Streeter Seidell
You can find me online at these places: You can email me at Streeter.Seidell [at] Gmail.com
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Wear Me
I am thrilled to announce that you can now wear my beautiful face on a T-shirt of my own creation. Today I join the proud ranks of Amanda Ferri (GWB has Aides), Bossman Josh Abramson (Collar up - discontinued) and The Jeff Rubin. I mentioned it before when the art was done but now it’s on the e-shelves. This may be your one and only chance to see what I look like in a firefighter’s uniform, playing a guitar and clean shaven. Quick, what are you waiting for?!
Hey, Look What I Found In Jake's Room
All five finds, in order.
Hey, Look what I found in Jake’s room: Day 1 from streeter seidell and Vimeo.
Hey, Look What I Found In Jake’s Room: Day 2 from streeter seidell and Vimeo.
Hey, Look What I Found In Jake’s Room: Day 3 from streeter seidell and Vimeo.
Hey, Look What I Found In Jake’s Room: Day 4 from streeter seidell and Vimeo.
Hey, Look What I Found In Jake’s Room! Day 5 from streeter seidell and Vimeo.
The Hike: Part 2
By the Master’s calculations, it wasn’t “like, that far,” down to reach the pond that sat on the western side of the mountain. With some heavy sighing and a slight whimper, I donned my pack and followed Master as we walked further away from the warmth of the summit. At first it really wasn’t so bad: the slope was gentle, the path was wide and well-maintained and thanks to s slight breeze, my drenched shirt began to act as a sort of cooling system as the air pushed the sweaty cotton against my skin. Yes, this truly was heaven.
But like so many other fleeting moments of joy, this one passed swiftly. The further down we walked, the narrower the trail became. The packed dirt that had done so much to create a steady footing gave way to loose gravel and, eventually, a sort of leafy, slippery moss - nature’s slip n’ slide I suppose. The forest grew dense and looming, shutting out any breeze and creating a sort of sub-tropical humidity I can only imagine marines stationed in the south pacific experience. Within half an hour, I was as bad as I had been on the ascent and, what’s worse, we were walking down. With each aching, painful step, I grew more aware that I would have to come back up the same way.
Top her credit, Master had begun to complain as well. Mosquitoes were her bane of choice and she swatted with great fervor. Her small feet, unable to tame the larger stones, were constantly rolling this way and that and I prayed that she wouldn’t sprain anything for fear of having to carry her out. However, a small part of me wished for just that because at least then I would feel we were even.
About an hour later we finally cut through a clearing and reached what had to be the worst body of water on the continental US. It was a small pond, no more than two hundred feet across, but packed so much insect life into its small area I wondered if it were not just a giant, rotting piece of meat. I have never seen an insect concentration quite like that and when they saw two lumbering, sweaty humans approach the edge, they went straight to work.
Something about sweat draws in bugs and with the two of us, the bugs had hit paydirt. I tried smoking a cigarette - an old trick to keep bugs away - but to no avail. I think I even heard a mosquito laughing at the notion that a little burning tobacco could keep her hungry needle-nose away from me.
Soon we were joined by two Asian men who had hiked in from the opposite direction. They gave us cursory nods and then strolled to the water’s edge to take in the view. Master and I were perched on logs some fifty feet back when we noticed that by some miracle, the Asian men didn’t seem to be affected at all by the mosquitoes. They talked and threw crap in the pond and not once did they raise a hand in defense of a bug attack. Then, inexplicably, they began to make camp. Master and I took this as our cue to leave. Clearly, these two had somehow reached a compromise with the bugs by which they would camp, bite free, and would then give the mosquito community something in return. Perhaps they would draw in some more sweaty, pink flesh? Perhaps we were the reward?
Not wanting to be a bargaining chip on the table of trans-species warfare, Master and I began our long march back to the summit. We had lingered at shit pond for almost - almost - half an hour: just enough time to cover my arms and legs in itchy red bumps. As we reached the trailhead I had a profound moment of terror. How would I do this? I was drained, weak, disheartened and, most of all, very short of breath. But Master again cracked the whip and up we went.
The march up the western side was far worse than our previous ascent. For one, that mossy, slippery ground cover made each step count for only a few inches as we were wont to slide back down the ground we had just covered. When we passed the slime and made it to the loose gravel I got the sensation of walking on sand - that frustrating sinking that prevents any real traction - only this sand was at a 45 degree angle up. The bugs, ever present, descended in huge, black clouds, leading me to wonder what was so great about my ear and why anything would decide to venture in it.
And after almost an hour, we reached the summit once again. Most of the crowd had cleared out now and we were left almost alone. Boy and his father appeared to have designs on camping at the summit so master and I moved quickly to snag the best spot. That spot, as it turns out, was down a small trail at the edge of a high, steep cliff. It was truly a sight to see and, had my eyes not played host to thirty gnats, I’m sure I would have loved the view. After staking our claim and one semi-awkward run in with the father/son team (they tried to set up camp nearby before Dad saw me smoking) master declared her intention to use the toilet. Another great adventure had begun and this one would feature snakes, well-armed animals and, worst of all, Russians.
The Phantom Of The Office
This creepy mask and top hat were hanging around our office. I put them on and this is the result.
The Hike
In the summer of 2005 my loving girlfriend was turning 22.. It was early July (her birthday is the 20th) and she wanted to make some plans. “Lets do something fun,” she said. For my birthday we had gone to a very nice dinner and then, after the appropriate digestion time, attempted to physically express our love. When that failed, we went to bed. That is my idea of fun: an exorbitant amount of food followed by a half-hearted attempt to procreate and rounded out by a deep, satisfied slumber. I wondered if she had the same thing in mind for her birthday. As you can probably guess, she did not.
Cleverly, she concealed her true intentions. “I want to go camping,” she chirped. “Somewhere upstate,” she added. What she really meant of course, was “I want to go hiking.” As any fat suburbanite can tell you, camping and hiking are vastly different activities. Camping is driving to a campground and stopping at the general store for ice cream. Camping is ghost stories and s’mores and fun. Hiking is walking, but harder. Hiking is camping with every ounce of fun stripped away until all you’re left with is a sweaty t-shirt, aching calves and as many mosquito bites as there are pores on your body.
It was my fault, really. I had bought her a tent for her birthday because A) I didn’t know what else to get her and B) it was the only thing she had expressly asked for. I should have known better. I should have known she was going to use my kind-hearted gift as a means to torture me. I should have known we wouldn’t be spending our tent time in the safety of a KOA campground with a pool and volleyball courts. I should have gotten her some DVDs. At least I would have been able to sleep through that present.
After some preliminary recon and a few pages of a book called ‘50 Great New York Hikes,’ I found myself one sweltering August morning at the foot of Overlook Mountain in Woodstock, NY. Sharon had insisted that we pack enough food to feed a small army of 3rd graders: we had Snickers, Goober Grape PB&J, string cheese and other food my 9-year-old self would have strangled my sister for. What we didn’t have was physical fitness, the lack of which was felt as soon as we hoisted our heavy bags onto our backs.
Within ten minutes of beginning our climb, we were both sweating, irritable and had stopped speaking to conserve breath. Worse still, this wasn’t some boulder-strewn path through the dark woods we were climbing up; it was a dirt road with a fairly gentle grade. About the only difficult thing about the “hike” was that it was at an incline. With stares that could scare hardened criminals, I let Sharon know how I felt about her birthday plans as we climbed in silence. Perhaps most embarrassing was the constant stream of day trippers merrily strolling down the path with their kids and dogs. They would come skipping by, say hi and head off towards the base, looking as if they had somehow avoided the climbing up part. Granted, they weren’t carrying massive packs on their back and they were going down the mountain, but still, some of these happy hikers were will into their sixties while Sharon and I, both 22, could barely breathe.
One reason we had picked this particular mountain was that about halfway up there stood the ruins of a once-great Catskills hotel. It was the only thing about the whole endeavor that interested me. Hiking was monotonous drudgery. History, however, and especially the burnt shell of a hotel, did interest me quite a bit. So, after a few hours of forced march, we arrived at a very large, very creepy skeleton of a building.
The place stood sentinel while trees engulfed its crumbling walls. It’s windows, long blown apart by a roaring fire, could be found sticking out of the ground in a few places. The foundations of outbuilding surrounded the site and, while Sharon contemplated further ways to torture me, I explored these buildings with intense curiosity. I tried to imagine the place as it had been in the late 19th and early 20th centuries: a beautiful mansion in the thick New York forest. Dandies and dames strolling along the deck while the more adventurous sort would take to the trails wearing full suits and ties. All that was gone now, all that was left was a seriously creepy ruin standing silently in encroaching trees and undergrowth.
But Sharon would not let me play any longer. “Enough imagining!” she screamed, “It is time for PAIN!” And with a crack of her whip, we were once again trudging up the mountain. The trail got smaller, less maintained and I began to see more and more signs warning me about bears and snakes and porcupines. In the next 24 hours we were to come face to face with two of those creatures.
A few hours later and we had reached the summit. The thick woods opened to reveal a bare top with tremendous views in all directions. It was breathtaking, which was a shame because I didn’t have much breath to spare. The Hudson River was a barely visible strip of blue off to the east. To the west, all we could see was more forests and more mountains. Master, as Sharon was making me call her at that point, permitted me a few minutes rest to eat lunch. For all my bitching, we had made it to the summit in far less time than we had planned on and now found ourselves in a conundrum: it was too early to make camp for the night while at the same time the only place you can go from the summit of a mountain is, you guessed it, down! And Master had not tired yet.
“We’ll just go down the other side to that pond on the map and then we’ll come back up and set up the tent.” She said. What could I do? It was her birthday and she wanted to explore the other side of the mountain. With sweat still streaming off my face and my calves feeling as if someone had plucked each muscle out, dipped it in fire and replaces it, I begrudgingly hoisted my bag back on and began the descent to Shitslime Pond. If that wasn’t the name, it should have been. What I didn’t know was that our pain and, more importantly, my pain had only just begun.
To be Continued…
(Oh and in case you don’t believe me about sweating profusely, here’s some proof: taken atop the fire tower on the summit of Overlook Mountain)
