“A Rhyme for Nuhoc”

I've intermittently participated in Northeastern's outdoors club since the first weeks of freshman year. Toward the end of February I finally gave my speech, in my case a poem, to begin the process of gaining a key to the lodge. 

Nuhoc boasts some of the coolest people I know at Northeastern. Though I don't find time to visit the lodge nearly as much as I like, when I do, it's always a memorable weekend. Truthfully, I don't want to picture my college life barren of these out-of-city adventures, sure to refresh me with glorious views, new friendships and plenty of stories. 

The process to earn a key is long and intimidating and involves learning things like how to take a part and put together the water-pump--rumored to be three hour ordeal, things abo

ut tools, l

eading trips and first aid training. Yet once you have a 

key, it's yours for life. 

I don't remember the last time I wrote a poem, if ever? And this was the

 first time I read one out-loud. I was a little nervous (rare) and It was surprisingly fun. 

“A Rhyme for Nuhoc”

A friend or a chalker, a flyer or 

a hunch,

In 200 Richards I landed,

With the rest of the bunch.

So many faces, legs arms and minds, 

Ready for adventure, 

To have a good time. 

“Welcome to Nuhoc,” 

We go on trips,

And thus with these words, 

My journeys did commence

Newcomers’ 06 found me,

 in a red van,

Our driver was Keith, 

“Keith Cool,” they said,

He shared with us stories of biking, Fester and sleds. 

Up in the morning, 

A horn or a bell, 

Toasting, and coffee, 

Bagels, eggs, cheese, 

Water from the well, 

A mighty routine. 

Mike was there then--with curly blond hair,

let’s rock climb he said, 

If you’re new it's no care. 

So rock climb we did, 

After quite a long hike. 

Where one boy go

t shin splits,

but climbed on with all his might. 

Back at the lodge it was a worthy sight, 

With fire and food and drinks galore,

Lofts jammed with people, on mattress and floor.  

A culture, a world—it all felt q

uite right.   

In the lodge, I decided, 

I'd be many a-night. 

Up in the morning--lodge rats beware-

The sun is-a shining, 

Up, out and go. 

Now, it’s summer ‘07 and we have quite the scheme

Maddie, Michelle and I set out with some speed,

“Meet me in Acadia,” the sign we hold reads,

10 hours plus,

 We pull into camp,

An epic road-trip,

I’m quite sure of that. 

A day filled with kayaking, hiking, camaraderie 

Exploring the town, crabs everywhere, 

Nights at the lighthouse, 

stars a-shine bright, 

And, back at camp

A blaze of some height, 

And Peter and Tom

Who displayed marshmallow-eating

-might, 

That kind of went wrong…

But don’t be dismayed, 

you see this is how nuhocers do,

For moments later,

A trip did ensue,

A rushing out of camp

A couple wrong turns. 

That looks just fine pull the car there.

Piling out, hopping up rocks,

Skipping-a jumping, 

Time’s dwindling--we’re not there.

And then, 

At th

e top—phew

Wait. Not. So. fast---

Cadillac’s that one, 

We scrambled to beat the sun's glare:

Through a valley over streams,

 Past the skyline, beyond the trees,

And then a deep sigh—

We’ve made it in time.

We lounged a-top the peak, 

As the sun did rise.  

So many things, 

I wish to recount, 

Of skiing, and sledding of friends and good times, 

Of delicious concoctions of great cheap red wine, 

Of voices raised in sound— songs which I love.

Of ridiculous trip

s and marvelous feats

Of late night convers

ations by fires so bright, 

Of laughing through snow and a twisted up swing, 

Of donuts, of starfruit, and records proudly scrawled,

Of spring and winter

, hot summers and colorful fall, 

See these are the seasons,

 where the lodge is best of all. 

Of jumping off bridges—

With Kathryn and Maddie 

“Just do it,” Tom said, and then he counted one, two, three

So we jump

ed we splashed, maybe even gracefully. 

There have been times, 

When the lodge is far from me, 

Like this summer in Egypt, and Abu Dhabi 

And after that, 

When I co-oped in DC

And more of these times, will happen I’m sure

But then I’ll be back, 

Always ready for more,

Though some things changed, 

And others must too, 

With the lodge there’s a clickage 

It’s how it’s meant to be

With people with places, 

Don’t refrain with these things. 

Now zooming from Forsyth, 

I always get a rush--"Cya Boston," 

This weekend I won’t be in touch. 

Don’t leave a message, don’t try those lines--

This weekend isn’t o

ne of those times. 

 

So why an LCT?

I’ll tell you real straigh

t: 

I want to learn, 

The ways a

nd the means,

Like how to pump water, 

And start the wood s

tove

And lead the loop hike, 

And plan a super-meal, 

For those others like me

Who feel quite at home, 

With bunk or loft, stall left of right, 

Wood piles galore, 

Things like bongo boards at night. 

Sometimes there’s drama, and silliness and blame 

But there are always, the grandest of games, 

Where the closest of friends

Are sure to be made.

Now there is one last thing--a tradition if you will

An object to bring, a gift to be gave— 

Every time at the lodge, there is one thing I’m quite troubled by,

To fix I think, we really should try. 

Recycle--is the word, though it doesn’t quite rhyme. 

Not just the cans, 

the bottles the beer, 

But everything we can--like the crates from the pasta and loved OCPs

And the other card-board things—try if you’ll please. 

I will post instructions and take the lead

Some kind of container,

Is all that we need, 

Next time at the loge—we’ll begin saving trees. 

So this is my request, me reasons, my plea, 

A member I am, LCT let me be.