Mountain Man and City Girl

I have been a bird watcher, or birder as they now call it, since the 1970’s.  I pulled out my “life list” the other day, a list that names every kind of bird that I’ve ever seen and positively been able to identify.  I need to make a half dozen additions to the list, but the list stood at 128 birds.  That’s not bad, but real serious birders have seen 300 or more.

I carry my Audubon Society Field Guide to North American Birds, Eastern Region edition, any time I go on a hike.  At this stage of my life, most all my hikes are in New Jersey or West Virginia, my two homes.  But having lived in coastal southern California, Oregon, Montana, Florida, and the Virgin Islands gave me the opportunity to see birds not seen here in the mid-atlantic United States.

It may sound ridiculous, but I do have favorite birds.  And birds I frankly don’t care for.  Is that weird?  Here are my favorite tree and ground birds.  I’ll save marsh and water birds for another time.

My favorite bird is the black-capped chickadee.  No matter how cold the winter, he cheerily comes to your feeder.  When it was 30 degrees below zero in Maine, the black-capped chickadee could be counted on to be at the feeder at first light and check in all day long.

My best camouflaged bird award goes to the dark-eyed junco.  From above, an airborne predator has a hard time distinguishing his black upper body and black eyes.  From below, the dark-eyed junco in flight has an-off white underside that blends well with the sky.

Several birds capture the honors for prettiest bird.  I love the brilliant red male cardinals; the summer yellow and black plumage of an American goldfinch; the same yellow and black of the larger evening grosbeak; the red, white and black of a rose-breasted grosbeak; and the black spotted red-orange and gray of an American kestrel.

Most distinguished looking bird is a two way tie.  I love the stately look of the cedar waxwing, the black mask across his eyes oozing class.  I’m also partial to the tufted titmouse.  This little guy stands so upright, as if he’s gone to finishing school.  His white breast is the white tuxedo shirt, his gray back the tuxedo with tails, and his tuft is the latest hair fashion.

Now the flip side.  I hate starlings.  These boogers were introduced from Europe in 1890.  About 100 were released in Central Park.  Now there’s hundreds of millions crowding out our native birds.  Go home!

They pal around with grackles, the “darth vader” of the bird feeder.  Together, along with a few red-winged blackbirds, these three species congregate in gangs of 300 or more.  They are jerks, cleaning out a day’s worth of bird seeds in a matter of minutes.  Then the mellow birds I enjoy watching have to look elsewhere.

Ugliest bird you gotta love goes to the turkey vulture.  They have that hairless, wrinkled, red-skin head.  But to watch a dozen sitting on a fence after a rainstorm airing out their wings is a sight to see.  It is a thing of beauty.

The scaredy cat award goes to the mourning dove.  Step out the door, they freak out and fly frantically for their lives.  Walk in front of a window, they go nuts.  I’m surprised they’re not afraid of the sunrise.

Two more birds are on my favorite list.  I like them equally, though Ben Franklin would take issue with me.  Bring on the bald eagle and wild turkey.  Hand in hand they represent Americana and our proud way of life.

- Mountain Man

Going on a long distance hitchhiking trip, at least for me, takes proper planning.  It’s not a spur of the moment thing, although I have met guys on the road who take a few clothes, wrap them up in a blanket, and tie a rope around it.  That’s all they carry.  I guess I like a few more comforts than that.

Let me say first that hitchhiking, which is known as “thumbing” amongst hitchhikers (thumbers), is a young man’s game.  In your 20’s and 30’s, you can endure less comfort.  My last long distance trip was at 43 years old and I found that the ground seemed to be getting harder, the sun hotter, and the bugs nastier.  I also was susceptible to poison ivy and poison oak, which never affected me in my earlier years.

When I go thumbing, I like to take some 3-4 day side trips into the wilderness.  So my planning begins with researching where trails are located in the states I expect to be in.  I take notes, showing where I can get on the trail and where I’ll come out a few days later.  I’ll also make notes about lakes and rivers I might have the opportunity to explore.  I avoid cities.

I use a backpack, one that has the frame inside, not outside, which is too bulky.  In the bottom compartment, I pack a hooded sweatshirt, a raincoat, a pair of jeans, and sandals.  In the top goes 3 tee shirts, 3 pair of socks, 3 underwear, a flannel shirt, a pair of shorts, warm lined gloves, a ski cap, my journal, and a few odds and ends.  In those small outside pockets go things like pens, magic marker, matches, nail clippers, toothbrush, comb, and such.  A quart bottle for water is essential, too.  I attach my sleeping bag and tent to the outside bottom of the pack with bungee cords.

The object is to carry enough for comfort, without taking unnecessary things.  You’re either going to carry 30 pounds around for a few months, or 50 pounds.  It makes a big difference, especially when you take off up a wilderness trail that climbs a thousand feet or so.  It’s also easier getting in and out of cars with a smaller, lighter load.

My bible is an undersized road atlas.  I always had a book that was close to the size of a piece of paper (8.5″ x 11″), with a map of each state.  They’re not as detailed as a full sized atlas, but they’re very handy.  I usually refer to my atlas at least 10 times a day.

The most important thing you bring is identification.  Let’s face it, now and then a cop is going to stop to check you out.  Having a big, bushy beard drew me my share of police attention.  But my calm, friendly demeanor defused any potential bad experiences.

I was stopped by a county sheriff once in Arkansas.  He pulled up and rolled down his window.  “Get in the back seat,” he ordered with attitude.  “Good morning officer,” I replied with a sweet smile, “Let me get my ID out of this little pocket of my backpack so you can check me out.”  I held up my pack so he could see that I was innocently getting my ID, not a gun or knife, and handed it to him.

“I’m a good guy and I know you’re just doing your job,” I continued in a friendly voice, trying to take control of the encounter.  “I’ll lean my backpack against your car and get in if you’d like” is my first veiled admission that our interaction began with him ordering me into the backseat. 

As he’s running my ID, I’m talking it up so he’ll feel comfortable that I’m not an escaped felon or something.  “I’m coming from Little Rock and heading for a hiking trail near (whatever).  Am I headed in the right direction?”  Now I’ve led the conversation to him being helpful.  He’s pumped up.

Once I passed the ID test, he offered to take me 20 miles to the county line.  “That would be great”, I replied enthusiastically.  He probably already likes me better than his own son-in-law.  We talked during the ride, and he quickly decided I was a real interesting guy, one of a kind.

Shortly before the county line, he radioed the next county’s sheriffs.  “I’m dropping off a guy with a beard at your county line.  He’s hitchhiking.  If you see him, give him a ride.  He’s a good ole boy!”

- Mountain Man

In June, 1994 I found myself hitchhiking on one of my favorite roads - the Pacific Coast Highway.  I had been hitching around the country since mid-April, and now it was early June.

I got up one morning after sleeping on a beach near San Luis Obispo, California.  A magnificent sunset had concluded my previous day, and now an eerie, yet calmingly invigorating, fog-shrouded morning greeted me.  I packed up my sleeping bag and backpack and headed for the highway.

In the parking lot, I met a woman, with bicycle and guitar case in hand, who had also spent the night on a different part of the beach, unbeknownst to me.  We swapped travel stories for a while, then I got back on the road heading north toward San Francisco.

This was a day of short rides, but the view of the Pacific Ocean from the cliffs was dazzling.  The fog by now lifted, and the end of each ride found me walking to the edge of the cliff to sit and reflect on the beauty of the desolate beaches and pounding waves.  It was also a time to write notes in my journal.

An afternoon ride took me past San Simeon.  The driver, a young guy and his wife, spotted a stretch of beach where elephant seals were basking in the sunlight and we pulled over.  Other cars were also pulled off the highway to watch.  We couldn’t get out of the car fast enough, the sight of the seals getting our adrenaline pumping.  We jumped a fence, then headed across a meadow to the beach.

We watched the elephant seals, in awe of the brute strength of the 15 or 20 big adult males.  Occasional battles between them took place, but the rest of the herd of 1oo were peacefully lounging.  After a while, the couple was ready to leave.  “Thanks for the ride,” I said, “I think I’ll stay here.”

I sat at the edge of the beach and meadow, my eyes transfixed on this surreal group of animals.  An hour later, I heard a “Hello again”.  It was the woman from the parking lot.  She sat down and we shared the wonderment of this setting.

Several times before her arrival, the highway patrol had cleared the cars from beside the ride.  They were enforcing the “No Stopping or Standing” rules.  The road was narrow there, so they were doing their duty.

I told her of my plans to spend the night with the elephant seals.  She had the same idea, so we went back to the road to fetch her bike and pass it over the fence.

That night we sat on the beach, no more than 50 feet from the 3,000 pound males and 1,200 pound females.  She played her guitar, lulling the beasts with her soft voice and soothing melodies.  The ocean waves pounding rhythmically added to the music’s harmony.  Eventually, we each crawled into our sleeping bags as the symphony and inspiring day came to an end.  But to this day, I can still hear the gentle sounds of that night.

- Mountain Man

The most frequently asked question I get about hitchhiking is “What do you do if it rains?”.  I suppose my answer is either “Try not to get wet” or “I get wet”.

Actually, I’ve always been pretty lucky when it comes to rain.  It seems like I often arrived in an area at the conclusion of several days of rain.  The ground was saturated and there were puddles everywhere, but the rain was done.  I also had my share of getting into a car for a ride, and just then a deluge comes down.  Of course, I’m cruising down the road high and dry leaving the precipitation behind.

One notable rain event happened in Arkansas in 1994.  I was hitching along a small, rural state highway.  As my ride was coming to an end, I mentioned to the driver that I was torn between finding a bridge to get under, or camping outdoors.  He obligingly dropped me about 500 yards from an old bridge, now abandoned since the highway had been moved.  The rain had stopped and I could see some blue sky.  I made the decision to camp in this inviting field under a tree.

Bad move!  About two hours after dark, the sky opened up and lightning and thunder ruled the skies.  I huddled down in my sleeping bag as I pulled it as close to the center of my small one-man tent as I could.  I knew it wouldn’t be long before the water would begin seeping through the ceiling of the tent.

I was more worried about the lightning.  It was violently crashing nearby and the booms of thunder shook the ground.  With the ground now so wet, a lightning bolt striking the field would surely conduct high voltage through the entire field.

The lightning continued for what seemed an eternity, but was probably less than an hour.  It was raining so hard that a little stream was now running right under - and through - my tent. My sleeping bag, tent, and everything else not packed tightly inside my backpack was saturated.

Finally, the storm abated.  A little while later, there were even breaks in the clouds where I could see the stars and the sliver of a moon.  I had endured.

When the first light of dawn finally arrived, I was ready to move from the now muddy field.  I quickly packed up, not caring if I put wet, muddy possessions into my backpack.  I could dry them later. 

The clothes I wore were soaking wet and it was only about 50 degrees outside, so I hoped for a quick ride in a warm car.  I got to the road, and the very first vehicle was a guy in a pickup truck and he stopped.  Moments later I was in the cab huddled by the heater.  I was moving west, I was warming!  That’s life on the road.

- Mountain Man

With the presidential primary season in full swing, Democrat and Republican politicians exchange charges and point fingers at their in-party competition.  With so much bickering, it’s no wonder elected government office holders can’t accomplish anything meaningful.  It’s just late January and I’m already sick of the November, 2008 election.

Wouldn’t it be nice if political candidates would talk about issues.  I’m not talking about sound bites and cute little three sentence pat answers.  I’m talking about laying out a comprehensive plan to solve each problem and issue.  But no, that might alienate a few voters.  We can’t have solutions clouding the election.

I have been on the websites of most of the presidential primary candidates.  They’re junk!  They start with pictures of the family and a declaration of what church they belong to.  Stop it!  Enough of playing the religious card.  It’s pandering for votes.  Groveling to the vocal religious minority.

Read a candidate’s entire website and you’ll still have no idea what their solution is to issues.  “I won’t raise taxes.  I’ll start new programs.  I’ll upgrade healthcare, kick start new jobs, raise wages, lower gasoline prices.”  Blah, blah, blah.  Still, there’s no position paper telling the public how they’ll accomplish it.  Give me a break!

Out in public on the election trail, you see the politicians visiting a senior center, hugging babies at a WalMart, or talking tough with workers in a poultry processing plant.  Get real!  You guys (and girl) are all millionaires.  You have nothing in common with these folks, real Americans.  You don’t struggle paying your bills, worry about being laid off from your job, or shop in WalMart.  All your senior friends own villas and yachts and belong to country clubs.

Unfortunately, until we have election reform and end private campaign contributions, we will only have millionaires in office.  Let’s face it, they make political decisions at black tie affairs, on the golf course, or in the back room.  The real American is not privy to those decisions.

What America needs is a president who’s been there.  Someone who worked through high school to afford clothes and college to pay their tuition.  Someone who has toiled through physical labor - like milking cows, waiting on tables, running a cash register, or hammering nails.  Someone who raised their own kids and changed their diapers, not someone who had a nanny to do that.

I want to see a regular person become president.  A down home, intelligent, honest person who puts the good of the country before the good of his political party.  Not a Democrat, not a Republic, but an Independent with a realistic chance to be a uniter.  A person not tempted by money, corrupted by power.  A person who understands the big picture, who wants to leave the world a better place for his grandchildren. A true philanthropist.

I’m available.

- Mountain Man

Once in a while, I’ll get into a philosophical discussion with someone concerning “what makes a good realtor?”.  Sometimes it’s a client, sometimes another realtor, or sometimes someone you happen to meet that initiates this dialog and shares their thoughts.  Let me share mine.

The first criteria of a good realtor is honesty and being ethical.  Without those two ingredients, you can end this discussion.  We try to treat everyone as if they’re lifelong friends, almost kindred spirits.  I guess it’s a little of that “do unto others” thing, too.  As we are both hovering around 60 years old, we have reached the point in our lives where everything is about friendships.  It’s a certain bond that says, “I care about you”, and will look out for your best interests.

The second criteria is sincerity.  Nobody likes a phony.  Be real.  When we tell someone something, we truly believe it.  Sometimes it’s not what they wanted to hear or expected to hear, but it’s what we perceive to be true.  If one of us is showing a prospective buyer a property and we don’t like it or think it matches their needs, we say so.  We don’t whitewash it, we don’t go along and keep silent just to get a sale.  We help you weigh the positives vs negatives.

The third criteria is enjoying what you do.  We both love being realtors, especially City Girl.  We both bounce out of bed in the morning anxious to get on with our day.  Our job is not a burden, but a pleasure.  And a challenge.  As baby boomers, we thrive on challenges.  It’s a generation thing, I guess.  Retiring just doesn’t seem to be in our future because we’re already doing the thing that makes us happy and gives us peace.

The fourth criteria is enjoying looking at properties.  We can both look at houses all day long.  My mother always jokingly told me, “Someday you’ll make someone a good wife.”  She was right, by gosh.  I appreciate kitchens, furniture, home decorating, flooring, etc - not typically “guy things”.  Curiosity also fuels our desire to see what a home looks like inside and out.

The fifth criteria is being proficient at the technical aspects of a real estate transfer.  Is the buyer’s mortgage process progressing?, is the home in a flood zone?, what expansions will zoning law allow?, does the roof need replacing?  There’s a hundred facets of a transaction that we must examine and successfully complete.

The final criteria is experience.  City Girl has been a realtor since 1978, me since 1996.  We are both brokers, a level above salesperson that required extra schooling.  We both have our GRI designations, again requiring extra schooling.  City Girl also has three more designations, all of which were earned through increasing her knowledge of the real estate business.

Experience also means practical experience.  City Girl once owned a hotel.  We once owned a bar/restaurant.  We both have been in retail and owned investment properties, and have a second home.  We’ve done renovation projects, I’ve worked for a surveyor, she’s been on the local zoning board for 20 years.  My point?  We’ve learned a lot of things in the real world that can’t be taught in books. 

No matter where you live in the country, a good realtor is a good realtor.  With one, you’ll make a friend for life.

- Mountain Man

To learn more about our agency, visit our website at http://www.JewellRealEstateAgency.com

Well, folks.  It’s back.  What’s that you ask?  It’s a feeling in the air, it’s that spring in your step.  Things are once again happening in the Wildwoods.  Our phones have been ringing since the start of the new year with people calling for information on our properties and wanting to make appointments to view them.  And, we’re not the only Realtors feeling that way.  The island is abuzz with activity. 

Remember back in 2001 when people were just starting to realize that the Wildwoods was the place to buy?  The prices were low, and you could buy a small one bedroom condo in the Crest for just $23,000.  Then prices started going up, and the crowds came and had to buy something before there wasn’t anything left.  We even had people come into our office and say, “I have to buy something today!”  Wow!

As time went on we heard people say they missed the boat.  “I waited too long.  Property is out of my price range”, they moaned.  Well, you have another chance.  The time to buy is now.  Prices are stabilizing.  Interest rates are low and expected to go lower.  Inventory is going down.  Many of the best properties are being scooped up.  Fortunately, new listings are always coming onto the market. 

I took a client around to look at property last week.  Of the five properties we looked at, three went under contract in the next 2 days.  My client didn’t even have time to think about them before they were off the market.

A lot is happening in the Wildwoods.  Investors are once again putting money into the area.  Now is a great time to buy.  Don’t miss the boat again.

- City Girl

Just about everyone thinks that they’re the world’s best at something.  Admit it, don’t you think you’re the world’s best soda guzzler, television show critic, cell phone talker, make-up applicator, pizza eater, belly button lint remover, armchair pro football expert, or something?  Deep down inside, you feel you’re the cream of the crop at something.

I think I’m the world’s best long distance hitchhiker.  Maybe I’m really not.  But since there is no criteria, I will continue to reflect on my abilities and think no one is better.

I have hitchhiked over 20,000 miles in my life, logging enough miles to practically circumnavigate our planet.  But mileage isn’t what made me No.1, it’s what I learned it those miles that helped me refine my craft.  Let me share a few tips.

When I hitchhike, I always make eye contact with drivers.  And if they pass me by, I just smile and look toward the next vehicle.  I don’t cuss them out or flip ‘em the bird.  My philosophy is that the ride I’m meant to get just hasn’t arrived yet to pick me up.

I always use a sign.  I make them from cardboard, which is always easy to find, and I always carry a magic marker in my backpack.  If I’m in a city, I’ll pick a destination about 50 miles away.  If I’m outside a city or out in the country, I’ll shoot for somewhere 200-300 miles away or more.  The bottom line is that I don’t want a ride that’s just a few miles away, especially if I’m standing in a good spot - one that offers good visibility and ample room for a car to pull over.

So let’s say I’m in Albuquerque, New Mexico heading east and my sign says “El Paso”, the westernmost city in Texas.  If I see a possible prospect checking out my sign, I pull another sign from behind the El Paso one and it says “Please”.  I’m looking for a reaction.  If I get a sympathetic look, I flip that sign over and it reveals the show stopper “Aw C’mon”.  That almost always solicits a smile.  A third of the time, it also gets me a ride.

Once in a car, you have to carry on a good conversation, while also making the driver feel at ease and not threatened that you’re a weirdo or mass murderer or something.  Never reach into your backpack, lest they think you have a gun.

With the right personality and gift for gab, which I have, the driver will open up to you.  In a half hour you both feel as if you’ve been lifelong friends.  More times than I can remember, a 300 mile ride has ended with me staying at their house for a night or two, getting fed the whole time, and even being taken out to meet their friends.  I’ve ended up the center of attention at numerous parties and bars.

My budget when hitchhiking is $4 a day.  Impossible, you think.  Actually not.  People are extremely generous.  They want to feed you, even give you money when you part.  I accept food, but never money.  I’m not in it for money, in fact I usually have hundreds of dollars stashed in my socks.  Four bucks a day can go a long way in a grocery store, especially if you live on fruits, nuts, and vegetables.

I’m into hitchhiking for the thrill, the adrenaline rush, the adventure.  Meeting new people, seeing new places.  Hitchhiking always restores my faith in humanity.  People, for the most part, are decent folks.  That rediscovery makes it all worthwhile.

- Mountain Man

Earlier this month, January 2008, I traveled to our West Virginia cabin to spend a few days.  I needed to meet with our builder, our excavation guy, and cut a few trees to open up a mountain vista to the east. 

When I arrived at 9am on a Friday morning, the temperature was 6 degrees.  It had been 1 degree a few hours prior.  I worked throughout the weekend and accomplished my tasks.  By Monday, my last day, it was a balmy 62 degrees.  I decided to spend the day hiking and exploring.  I felt like a school kid skipping class!

There is a couple hundred acre parcel behind our 19 acres that leads up to the crest of the small mountain.  I had never explored it, so I headed up the mountain on our road.  Soon I was climbing over the gate onto the neighbor’s property.  There were no structures on the land, and only hunters ever went up there.

I traveled up the dirt road, gradually gaining elevation.  Meadows opened up to the north, a sight I don’t see on our heavily wooded parcel.  Soon I was to an area where thick pine trees clustered along the north side of the road, but they grew from a 20-foot lower creekside area, so only the top 10 feet were exposed to me.  They shown brilliant light green in the full winter sun.

Suddenly, a large bird the size of a crow burst from one of the pines and landed in another 100 feet ahead.  Was that a pileated woodpecker?  Could it possibly be?

I proceeded slowly up the road, knowing that I would come upon him again.  Sure enough, as I got close, he launched out of the tree.  His wings beating made a definite noise, almost a thumping.  They were so powerful that I swore I felt the vibrations.

His large size and pronounced red pointed head confirmed that it was a pileated woodpecker.  If indeed the ivory-billed woodpecker is extinct, then the pileated is now the largest woodpecker in North America.

He and I continued our hide and seek game.  Twice more he flew 100 feet at a shot, landing in the pines ahead of me along the road.  When he tired of my presence, he flew away from the road to the edge of a dense forest.  Each time, his wings beating foretold that he was airborne again.

Now he hung to the edge of the forest, heading parallel to the road and back where we started.  My view of his trajectory was unobstructed, so I continued to follow his progression.  I didn’t move a muscle except for the slight turning of my head.

After 10 or 15 minutes, he finally flew deep into the woods.  I had seen him in flight six times.  I heard him fly three other times.

My hike continued another couple hours, but all the time I kept thinking about him.  How magnificent he was!  How fortunate I was to share some time with him.

I will be going back up the mountain the next time I’m in West Virginia.  I expect to visit my feathered friend again.  It’s the neighborly thing to do!

Mountain Man

Every now and then we see that little red sign sitting in the window of somebody’s home.  “For Sale By Owner” it proclaims.  Occasionally, a person can pull off selling their home without the help of a real estate professional.  Just like sometimes a person can figure out what’s wrong with their car’s engine and fix it themselves.  But most of us leave that to a mechanic - an experienced professional!  He’s got the computer diagnostics and the right tools and knowledge.

A seller tries to sell their home without a realtor for one main reason.  They want to save on the commission.  The problem with that is that most buyers immediately deduct that same commission amount from what they feel the real price is.  If the property is listed at $500,000, the buyer already has the real asking price pegged at $470,000.  They’ve subtracted the 6% commission from the price.

So eight months later, a prospective buyer, the third to view the home, offers $420,000.  The seller feels somewhat insulted.  In negotiating face to face, it will be difficult for the seller to mask his annoyance with the buyer. 

Let’s say the two, somehow, eventually reach a verbal agreement on price.  A week or so later, the buyer submits his written offer that he has had prepared by his attorney.  The agreed upon price is there, but the contract is asking for the seller to take care of any repairs or treatments necessary due to termite inspection, septic inspection, water test, and home inspection.  The seller finds he could be on the hook for an unexpected $10,000 of possible remediation.

More tense negotiations, more animosity, veiled threats, more stress.  You get the picture.  The seller never saw it coming.

Let’s back up and suppose the seller started by listing his property with a local, licensed real estate agent.  Upon signing the listing, the agent goes room by room and tells the seller what needs to be addressed to make the home more attractive to warrant the $500,000 price tag.  It’s just cosmetic stuff mostly, maybe touching up some woodwork with paint.  Outside, the leaves might need to be raked and that doggie poop cleaned up.

The agent now advertises the property in a number of effective Cape May County homes magazines.  Plus the realty’s internet site, which is also widely publicized and linked to chamber of commerce and other popular sites.  The  realtor also puts the property on a half dozen other high viewer websites.  This will lead to many potential buyers viewing the property.

Once negotiations begin with a buyer, the agent does your bidding.  You’ll often never meet the buyer until closing, so no hard feelings.  The agent can advise the seller as to contract conditions, inspections, down payments, etc.  Once the contract is signed, the agent oversees many details such as inspections, is the mortgage process progressing, survey, deed, the title company, etc.  You’ll even know your approximate closing costs before you ever sign the contract.

In the end, the price realized may be exactly the same, though it’s often more.  But consider the ease with which the transaction was completed.  No sleepless nights, no big surprises, no agata!  Wasn’t it worth it?

- Mountain Man

To find out more about what realtors do for you, visit our website at http://www.JewellRealEstateAgency.com