should have cleaned the Jeep a little better before I traded it in.

It carried people, and it carried kayaks. I could fit 2 or 3 sea kayaks on the roof with so much as pool noodles duct taped to the racks. Me and Hambone spent 2 summers of beer-yak adventures through Harpswell harbor. It is there where I realized just exactly why Pirates were drunks: It is MUCH more fun to ride the waves in the ocean when you have a good buzz going than when you're sober. Touche, Captain Jack Sparrow.

Well these stories are just a skim across the surface (no intentional pun alluded to the previous story). Yes, the Shindenburgh was many things. It was a bedroom, a cafeteria, a house party, and a Kayak carrier. It was also an ambulance, a limo, an escort, and a tent. It also tailgated a couple of times. Here's a quick run through of some of those roles:

Bedroom:

You would have to keep the tailgate open and position yourself diagonally across the back with the seat down, but eventually you'd get a good sleep in. I guess this sort of collides with the role of "Tent." I camped in the back of the 'Burgh a few times at Mount Desert Island.

Cafeteria/Tailgating:
Tailgating was easy in that thing because you could create your own kitchen in the back. We tailgated my only U-Maine football game that I attended as an actual fan (not a working member of the media). Two coolers, a charcoal grill, multiple bags of food. Oh yeah....you could conjure up a feast.

House Party:
I guess it's not exactly a house party if it's not at an actual house. But for all intensive purposes, trust me when I say there were many times you would hear loud music and beligerent hooligans bellowing from the Shindenburg.

Ambulance:
When your friend is about to throw up, you get to where you're going mighty quick.

When someone in your family is suffering in pain from a Chemo treatment, you really get home quick. You never understand the torture that is Chemotherapy until you witness it yourself. Every bump on the ride back would result in them shaking and screaming in pain. It's something that completely carpet bombs your system.

Escort:
Working in radio has its many perks, one of them being meeting famous musicians. I've unloaded equipment from State Radio's van and talked to Michael Franti about why he's gone barefoot for almost 10 years. I've also been responsible for getting country star Joe Nichols to the stage for WPOR's Concert at the Beach.

As the story goes, I was working to set up the venue for the show later that night, and attended Joe's sound check early that afternoon. My boss approached me afterward and asked me if I could "give Joe a ride to his hotel." At first, I hesitated because I knew my Jeep wasn't that...visually appealing nor could it go very fast. To which, my boss said, "Can it fit them? Can it get there? Yes? Well then get them in the Jeep, and GET ON THE ROAD!" So I did, and we got there. With Joe Nichols riding shotgun, I called my girlfriend Michelle to tell her the news. Lets say she didn't exactly believe me when I said "I'm giving Joe a ride to the hotel." Later that night, I would get lost in Saco trying to give Bo Bice and Katie Armiger a ride to their hotel. And I only got $500 trade for it.

Limo:
You would think I'd find something classy to drive my date to the prom in.

Yeah right, saddle up in the Jeep baby.


So that's The Shindenburgh, as told by many. The farthest I took it was to Spencer, Mass for a New Years party. Almost didn't make it back because none of us had money to get more gas. But we did, and six years of "IF it runs" got me through half of high school and all of college. Why was it called the Shindenburg? I think Mackay coined the name, and there isn't any grand story behind the name other than it rhymes with my last name. When it developed a hole in the fuel tank, I liked to add that it could blow up at any time like the Hindenburg. People didn't really smoke near it after I said that.

I got a Ford Focus now. It's silver, gets 3o miles to the gallon, and shall now be referred to as "The Silver Bullet."

WHISTLER DAY 7-January 13 : Page Seven

“With a foot of new snow from the night before, [Skiing photographer] Eric Berger’s morning was interrupted when he had to take aerial photos of the Peak-to-Peak gondola for Whistler-Blackcomb’s marketing department. But afterward, Berger and skier Austin Ross were allowed to get a heli-drop at a location of their choice. ‘It was one of the best days of the season,’ Berger says. ‘The sky cleared just before we got out there.’”

-Skiing Magazine page 3, January 2010.

...And then God reached down from the heavens a week later and said, “Screw the good weather. Let the rain flow like beer on a college campus.”

Not that I am complaining. But you just never know what you’re going to get on a ski vacation.

My experience in the Canadian Coastal Mountains was far different than the accounts in magazines, ski films, and others that have been there. It rained. The mercury climbed higher than 50 degrees, on the summit and in the valley. At other times, I sat frozen on a chairlift after being soaked with sheets of rain, only to go up a few hundred feet and be confronted with pelting winds and tiny ice particles.

Some locals would say that, “these conditions only happen twice a decade.” Some were apologetic to us once they realized how far we had traveled to be here. “It’s an El-Nino year,” some would say. The general consensus was that Whistler-Blackcomb was more like the accounts in Skiing magazine than those found in this Blog.

Yet, at times, the conditions were so perfect once you got off the lift that you would get the urge to keep skiing into that rainy abyss below...just because you wanted to see what the mountain would challenge you with next.

You see pictures of this mythical place. You see the rock faces, the wide-open snow fields, the coniferous trees, and the snow. None of the pictures justify standing in the middle of glacier settled in a canyon 6,500 feet above the sea.

You will see on TV the Olympians become masters of the Dave Murray Downhill in a few weeks. Alpine warriors going faster than cars on the freeway jumping distances half of a football field in length at a time. I challenged the trail in my own right, and of course, the mountain beat me. I had to stop for a breather on one of the last steep pitches before the finish area. You will see it. I did it. The weather was bad at times, but it is truly a spectacular place.

On my first trip to the summit of Whistler, I stood at the top of a steep rock face—un-skiable, no matter who you are—and looked down. 1,000 feet directly below me, skiers and snowboarders danced like Etch-A-Sketches making lines in the snowpack as they crawled down the bowl floor and into the treeline. Some of them danced to the Peak Chairlift that I had just rode up to this cold, windy and alien place. I looked straight ahead, and the panorama is overtaking. You loose the sense of safety. Nothing is guarding you from danger. You almost over compensate trying to balance yourself upright.

For me, this was a moment of triumph, and the continuation of my endless curiosity. When you stand on top of a peak, there are choices on how you get down. The trails are suggestions to your descent, but it’s up to you and your style, your interpretation of the terrain, to get yourself back to earth. Whistler Blackcomb marked the farthest west that I have ever been. It is the culmination of the pursuit for the new, the challenging, and the exciting. Something that never stops for a skier who goes out just to feel free.

“If you don’t do it now, you’ll be a year older when you do.”

WHISTLER DAY 6-January 12 : POWDER! (ish)

I found what I came here to find.

It rained all night in the Village, but by now we have figured out that the weather in the Village has nothing to do with what is going on up top. We caught the first chair on the Whistler Gondi for our last day of skiing, and walked out of the top house to find all of the un-groomed trails completely un-touched.

This was Whistler's version of a powder day. Heavy, wet snow about a foot deep was everywhere. They groomed some of the easy slopes leading down to the base, but for the most part, you made your own path today.

It felt like skiing in powder--leaning back, rolling your knees in the turns--but I found it hard to keep my speed up even on the steep pitches. Sometimes, I would stop dead on the middle of the hill. Guess it's better to just bomb the powder runs and leave out the turns all together.

Unfortunately, the weather down in the valley crept up the mountain throughout the morning, and by mid day, the rain had washed away any hopes of us skiing the afternoon. There is only so much of being soaked through 4 layers of clothing I can take while skiing. Our last turns on Whistler-Blackcomb ended a little earlier than expected.

Tomorrow we board a bus back to Vancouver. Later Whistler.

WHISTLER DAY 5- January 10 : Crust is for Pizza, Not for Skiing

I woke up to the thunderous sound of avalanche cannons high up on the mountains, tearing down any loose snow that may cause a snowfall.

Whistler was crusted over after all of yesterday’s rain. We took two warm up runs off the Whistler Gondi, where it was so icy that we had to abandon ship. Time to head back to Blackcomb.

We took the Peak-to-Peak once again (it never gets old) and made our way to the 7th Heaven Chair on the western side of the mountain. We skied this area two days ago and found the conditions to be near perfect. Today’s conditions, while foggy, was just the same.

Skiing in fog is just weird. When you’re totally socked in, it’s like standing on one of those big exercise balls you find in the gym. You lose your balance, your depth perception, your speed perception, and your style. All you can hope for is that you find your way out of that soup, and you don’t hit anything big.

Luckily enough the snow remained loose and powdery on the Blackcomb Side. I rented some wider skis for today in hopes of finding some of that infamous powder. There was maybe an inch or two on top of the base and the skis responded well to the snow. It took a little to get used to, but once I mastered the craft, there was nothing stopping me from making my favorite deep, fast carves in the snow.

After lunch, we went back to the Glacier to do some more steep terrain. On the ride up, we saw some brave souls hucking it off the top of the headwall, about 500 feet above us. All I could think about was the sound of the avalanche cannons firing earlier this morning. I hope they got all of the loose snow, for their sake.

While Dad took to the cruisers on the Glacier itself, I decided to challenge myself on the steep face that splits the glacier from the other chute on the mountain face. The trail was lined with natural mounds of hard pack, followed by soft powdery pillows underneath. Some of the drop offs were over 6 feet tall, but with the comfy landings making the turns a little easier to complete, it made for an almost easy run.

With burning legs and a victory over two double blacks on the Glacier, we made the long trek down the mountain and back to the village. Hard to believe the last day of skiing is tomorrow, followed by a day in Vancouver.

WHISTLER DAY 4-January 9 : Why Did The Jets Have to Win?

Skiing and rain do not mix. It just sucks. Royally.

It rained all night, into the morning, stopped for a few hours, then picked back up around noon. We tried to stick it out for a while. It wasn’t the fact that we were soaked to the bone, but the snow turned into slush at the top and ice at the bottom. It is just impossible to keep your stamina skiing in such thick snow. It quickly becomes just a venture to stay up on your skis and not topple over by losing an edge.

The rain and conditions meant an early day back in the hotel. It’s a lot more enjoyable to swim in a heated outdoor pool in the rain than ski in the rain. Throw in a little hot tub action and you almost forget about the weather.

What did not help the situation was the fact that the Bengals sucked today, so the New York Jets stole another win, putting them up against either New Orleans or Indianapolis.

BUT, for the first time since I’ve been here, I was able to enjoy an authentic Canadian craft brew at one of the restaurants in the village. Aptly named “The Brewhouse,” they offered four original brews: a Red, Pale, Lager, and an IPA, which I liked the most to my surprise. I usually don't like IPAs.

Good beer to wash away the rain, and a few prayers to the snow gods for better weather tomorrow.

WHISTLER DAY 3-January 8, 2010 : Glaciers & Cougar Milk

We started off taking the Whistler Gondola from the bottom. It is one of the longest lifts I have ever been on, from its start in the village to the Roundhouse Lodge and the Peak-to-Peak Gondola, a ride time of almost 20 minutes and 4,500 feet in vertical lift.

Unlike the first day of skiing, today’s weather was cloudy and warm. Clouds commonly form in the village and shoot up the mountain face, virtually erasing any visibility. In those conditions, you have to trust your feet and hope they land on snow.

Whistler was pretty skied off by the time we took a few runs on some Blues underneath the Big Red Chair, so we decided to take the infamous Peak-to-Peak Gondola over to Blackcomb.

There aren’t very many words that can justify the experience of the P2P. You just have to see it yourself. It’s a cable car style Gondi that rides down into the valley between the two mountains, but stays almost 500 feet above the valley floor, allowing for a terrifying, yet awesome view. It’s a panoramic experience, with alpine lore all around. Snow covered Douglas Firs and Balsams line the floor, with the mammoth Coastal Mountains to either side and in the distance. Whistler Village exists only as a tiny speck far down the valley.

At the other end of the Peak-to-Peak is Blackcomb Mountain. It is about the same size as Whistler, but has more open terrain. It does not, however, allow lift service to its peak. The trail map says it’s out of bounds. Sounds like more of a formality. Skiers do it anyway.

On the eastern end of Blackcomb is the Glacier. It sits between two giant rock faces, with year-round snow lining the top of the crawling ice. The terrain is unlike any other that I’ve skied; just a constant steep pitch from the headwall all the way to the glacier valley, where the lift takes you back to the top.

Near the Glacier, the Jersey Cream chair takes you to just underneath the Jersey Bowl. It mostly services intermediate skiing, but a few steep pitches with natural mounds can be found there and offer some more challenging terrain. Dad, meanwhile, stuck to the Cougar Milk trail. He seemed more amused by the trail’s name than the actual trail. Probably the only time in his life he’ll ever get cougar milk.

Soggy day of skiing all around. The snow is heavy, and hard to push with your skis. Rain in the forecast means more of the same for tomorrow. But for now, Avatar is showing at 8:00 in the local theater. I’ve heard good things about the film.

WHISTLER DAY 2-January 7: Corduroy Never Goes out of Style

The global scene here is ridiculous.

Apparently more than just the Americans and Canadians know about the skiing up here. Everywhere I turn, I see more Australians, Japanese, Korean, and Eastern European people than North Americans. The Asians mostly wear flashy pop style outfits, and the Aussies & Europeans rock it more trendy than we do.

Style is a representation of your culture, but one style that everyone can agree on is what the slope wears in the early hours of the ski day.

I’m talking about those magic little grooves in the snow, the endless roads cast with tiny shadows from the corduroy that spans the trails. And trust me, corduroy never loses its appeal on any type of skier, from the beginner to the advanced, American to Aussie. One local put it best: “Corduroy never goes out of style.”

We found plenty of the velvet for the first half of our first day on the slopes. So far we’ve only stuck to Whistler, where more skiers tend to gravitate. A few test runs to start off and we boarded the peak lifts, where the air got warmer and the skies got sunnier. It is a playground in the clouds, and for a skier from the east, the endless acres of wide open bowl skiing make Sugarloaf’s snow fields look like a snot hanging off a nose.

One of my favorite runs of the day came on the Little Whistler Peak, standing just under 7,000 feet. The Harmony Ridge is a saddle that ridges Whistler’s borders, and different drop offs lead into the rather small snow field that channels down to the Harmony Chairlift. Pefect soft mounded snow line these ridges and chutes. Soft enough for me to bust through with my skis.

Unlike the east, the alpine temperatures out here are commonly inverted, meaning it is warmer on the summit and cooler in the valleys. It is definitely something to get used to. The bowls were sun kissed all day while staying at about 35 degrees. Unbelievable.

More day one skiing to come. Maybe doing a little bit of Blackcomb to end the day. Hope our skis are still at the rack.