The T-Terminus Trek Travelog

My friend Matt Herman once asked www.chacha.com, "How long would it take to ride to every terminus station on the Boston subway system?" The answer he received was, "A looooooong time." On Saturday, June 28th, Matt and I endeavored to find out how long a "looooooong" time took. There were a couple of ground rules. Our goal was to reach every terminus station via public transportation. That meant we allowed ourselves to travel between terminus stations that were nearby. We would travel every length of track that was operational – shuttle bus service did not qualify and we would skip lines that had no weekend service. Furthermore, by spending a day traveling to the far reaches of the subway, we would also be able to answer a secondary question: What sort of people live in the different neighborhoods of Boston?

When we started our journey, we immediately, we began to notice trends. Unsurprisingly, the Green line toward Newton was filled with affluent Caucasian families and college students while the Red line towards Mattapan was mostly used by African American families. Orange line towards Oak Grove had many older people, possibly indicating a higher percentage of generational families and long time residences. Other trends emerged. For instance, people who wore sandals typically wore hats. Perhaps the unconscious mind wants one end of the body to be covered at all times? This would be a question some sociology graduate student may wish to answer. By coincidence, most people who wore sandals and carried picnic baskets got off the train at the Revere Beach station. Matt and I did not fit into this social microculture of residents wearing flip-flops and carrying picnic baskets. Similarly, we noticed that people who got on and off at the Airport station usually carried luggage. What a strange culture to carry luggage everywhere you went!

As the train whizzed across the system, we noticed that JetBlue and the State of Vermont had purchased the most advertisement space. Sadly, there was no synergy, as Vermont is not a JetBlue destination nor does JetBlue allow in-flight flyfishing. Residents on the Braintree extension of the Red Line drew the best graffiti. The designs were large with brazen colors. Some included the blending of hues and shades to create stunning shadow effect. The worst graffiti was on the Orange lines. Here, unimaginative outlines were rarely filled in and typically the artists utilized dark earth-tones.

By late evening, we returned to our home base in a PF Chang Bistro and compiled the statistics of the day. We spent the most amount of time on the Red line: 2 hours and 34 minutes going through 61 stations. The least amount of time was on the Silver Line from Boylston St. to Dudley square: 14 minutes for 10 stations. Silver Line to South Boston had the longest wait of 16 minutes. Over the course of the day, I consumed 3 granola bars and 1 bottle of water. (In our defense, we did not plan to go the entire day without eating. We kept saying "Let's take a break after this next leg of our journey.") We saw six baby carriages, one pair of knee-high orange socks, and overheard one conversation of "Would you shoot someone if they robbed your house?" But most importantly, 11 hours and 17 minutes after we started, we had our answer of how long would it take to ride to every terminus station on the Boston subway system: A reeeeeaally looooooong time.

Ode to a Turboprop

There is something about turboprop planes that make them alluring. They are small beasts that can be terrifying to ride. Yet there is also an allure and exoticism that draws you to look forward to the experience. Indeed, as I write this, I am sitting in one, an EMB 120 Brasilia, sandwiched between two Boeing jumbo jets, waiting for our turn to take off.

The flights can be very uncomfortable. Physically, their diminutive size is apparent when you stare up at the giant Rolls-Royce engine of the Boeing 747-400, as if it is ready to suck you in. There is not much of a buffer between you and the fast moving blades. The noise generated by the engines cut through the hull with a volume rivaling that of rock concert. Puddle hoppers, as they are affectionately called, are subject to the minute bumps and changes in wind patterns that transmit the turbulence undampened to your seat.

Yet I am willing to forgive the discomfort of the flight. A small plane is exotic because chances are, you are going to a place that is small and quiet. Indeed, the smallest plane I’ve ever been on was an 11-seater to Hagfors Sweden, population 7000. Sometimes, I’d be the only person on the jaunt and it became rather embarrassing when the first officer gave me the safety spiel for the 4^th time that summer, even though I was the sole passenger.

But, more often than not, I am one of a handful of people flying from San Francisco to Monterey. I walk along the tarmac to the staircase next to the plane. I duck to enter the door and, once inside, cannot stand up straight. I try to make myself comfortable for the quick 20 minute flight. But in my mind, I am at ease. I feel the satisfaction of being on the last leg of my 2500 mile journey. I feel the warmth of home, and it calls to me.

Caution: Frequent Moose Accidents Next 3 miles

Thus we were welcomed to Mt. Blue State Park where a few friends and I were going camping the last weekend in May. We were desperate to escape the hustle and bustle of city life and chose to spend it in the serene quietness of the Maine wilderness. The highway sign merely indicated that we had gone far enough, to a place where moose ruled the earth. Indeed, this would turn out to be a weekend with us hardly seeing another soul. Even the campsite was nearly deserted upon our arrival. Perhaps we had traveled so far away that humans barely knew of the park’s existence. Perhaps the rest of the world coincidentally decided to pay their mother a visit on the same weekend. Most likely, however, it was because there was a forecasted 90% chance of rain.

Things could have been much worse. While we were shooting emails around, Craig sent out a warning message, “Checkout the weather up north…egad lots of rain…” There was no in-depth discussion as to whether we should continue with the trip or to postpone the journey to a sunnier weekend. The three of us merely added a rain jacket to the packing list and proceeded to make plans as if nothing was out of the ordinary. We left for the mountain prepared for anything Mother Nature could throw at us. We just couldn’t find it.

Mind you, most of the time, mountains are easy to find – they are these large and tall protrusions that stick out of the ground. However, all mountains look alike when covered by low clouds. In a moment of weakness, I made a phone call and got directions to the campsite. It was to be the last connection to the urbanized world. As we began our climb, I realized that I couldn't find my cell phone.

The trip up was uneventful but the summit was fascinating. It was the most beautiful fog I had ever seen. On one side was a steep drop and a solid white canvas that luminesced by the hidden sunlight. On the other side, a small pond became an infinite-sized ocean with a full palette of whites gently floating with the breeze. Trust me, dear reader, countless thousands have witnessed the tree-covered mountains and lake-filled valleys of Maine. But very few people have been lucky enough to relax for a moment inside of a storm cloud.

That being said, it was pouring rain and time to go. Our descent on the steep side of the mountain was also uneventful and devoid of civilization - except for three suspiciously convenient metal rungs embedded inside a vertical cave. Once back to the campsite, Brent quickly built a shelter and a fire for us to dry off and warm up. The rain jackets and rain pants did their jobs and we stayed mostly dry. The packs were dry save for a few damp spots here or there. Good rain gear is a worthwhile investment. Even my cell phone stayed dry. Yes, for as it turned out, I had stashed my phone in the mesh on the outside of my backpack. Take note: the Motorola Razr V2 can function after being subjected to 5 hours of torrential rain.

Were we disappointed? Of course not. We knew what we were getting ourselves into. Indeed, we would have been more disappointed if we scaled the mountain only to find a Dunkin’ Donuts doling out coffee and greasy foods. It would have been far more disappointing if we found Bob Dole handing out free autographed copies of his biography. It would have been extremely disappointing if we were kidnapped by pirates. Years of indentures servitude is not my idea of a relaxing get-away. Indeed, this was a vacation of solitude, a vacation of nature, a vacation of peaceful rain.