2011 - Mountains by Tufts Traveler

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tufts trav eler

Letter from the Editors Over the years the Traveler has included articles about mountains and hiking from around the world. In this issue, we bring together all mountain stories, from a trip to Mount Everest to family vacations in the Alps. We have further searched out spectacular photos which capture the beauty of mountains. In our photo contest, photographers have taken creative photos with “A View from Above.” Congratulations to Gabe Joseph for his brilliant creation and thank you to those who contributed to this issue of the Tufts Traveler. Hopefully the stories will inspire you to plan your own mountain adventure, whether a backpacking trip, a weekend at the Loj, or just half a day away from campus in the Fells or Blue Mountains. Wherever you go this winter break, happy travels. Don’t forget to tell us about your experience when you get back!

Rebecca Grunberg and Jenna Liang

Cover Photos by Chris Li, Rebecca Grunberg, Jenna Liang, Jamie Wollum Photo and Back Cover Photo by Jenna Liang

Table of Contents Photo: Italy

William Russack

Climbing Aravis

Chelsey Ott

Bull Mountain

Marcus Budline

Enjoy Life at Mailbox Peak

Glen Zinck

The Roof of the World

Licole Paroly

The Road to Yongzhi

Madeline Christensen

Mountains Around The World

Tufts Photographers

A Family Adventure

Anneliese Luck

The True Irish Horse

Olivia Morgan

Dharamsala

Charmaine Poh

Local Hikes

Isaac Freeman

Photo Contest

Editors-in-Chief • Rebecca Grunberg • Jenna Liang • Photo Editor • Xinnan Li • Literary Editor • Isaac Freeman • Staff Editors • Manasvini Baba • Patrick McGrath • Licole Paroly • Layout Editors • Manasvini Baba • Marcus Budline • Madeline Christensen • Rebecca Grunberg • Julia Hermann • Chris Li • Xinnan Li • Jenna Liang • Charmaine Poh • Contributing Writers • Manasvini Baba • Madeline Christensen • Isaac Freeman • Anneliese Luck • Olivia Morgan • Chelsea Ott • Licole Paroly • Charmaine Poh • Glen Zinck • Contributing Photographers • Marcus Budline • Madeline Christensen • Isaac Freeman • Phillip Grannan • Rebecca Grunberg • Jenna Liang • Anneliese Luck • Licole Paroly • Charmaine Poh • Lizzy Robinson • William Russack • Monica Stadecker • Jamie Wollum • Public Relations • Charmaine Poh • Chris Li • Blog Director • Nancy Wang • Assistant Blog Director • Sarah Strand • 3

Photo by William Russack

Climbing Aravis M

y host mother crept into my room at exactly seven and pulled the shades open. It was bright—much too bright for seven in the morning. Thank you, east-facing window. “Hurry up,” she said, and I groggily pulled on my hiking boots and grabbed my backpack. My host mother’s friends, Philippe and MarieLaure, greeted me with a kiss on each cheek, and we piled into their car and headed for La Clusaz, a town in the Haute-Savoie region of France. Forty-five minutes later, we had parked and unloaded the car, and were flipping through maps of the Aravis mountain range. Philippe found the trailhead and led us up a small, grassy slope running parallel to a gentle stream. He pointed to the highest peak that we could see and said, “That’s where we’re going.” Fantastic, I thought. The three adults were walking very, very slowly. I’m a ridiculously fast walker, so this was not cool. I felt really good about my pace until I realized that there was a reason for their slowness. We were only halfway there, and the trail had been at a consistently steep incline the entire way, with literally no flat or downhill slopes, not even for a five-foot stretch. My thighs burned. I had made the mistake of overworking myself for the first two hours. I’m a fairly experienced hiker, but I’m used to the Appalachian “Mountains”

By Chelsey Ott

running through Pennsylvania. Even the other hikes on this trip had included stretches of flat trail to give my thighs a rest. However, Philippe didn’t let us take a single break. By the time we reached the edge of the forest and the beginning of the open, grassy mountain, I was sweating so profusely that the last thing I wanted to do was hike the remainder of the steep mountain in direct sunlight. “It’ll be fine,” I tried to convinced myself. Besides, the peak didn’t look that far away. There was no choice but up, so up we went, with Philippe marching merrily along and me clumsily attempting to match his pace. The path had ended by this point, so we zigzagged our way up the grassy slope that was too steep to climb vertically. Philippe stopped abruptly and pointed up the mountain. We saw what must have been one thousand sheep walking single file across a tiny stream and then down the mountain. The procession lasted for no less than twenty minutes and ended with a shepherd and his Border collie. The young shepherd, or berger, stopped to chat with us. He asked us if we had seen any sheep in the woods, because apparently, they can get lost and wander down too far. We said that we hadn’t and finally made our way up to the summit.

Every bit of hard work was worth it! The view stretched over mountains, lakes, and villages below. I could see the entirety of the majestic Mont Blanc imposed on the horizon. The air was the freshest that I had ever tasted, and the sun was the warmest that I had ever felt. As the four of us devoured our lunches, I soaked in my surroundings, trying to forget that I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have anything nearly as incredible at home. No matter how much my muscles would burn the next day, I knew that I would not regret the trip. We finished our baguette sandwiches, and Philippe led us back down. We tiptoed carefully

on narrow paths that threatened to send us toppling down the steep incline, and made it back safely in the end. We were fatigued and sunburned, but not much worse for wear. Philippe mused that I was probably the first American to hike that trail, as itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not well known, even among the French. I smiled and then allowed myself to relax for the first time in eight hours, as the four of us filed into the car, just as the sheep had done across that stream. Oh, and in case the shepherd that we met is reading this, I think I saw a few of your sheep in those woods.

Bull Mountain By Marcus Budline

he next obstacle in our way stretched across the horizon, rising out of the brown grass in the valley and arching far into the clear, blue sky. Firs and birches dotted the mountainside, seemingly melting into one another to form a continuous sea of green covering the steep incline. The beauty of the scene from afar, however, contrasted harshly with the sign we stood in front of. “Attention non-Military Traffic,” it read. “Military Training Ahead: Do Not Proceed.” This was Bull Mountain, a part of West Point’s training facilities in the Hudson Valley, where recruits come to practice tactical techniques for the first time. But even with the strict warning and the knowledge that we were trespassing on federal property, there was no chance in hell that my friend and I would turn back. It was day two of our international bike trip from Princeton, New Jersey to Montreal, and, with the number of miles that our legs would be pedaling in the next week, we couldn’t afford to circumvent a challenge so early in our journey. The ascent began quickly, with the manicured path turning into a narrow and rocky lane that threatened to pop the thin tires of our touring bicycles. We reached the first plateau, and the three uniformed cadets standing in the middle of the path. “What the hell do you guys think you’re doing?” one of them asked. “We’re… uh… just biking through. We’re on our way to Montreal. We got permission to be here,” I replied feebly. “Well I don’t really care,” he said, spitting at the same time. “Just know that there are military vehicles flying down these roads,

and they really couldn’t care less what’s in their way. It’s not our problem if something happens to you guys out here.” We nodded and set off for the next section of the mountain, sticking to the right side of the road, not as if, but because our life depended on it. Trucks would roll by, questioning us and shouting that we needed to get off their roads, and from the other direction young drivers would careen down the winding path, nearly slamming into the large packs we carried on the back of our bikes. We cycled as much as we could, walking only the final section of the mountain, which was essentially impossible to ride for two inexperienced teenagers. We pushed our heavy bikes up the slope, finally reaching the top and getting the chance to look out over the valley. As truck after truck full of cadets rolled by, I grabbed a power bar and peered through the trees. The brown grass on which we had stood seemed like it was miles away, and the road we had ridden was obscured by the bushes and trees of the facility. There was no cell phone reception, just the two of us and our paper directions that hadn’t mentioned that these were restricted lands. A cadet in a truck pulled up alongside us, giving our bikes a sneering look. “You lost or something?” he demanded. “Yeah, we’re just trying to get 9W,” I said. “Follow me down,” he replied, stepping on the gas and beginning around the corner at the top of the mountain. We clipped into our pedals and began biking as fast as we could to catch up, following closely as he took hairpin turns at full speed. The wind whipped my

“We realized the foolishness of biking through a live artillery range just to save 15 miles on a 500 mile trip.” face as I clutched the brakes the entire way down, the trees so thick on either side that I couldn’t see around the next turn. But suddenly, we were out into the clearing, the midday sun once again scorching our necks and causing sweat to drip down our relieved faces. We craned our necks back, staring up at the colossus of a mountain that we had just sped down, realizing the foolishness of biking

through a live artillery range just to save 15 miles on a 500 mile trip. On our way to Montreal, we made it through the Green Mountains in Vermont, the Berkshires of Massachusetts, and even Bear Mountain in New York, but no story sticks in my head like the day we narrowly avoided crashing, getting run over, and getting arrested to make it over Bull Mountain.

Enjoy Life at Mailbox Peak T

By Glen Zinck

here is a mountain in Washington State aptly named Mailbox Peak, and I recently had a chance to climb it with a few of my friends. When we made it to the top, we were completely out of breath, but ecstatic to finally see the mountain’s namesake: an old, beat up mailbox. We opened it up, and inside was a composition book, where people had written their names and spoken of their struggles to summit this peak. Upon further inspection of the mailbox, we saw that, wedged inside at the back, there was an unopened bottle of champagne with two things written on the bottle: “Mailbox Peak” and “Enjoy Life.” When we saw this, we were in disbelief. We inspected the bottle, and on the back it had a date indicating it had been bought that same day. We tentatively took it and decided collectively that some kind soul had lugged it up the side of this gigantic mountain, one of the steepest in the region, and left it for another traveler to enjoy. I had the pleasure of violently shaking the bottle, popping the cork, and watching the champagne explode all over. We sat there like kings on the top of that mountain, sipping champagne while surrounded by a glorious view. Those few moments made the whole hike worth it, and we plan on returning this coming summer with two bottles of champagne: one for ourselves, and another to leave in the mailbox for someone else.

The Roof of the World A

by Licole Paroly

few summers ago, I was lucky enough to visit “The Roof of the World,” Tibet. Time moves differently in this mountainous region: everything stands in sharper relief, and it is somehow easier to understand the insignificance of the individual. During my two weeks on the yak-speckled plains of Tibet, I traveled from the forbidden city of Lhasa to Everest Base Camp, and then across the border into Nepal. While Tibet abounds with beautiful places, temples clinging to cliffs and towns planted in the middle of barley fields, the place that I remember the best is a little hill a few meters past Base Camp that is (technically) part of Mount Everest. From there, the view is astounding: prayer flags flutter in the breeze, the five elements symbolized in the brightly colored cloth sending prayers to the winds. I’m sitting on a hard, small rock covered in unusual plant growth. The sky is a clear, bright blue, and the contrast between it and the snow covering the apex of Mt. Everest is striking. The white peak seems to be giving off a light of its own, and it makes my eyes water slightly. The river flowing in the distance sounds as if I am sitting amidst the rushing rapids. Yet even with all this noise, it seems silent. And then the moment changes. My sister rises, stretches, and steps down towards me, asking to borrow my camera. My mother

“Tibet is a place that balances mystery and simplicity.” wonders aloud when we last reapplied suntan lotion, even though she just finished asking the question a minute ago. Tsering, our guide, asks if we are ready to go so that we can reach the campsite with enough time to set our tents up before dark. I cannot figure out where the hour and a half has gone, and wish to stay longer. But it is time to go, and we trek back down the hill and are accosted by a man selling a beautiful yak-bone necklace. As he wraps it up for us, my sister notices that the man has put duct-tape over a cut in place of a bandage, so she hands him one from her backpack. Tibet is a place that balances mystery and simplicity. Desolate mountains are encompassed by thriving cities filled with silent temples; Tibet is beautiful in its complexity. 11

The Road to Yongzhi By Madeline Christensen

he western regions of China have been developing at a breakneck pace. A quiet village too dark to walk around in at night in 1995 may now be a village-themed outdoor shopping mall bustling with tourists. Corner stores stocked with Oreos are popping up in valleys where such things had never been seen before. And underpinning the development story is the government’s frenzied construction of roads. Already, China’s road expressway network is second only to America’s. Asphalt pavement winds through mountainous passages that had previously been inaccessible by car. A town that used to take days to get to may now be reached in a few hours. Road construction is everywhere. Half-built bridges hanging in midair are a common sight. Accessibility brings people, but people can be a mixed blessing. In the mountainous Yunnan province, development projects have no doubt increased the standard of living for many people. However, tourism initiatives centered around the province’s beautiful scenery and diversity of ethnic groups often benefit only a small segment of a community. In the meantime, the influx of outsiders can contribute to the assimilation and

commodification of ethnic minority cultures. For these communities, the balance between welcoming the benefits of the tourism industry and maintaining control over their development process can be a difficult one to strike. I learned a bit about the effect of China’s new roads on a trip to Yongzhi, a small village on the border of China and Tibet. The road to Deqin, the town nearest the village, is under construction. It had previously been cobblestone, taking five or six hours by car. Now, most of the road is torn-up, bumpy, unpaved, and dusty. Buses jerk and rattle over massive piles of sand and dirt, or hug shoddy cliff faces. A bus should take around seven or eight hours, but with the road in its current state, the trip can sometimes takes twelve or more. When the construction is complete though, the drive should only take four hours. The road is not the only thing being built. The rubble of construction is punctuated by partially built hotels anticipating an influx of tourists. The area is a few short years away from becoming another overnight Chinese development story. When my friend and I finally made it to Deqin, we met the 21-year-old man who would drive us to Yongzhi, who I’ll call Derek. You used to have to

walk into the village. We were fortunate to drive. The car was loaded with Derek, my friend, Derek’s three aunts, one with a small child on her lap, and me. Nobody wore seatbelts, which have yet to become the vogue in China. In fact, if you put on a seatbelt, the person driving may assume that you doubt his or her abilities. The windy and unpaved road was cut into a stunning yet harrowing cliffside, and we had to drive slowly and deliberately around every curve. I figured that if we fell off, seatbelts wouldn’t help. We thought we were almost there when we passed one of Derek’s friends, going in the opposite direction. Much to our dismay, Derek’s friend leaned out of his truck and told us that the road was blocked. To make matters worse, it was quickly getting dark. We kept driving in hopes that the issue would be cleared. Finally we passed a long line of stalled trucks parked on the side of the road in front of a massive landslide. Gigantic boulders obstructed a bend in the road, and every once in a while a pebble would skitter down the cliffside. Derek led his three aunts and the small child by foot over the boulders, which they scaled with expert footwork. But, he didn’t

think that it would be advisable for us to do the same, so we spent the night in a motel. The next morning, we scampered over the boulders, hitchhiked a while, and then walked for a couple of hours into the beautiful little village. Life in the Tibetan village seemed idyllic on the surface. Cows wandered the cobblestone roads, friends played cards on sleepy porches, people gathered to dance to Tibetan pop music at night. But one night, as we were listening to villagers chat in Tibetan, Derek turned to us and said that a car had driven off the road that we had been on just a few days before. Six people had died. I asked if this happened often. He said that it did. Later, I had a conversation with a friend of mine who had led treks out of Yongzhi before. He said that there wasn’t a family in the village who hadn’t lost someone to road accidents. One man had lost all three of his sons on separate occasions. While the construction in the area would no doubt change the landscape forever, it was hard to romanticize the human toll that comes along with mountain roads. China’s roads, like so many other aspects of the country’s development, are both a boon and a detriment.

Photos by Madeline Christensen, Charmaine Poh

Australia & Oceania: New Zealand (MS)

Africa: Kenya (JW)

Mountains Around the World

Photos by Molly Ferrill, Chris Li, Jenna Liang, Lizzy Robinson, Monica Stadecker, Jamie Wollum

Asia: Xinjiang (CL)

North America: Nicaragua (LR)

Europe: Tromso, Norway (JL)

South America: Chile (MF)

A Family Adventure By Anneliese Luck

“B

ienvenue au Mont Blanc,” said the petite French girl who greeted me from behind the counter. “BAWN-JUR!” bellowed my beaming father, proud of his French articulation. My mother scurried around behind him, frantically gathering the whole family into one pack. The woman, recognizing immediately that we were not in fact elegant Frenchmen, continued in English, “Welcome to Mt. Blanc. How many cablecar tickets would you like?” My father paused, glancing over at my mother for help. Noting her hysterical state of mind, he leaned over to me instead and whispered, “Anna Banana, how many people are we again?” “Ten.” “Ten, see-voo-play,” repeated my father confidently to the cashier. Suddenly, my mother interjected, “Honey, please. Just speak English, clearly French is not your gift.” This was a typical family vacation for me. I had spent the previous year living as an exchange student in Germany and my family had turned the opportunity to visit me into a European summer adventure. Having grown up in a full house, with 4 siblings, we were used to hectic family outings like this. My dad was a mountain man, seeing every towering peak in the distance as a new challenge. This meant that almost every holiday, vacation, and required family bonding session was spent trekking with my very large family on rocky trails through mountain meadows, whether we liked it or not. If the weather was nice, if the Luck family had free time, and if there was a mountain within a drivable distance, we would be hiking it. There we were in the French Alps, waiting in line to take the cable car to Aiguille du Midi, a mountain in the Mont Blanc mountain range. Mont Blanc, meaning “White Mountain,” as my father so proudly informed us, is the tallest mountain in the Alps, Western Europe, and

Photos by Anneliese Luck and Tarra Williamson

European Union, at 15,785 feet above sea level. The mountain is ranked 11th in the world in topographic prominence and has a tunnel running 7 miles under it leading into Italy. My family and I were staying in the town of Chamonix, the site of the first Winter Olympics in 1924. There are several climbing routes to the summit of Mount Blanc, the most popular being the Voie Des Cristalliers. However, as there are on average around 100 climbing related fatalities per year on that path, my family opted for a relatively safer route. We followed a 10-mile trail, along the Grand Balcon Sud, which began at the Plan de l’Aiguille. With an elevation of 7,518 feet, the Plan de l’Aguille is the mid-station of the cable car to the top of the Aguille du Midi. The trail led to a station of the famous Mont Blanc Tramway, a 7.7 mile mountain railway that tops out at 7,782 feet. When we were finally able to mobilize our group and reach the mid-station, our normally loud and obnoxious group fell totally silent. The clear blue skies shined overhead, the snowcapped summit loomed behind us, the land before us unfolded into uncountable multi-colored hills and villages—the whole world was on the horizon. My siblings stopped bickering, my cousins put down their smart phones, my mother resisted the urge to put us all up for adoption, and my father’s “French” was silenced. The trail stretched out in front of us—it was time to explore. “Wow,” exhaled my father, startling everyone out of their bewildered daze, “It can’t get much better than this.” We didn’t need any more convincing. At that moment, it was as good as it gets.

The True Irish Horse By Olivia Morgan

t was a kind of madness that brought me to Ireland, in search of the true Irish horse − for I was alone and comically underprepared for what awaited me there. I knew the country only as a myth, its beauty and wildness the musing of a childhood fancy − an idolization that buried itself amidst all those other daydreams of my youth. But nothing could have prepared me for just how haunting and unforgiving the landscape truly is. Nothing warned me of how my life would be changed by it, and how − my heart pounding as my horse galloped up a ravine or struggled against a violent tide − I would feel the most complete and inexplicable kind of happiness I had ever known. It was truly an expedition of a lifetime. We (four other riders and myself) traveled across the ring of Kerry and up to the Dingle peninsula, cantering breathlessly across the bogs of Cnoc Bawn and beaches of Ballinskelligs, country lanes of Old Glencar and the lost logging trails of the Tulligane Woods, and lastly up into the mountain passes of the Macgillycuddy Reeks. Our host, Donny O’Donnell, described it as Ireland no one else ever sees. And even now, months later, I struggle to find words that even partially satisfy that which we experienced. By day, we galloped over the crumbling rock of the mountainsides, along the long and lonely beaches of the west, and the graveyards of abandoned farmlands and waking fields. I was assigned a horse named Ben, who, by nature of his 18

massive body and bold temperament, reminded me of the grim reaper’s steed − his feet plunging into the soggy earth with impressive force, his eyes dark and heavy as though they were bound to some metaphysical authority. Beneath us, wherever we went, rocks lay in a cold and still assembly, bleached white as lilies against the dark brown of soil and sand. The landscape itself was so exquisitely untamed and arresting, that upon viewing it, the jolt of disbelief is almost painful: one saw purple skies above, milky green lakes, the deep blue silhouettes of mountains across the bay, and tufts of polarized green emerging from every imaginable place. On the days that we ascended up to the higher peaks, rogue clouds and intermittent splashes of sunlight bathed us in fog, so that eventually nothing could be seen but the boulders along the path’s edge − standing side by side like brothers, porous and unchanging through all the ages of storm. By night, my body fell bent and broken from the saddle, with exhaustion and hunger invading my every sense. We rested on the floors of inns and cabins, dank and musty as only the most antiquated cellars can claim, each of us sitting by a fireplace and swigging from a whiskey bottle. The Irish are fond of stories, and we all shared our very best. Naturally, I could not walk, sit, or lie down in a normal fashion, which left me to uselessly hobble about and grimace at bizarre intervals, causing the others to remark upon

the strangeness of my storytelling technique. Yet still, despite the physical distress, the very moment I climbed up onto that horse’s back, a joy so profound, so powerful, replaced all notion of my body’s pain. I felt so free and unburdened that it was as if my soul would burst into the air in a contented celebration. And now, every memory I have of that trip is precious. Although the fear I experienced was, at times, consuming and profound, I have never felt so free, so alive, or so happy. Nothing

held me. Nothing bound me to the earth except the noble creature to which I clung. For it was a sort of madness that brought me to Ireland, a captivation, as rich and ineffable as only the most soulful of dreams can be. But I will say that I found in Ireland changed me − for it is a land rich, rugged and strikingly beautiful beyond what can be adequately imagined or described, which, I found, was best experienced alongside one of the most magnificent creatures of the country: the true Irish horse.

Dharamsala T

here is nothing quite like Dharamsala. A mountain town situated in Northern India, it is filled to the brim with an eclectic mix of vacationing Indians, Tibetan refugees, and soul-searching hippies. After spending a month in Thottiapatti, a village in Tamil Nadu, India, some members of BUILD: India, Tufts’ undergraduate group for sustainable development, decided to travel for a week in the north of the country. In particular, we wanted to visit McCleod Ganj, a popular tourist destination in Upper Dharamsala. We knew next to nothing about the place when we arrived, other than what we had read in a paragraph in Lonely Planet’s India guide about it being a popular yoga spot. Our stay at the cozy Ladies’ Venture Hostel (which, contrary to its name, does allow men) didn’t reveal very much either, other than the fact that housing there was thankfully inexpensive (we paid the equivalent of two dollars a night). Later, after some exploring, we found out that the Tibetan government was there in exile after the Dalai Lama fled Tibet in 1959, resulting in the construction of numerous temples and museums in the area, and a community of refugees who have since made their living catering to the tourists that roam the area. We spent several afternoons milling around the quirky, quaint streets that sold everything from Krishna magnets to elephant-print pants, and sitting at the numerous cafes that offered a mix of Indian and Tibetan cuisine. Among our numerous unforgettable experiences were hearing the Dalai Lama

By Charmaine Poh

speak, learning how to make momos (TibetanNepalese dumplings) while simultaneously listening to a Tibetan refugee tell his story about his escape from Tibet, stumbling upon an Israeli colony (an interesting coincidence, considering that four of the five of us were Jewish), attending a Biblestudy with an ex-monk who converted to Christianity, and climbing Bhagsu Mountain. We decided to explore Bhagsu Mountain one morning, after hearing that there was a beautiful waterfall there. We were told to find the elusive Shiva café, which, we discovered after hours of climbing, turned out to be the furthest up the mountain of all the cafes. After we and our growling stomachs reached the café, it started to pour heavily. We squeezed into the dark, stone-walled hut, along with two families and more than a dozen Indian men. It must have been a rather amusing sight: 5 clueless college students trying to make conversation with a few elderly tourists while avoiding eye contact with the stoned, smiling men surrounding us. The waterfall itself was beautiful though; it stretched on for what looked like forever, cascading down miles of gray rocks. Our trek even yielded some unexpected friendships: while at the waterfall, some Punjabi guys insisted that we smoke some hookah with them to celebrate one of their birthdays. We left Dharamsala still mystified by it, with memories running through our minds of waterfalls, Tibetan refugee stories, hippie culture and, a peace that was unlike any other.

Local Hikes

By Isaac Freeman

ou don’t even have to go very far from campus for a great walk! If you have a car, or aren’t afraid of a bike ride, the Fells is a beautiful 2,500 acre nature preserve just minutes from campus. It is networked with miles of pretty hiking trails and scenic lookouts. My personal favorite is Wright’s Tower. Just a short climb from the parking lot, this stone lookout commands incredible vistas over Boston from its vantage point high on a hill. The view from the base is great, and if you’re lucky enough find the tower unlocked, the view from the top is even better. If the Fells is too much of a trek, check out the Somerville Community Path, which starts right behind the Davis Square T stop. It is a shady, tree-lined bike path that leads all the way to Alewife station, where it joins the Minute Man Bike Path, which runs all the way out to Bedford. Check it out next time you’re in Davis. There are tons of great, quiet spots along the way to sit and enjoy that Dave’s Fresh sandwich, Anna’s Burrito, or JP Licks’ ice cream cone.

Photos by Simon Metcalf, Theo Friedman, William Russack

[ Photo Contest ]

Theme: View From Above

First Place Gabe Joseph Rodeo Beach, CA

“I took this photo at Rodeo Beach, Sausalito, CA in March of 2011. I used a Canon G12 running CHDK suspended from a parafoil kite. I like to take pictures from rarely-seen perspectives, which often means bending the limits of my camera to photograph images it’s not designed to capture.”

Jessica Kulig

Woodstock, CT

Jingtong Pan Boston, MA

Tufts Traveler Magazine

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