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Chapter 29

  The Double Black Diamond Run at Powderhouse Hill

  Just kidding. There is no black diamond run at Powderhouse Hill, a miniature ski resort in South Berwick, Maine. With a vertical drop of just 175 feet (that’s 2,100 inches), its three trails range in difficulty from easy to really, really easy, and the hill is so small that it doesn’t even have a lift—instead, an eight-hundred-foot tow rope drags skiers and snowboarders, most of whom are too short to go on amusement park rides, up a grade so gentle that at first glance, it’s hard to tell whether they’re moving up or down. Occasionally neighborhood teenagers build small ski jumps, but anyone looking for Maine’s version of Taos had better keep searching.

  If you’re not a thrill-seeker, however, Powderhouse Hill is charming. Run entirely by volunteers, lift tickets go for $5, and $25 earns you a lifetime membership. The small chalet at the bottom of the hill is heated by a wood stove and sells small snacks to offset the cost of running the ski area. The best part: the original engine for the tow rope came courtesy of a jerry-rigged 1938 Ford truck that the founders of the ski slope parked on the top of the hill and modified so that its rear wheel could pull the rope. These days its engine has been replaced by a newer, thirty-seven-horsepower version, but the truck still sits at the top of the hill, chugging away.

  Chapter 28

  The Double Black Diamond Run at Corbet’s Couloir

  Powderhouse Hill might not be great for thrill-seekers, but conversely, Corbet’s Couloir in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, is a must-miss spot for anyone who would prefer not to meet their doom on skis.

  Ranked fourth on Skiing Magazine’s 2006 list of “Top 50 Things ALL Skiers Must Do Before They Die,” the couloir sits at the top of Jackson Hole’s Rendezvous Mountain, which has the greatest continuous rise of any ski slope in the United States. If you scoot yourself up to the edge of the couloir, you’ll see a narrow chute lined with jagged rocks, but be careful. The first person to ski Corbet’s was a ski patroller who accidentally fell into it after the cornice he was standing on collapsed.

  Skiers who push themselves off the edge deliberately have a ten- to thirty-foot leap of faith (i.e., free fall) onto a fifty-five-degree slope, at which point they have to immediately hit a very hard right turn, lest they “smash into a face of Precambrian rock,” as one Corbet survivor described it. The chute eventually flattens to a mere forty-five-degree angle, but few people even make it to that point; watch videos of Corbet attempts and you’ll acquire a newfound appreciation for the many different ways in which one can wipe out on skis.

  These videos also give a vivid example of how easily humans—especially those who are young and male—can be convinced to do stupid things. My favorite begins with a group of college-aged guys standing at the top of the cliff asking one another if he is going to ski it. “Fuck that,” says one. “I kind of want to vomit,” says another. Then someone hurls himself off the edge. His buddies, now convinced that not jumping off the cliff will mean they have no testicles, follow. The next scene is in a hospital.

  But despite the toll Corbet’s must take on Jackson Hole’s ski patrol, the mountain itself is making a profit off of those foolish enough to attempt the run. A special Steep and Deep Ski Camp offers elite skiers a chance to spend four days on a guide-assisted program tackling some of Jackson Hole’s most challenging terrain, culminating in a chance to try Corbet’s. Proof of how reckless one must be to ski it: despite having paid nearly a thousand dollars to participate in the program, most Steep and Deep participants decide not to try.

  If we expand our stupid-places-to-ski adventure outside the United States, the editors at Skiing Magazine have told me there is one clear winner: Bec des Rosses in Vernier, Switzerland. It’s home of a yearly Xtreme Verbier Freeride event that’s considered the most prestigious in the world. Imagine skiing down one of the mountains on an Evian bottle: a 1,650-foot north face, lots of exposed rock, and a slope that gets up to fifty-five degrees (that is, when you’re not in free fall). As professional skier Shroder Baker put it, “It’s a huge cheese-grating monster, with sharp jagged rocks all the way down.”

  Chapter 30

  The Beast

  Some visitors to New York enjoy viewing the city skyline from the tranquil deck of the Circle Line Sightseeing cruise ship; others prefer to spend their time in the Big Apple puking over the edge of speedboats. Or at least that’s the only explanation I’ve come up with for the continued popularity of the Beast, a motorboat painted to resemble an open-mouthed shark that gives daily “water coaster” rides through New York Harbor. “With over 90 speakers, Captain ‘Mad Dog’ pumps up the crowd with popular music and amusing New York ‘shtick ’throughout the ride,” the Beast’s promoters boast. Translation? You will be forced to sing along to “Eye of the Tiger” and perform the YMCA dance as crewmembers pelt you with water balloons and mock you over loudspeakers—all while you’re bouncing across the water at speeds faster than forty-five miles per hour, courtesy of the boat’s two 2,600-horsepower engines. In order to limit its liability, the tour explicitly bars pregnant women from riding on the Beast. But regardless of whether or not you are carrying a child, I’d recommend skipping the speedboat and taking the Staten Island Ferry instead. It gives great views of the Statue of Liberty, has ample deck space to perform the 1970s dance sensations of your choosing, and, unlike most things in New York, it’s free.

  Chapter 31

  The Grover Cleveland Service Area

  I’d actually recommend not seeing any of the rest stops along the New Jersey Turnpike, each of which is named for a notable person who was born or lived in the state. The Thomas Edison Starbucks, the James Fenimore Cooper Burger King—call me un-American, but I think there’s something inherently depressing about Walt Whitman being commemorated by a Cinnabon franchise.

  Daniel Modell

  According to Looking for America on the New Jersey Turnpike—which itself might qualify as a Book Not to Read Before You Die—several rest stops have reputations that go beyond just convenient places to grab a cup of coffee. The Vince Lombardi area was once known as a hot spot for cruising gay men; anecdotal reports suggest that the Joyce Kilmer service area used to be frequented by prostitutes (they’ve now been supplanted by a Sbarro).

  Graced with branches of Popeye’s, Pizza Hut Express, and, in the case of Woodrow Wilson, a Blimpie, what does impress me about these rest stops is their ambition; it’s hard, after all, to build a service area that really captures the essence of Alexander Hamilton. But with a Roy Rogers and a Carvel, no one can say they didn’t try.

  Chapter 32

  The Room Where Spam Subject Lines Are Created

  The subject lines for spam are probably the product of some electronic word scrambler, but I like to think that they are the brainchildren of a secret society of perverts. I imagine these men meeting in a subterranean room someplace in the former Soviet Union, flipping through stacks of porn as they toss ideas back and forth about what tagline is most likely to boost illicit Viagra sales.

  “Your dick will explode!” shouts a chubby bald man, looking up from his favorite teenage centerfold.

  “Too literal. I like ‘Nasty anal fruit salad,’ ” says another, fingers poised above his computer’s sticky keyboard.

  “How about ‘Put your horse in my pussy’?” suggests a man at the front of the room. Well respected by his peers, he is known for his use of metaphor, most recently in a campaign titled “Power up your meat cigar.”

  “I think we’re going for something more along the lines of ‘Knock down trees with your GIANT COCK,’ ” responds a bespectacled man. “We don’t want to confuse people.”

  Before he can elaborate a short man jumps out of the shadows—the resident surrealist. “Hamburgler orgasms!” he shouts. “Ascent tampon! Dong toast!”

  After a brief masturbation break, the men debate suggestions ranging from the religious (“I’ve got a twelve-inch rabbi”) to the seasonal (“What’s new in summer? Testicles”). Eventually t
hey settle on a polite inquiry—“I HUMBLY REQUEST FOR YOUR ASS.”

  And then, as they prepare for a celebratory dong toast, the leader of the group hits “send.”

  Chapter 33

  Anywhere Written About by Nick Kristof

  Fred Conrad/New York Times

  Nick Kristof, the two-time Pullitzer Prize–winning columnist for the New York Times, gravitates toward subjects most people don’t want to think about. Rape victims in Pakistan, dying mothers in West Africa, slum dwellers in Haiti—if a story says “human tragedy,” Kristof will find it. Through his columns, blog, books, and videos, he encourages people to pay attention to atrocities so awful that they’re tempting to ignore.

  This is a great public service, but it doesn’t mean you should allow Kristof to plan your next family vacation. “He’s… one of the very few Americans to be at least a two-time visitor to every member of the Axis of Evil,” says his Times bio. “During his travels, he has had unpleasant experiences with malaria, mobs and an African airplane crash.” In a column of tips for student travelers, he skips standard advice (“Bring earplugs!”) and heads straight for the nitty-gritty: “If you are held up by bandits with large guns, shake hands respectfully with each of your persecutors,” he writes. “It’s very important to be polite to people who might kill you.”

  On the upside, though, Kristof definitely knows how to avoid tourist traps. And he’s not one for crappy souvenirs. Whereas most people blow their vacation budgets on booze and tacky T-shirts, Kristof puts his money toward more worthy causes: he once celebrated a trip to Cambodia by buying two teenagers out of slavery.

  NICK KRISTOF

  Experiences That Nick Kristof Does Not Think Are Worth Having Before You Die

  • Being stuck at a small airport in Xishuangbanna, China, soon after it opened to foreigners. With the entire town watching, the security guard searches my bag, finds my deodorant—and asks what it is. As a fascinated crowd of several hundred people listens attentively, I try to explain that Westerners use this to avoid stinking.

  • Sitting trapped in a small UN-chartered plane as it is preparing to crash-land in the Democratic Republic of the Congo in the middle of the civil war. On the bright side, I have my laptop and satellite phone, and am trying to buy life insurance.

  • Standing in a no-man’s-land at night in Lebanon as an unidentified militia points guns at us and asks me and my friend our identities. My friend says “Australia,” in a thick Australian accent. The gunman gets excited. He double checks: “You say, ‘Israel’?”

  NICK KRISTOF is a Pulitzer Prize–winning New York Times columnist.

  Chapter 34

  The Tokyo Summerland Wave Pool, August 14, 2007, 3 P.M.

  There are times when a picture really is worth a thousand words. Like this one—a photograph of the Tokyo Summerland Wave Pool taken during the Japanese festival of Obon. Technically Obon is a time to commemorate the dead, but apparently it can also be an invitation to grab your water wings and head to the pool.

  Michael Keferl/CScoutJapan.com

  According to photographer Michael Keferl, this shot was taken shortly after the wave pool reopened (it had been closed for repair)—and no, it wasn’t Photoshopped. These revelers just take their wave pools seriously. They don’t have time for you and your silly concerns, like how a lifeguard would be able to rescue you from the crush, or what you should do if the guy next to you starts peeing. They just want to know the answer to one question: how can I squeeze my pink inner tube into that pool?

  As one commenter put it, the resulting scene combines the “acoustics of a high school gymnasium with the ambiance of being bathed in lukewarm urine.” It also raises that age-old philosophical question: if a small child gets pulled underwater but everyone is having too much fun to notice, did she really drown?

  Chapter 35

  Mid-January in Whittier, Alaska

  Cut off from the rest of Alaska by thirty-five-hundred-foot-tall mountains, covered for most of the year by heavy clouds, the town of Whittier, Alaska, might not exist if it weren’t for World War II. After the Japanese bombed the Aleutian Islands in 1942, the U.S. Army wanted to find a place in Alaska to build a secret military installation—ideally an isolated spot with an ice-free port and bad weather that would make it harder to see from the air. Tucked into the northeast corner of the Kenai Peninsula and cut off from the mainland by the Chugach Mountains, Whittier qualified on all counts.

  After deciding on a location, the army’s first task was to build a tunnel. So it began blasting through the granite, and by 1943 had completed a 2.5-mile passageway to Whittier that, until recently, was open only to trains. Next, it built two huge apartment buildings to house the residents of the town.

  At its peak in 1960, Whittier’s population was about twelve hundred, but that didn’t last long. When the army pulled out of Whittier, its population dropped to a mere eighty Whittiots, which meant that when the 1964 Good Friday Earthquake killed thirteen people, it wiped out a considerable percentage of the town’s population. As of 2007, Whittier was back up to a whopping 174 residents, but with more people migrating out than coming in, it’s unlikely to ever reach its former peak.

  Part of the reason Whittier has never been heavily populated is that until the tunnel was opened to cars, the only way to get there was by sea or rail. Even today, the one-lane tunnel can only accommodate one direction of traffic at a time, and has to alternate between trains and cars. Add in daily maintenance periods and there are times when you can wait more than two hours for the chance to pay the $12 toll.

  Of course, this only applies when the tunnel is open. It closes each evening around 11, so don’t linger too long if you intend to make it back to Anchorage for the night. What’s more, on April 11, 2009, a large rockslide tumbled onto the highway leading to the tunnel. It was shut down entirely for more than a month, stranding many of the town’s residents and giving new relevancy to the POW—PRISONER OF WHITTIER—T-shirts that were popular before the tunnel opened to cars.

  Begich Towers, the town’s only apartment building—and home to most of Whittier’s residents

  Courtesy of the author

  Whittier does have a beautiful hiking trail and great wildlife, but be sure to time your visit well—it receives no direct sunlight from November to February and gets more than twenty feet of snow per year.

  Chapter 36

  Onondaga Lake

  The 1400s were good to Onondaga Lake, a 4.6-square-mile lake that sits northwest of Syracuse, New York. Back then, it enjoyed a privileged status at the heart of the Iroquois Confederacy. Its halcyon days lasted until the nineteenth century, when it became a popular holiday destination, ringed with resorts and restaurants featuring locally caught fish. But once industrial development in Syracuse really kicked in, the lake got screwed.

  First was the sewage: as the nearby city of Syracuse grew, its planners designed its water system to discharge the city’s domestic and industrial waste directly into the lake.

  Then came the Solvay Process Company, a soda ash producer that opened on Onondaga’s western shore in 1884 and proceeded to release millions of gallons of by-products into the lake per day. That got rid of the company’s trash—but it also killed off most of the coldwater fish.

  Pollution eventually forced the resorts and beaches to close—at which point you’d think someone would have realized that using the lake as a garbage can was a bad idea. But instead, Solvay was replaced by the Allied Chemical and Dye Company, which discharged about 165,000 pounds of mercury into the water over the next fifteen years.

  Other companies followed Allied’s lead, dumping chemicals like polychlorinated biphenyls (PCBs) and chlorinated benzene into the mix.

  It was only after the Clean Water Act passed in 1972 that people started trying to clean up Onondaga. The sewage treatment plant was updated; several of the heaviest polluters were shut down. But unfortunately, these efforts came late—almost forty years later, the lake is still unsa
fe to swim in, and the sediments at its bottom are on the federal Superfund list. A group called the Onondaga Lake Partnership has made admirable progress toward making Onondaga Lake a safe environment for fish and other marine life. But considering the lake’s remaining problems, like large plumes of algae and overflows of untreated sewage, it’s going to be a while before you see me doing laps.

  Chapter 37

  Mount Rushmore

  Beautiful though it may be, South Dakota doesn’t have much in the way of manmade attractions. But what it lacks in number, it makes up in scale—the presidential portraits on Mount Rushmore, carved into the face of a mountain, are each over sixty feet tall.

  Peering out from the mountain, the oversize faces of George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Abraham Lincoln, and Theodore Roosevelt were designed to celebrate the first 150 years of American history. With America more than 230 years old and going (relatively) strong, Mount Rushmore still draws millions of visitors per year.

  That’s the part I don’t get, because while Mount Rushmore is an impressive achievement, it’s really not that interesting. There’s no jackalope or fake Tyrannosaurus Rex (see Wall Drug, p. 42); in fact, three of the people featured in the sculpture also appear on the bills you’ll be using to pay the park entrance fee. Take into account the fact that the sculptures were carved into hills considered sacred to the Lakota Sioux, and it starts seeming less like a testament to the American spirit and more like an example of us acting like jerks.

  But what really confuses me is the lack of creativity. Unlike many other historical sites, Mount Rushmore never had a purpose besides being a tourist attraction: it was built specifically to draw visitors to South Dakota’s Black Hills. So why not spice things up a bit? Mountaineering guides could lead climbing expeditions up Thomas Jefferson’s nose. An entrepreneurial company could rig a zip line from Teddy Roosevelt’s mustache. Each summer Mount Rushmore does offer sculpting classes, but still. Gazing up at the possibility that is Washington’s forehead, I can’t help but think we could do a little better.