Men in Tree Houses

My son Sam and I are in the car driving north, looking for a tree house. I miss hanging out in the one I had as a kid, a hand-me-down from my brother. By the time it was mine, the only things left were shag rug remnants stapled to the trunk, past issues of Cracked magazine, and two-by-fours hammered into a makeshift ladder leading to a cluster of sturdy limbs. This morning, as we head towards the mountains, we’re looking for a place called Monkey Trunks. I’ve heard it’s the best tree house around.

I have almost no idea what we’re getting ourselves into. Based on the scant information I gleaned from Monkey Trunk’s website, I’m not sure if we’re heading to a heart-stopping manly adventure or into a glorified McDonaldland jungle gym and ball pit mistake.

We’ve been driving for an hour and just after passing Lake Chocorua and the rock-scarred mountain that shares its name in the distance, we arrive. We’re greeted by Hazel Ives, a Nottingham, England native and Monkey Trunks’ owner. She welcomes us in, and within moments we’re seated in a small conference room to view a video about on-course safety. We learn we’re about to spend the morning atop a high-wire adventure course with three levels and twenty-five challenges. Sam is thrilled.

Next we meet our team leader, Marcus Hansen. He stands there, harnesses, clips and helmets in hand. Marcus is our guide for the day; he’s from Denmark and, after living in England, he came to Chocorua to help Hazel open Monkey Trunks this past spring. As Marcus fits a harness around Sam, Hazel explains, “These courses are very popular in England.” By the line of folks queuing in the driveway, I think the same might soon be the case in New Hampshire.

Marcus makes sure our gear is snug and explains the rules. I’m counting on Sam to remember all the pertinent details, because the harness is giving me such a wedgie that I’m having trouble concentrating. Once Marcus hands us our “monkey paws,” double-hinged fist-sized clips attached to our harnesses, we learn the one key rule to success on the course – “Never, ever have both clips unhooked from the rope.” Before I can say, “Why not?” Marcus adds, “Because that’s how you can fall all the way down,” without a trace of a smile. Sam nods in agreement.

After a quick hands-on lesson in clipping on and off the ropes, Marcus explains that before unclipping each monkey paw, we must ask aloud, “Permission to transfer,” and get an “OK” from one of the three instructors before unclipping and moving our paw to another rope. This way, he explains, we’ll always be tethered. As we walk towards the structure, I realize this is the biggest tree house I’ve ever seen. It’s imposing, rising more than sixty feet with towers and platforms, swings, rings, pulleys, nets and steel cables criss-crossing each other on three levels.

Sam jumps right in, and I follow. Within seconds we’re onto our first challenge, a massive cargo net that stretches from one platform to another, about thirty feet off the ground. Sam climbs along with ease. I wait for him to finish, and I yell, “Permission to transfer.” It doesn’t take long for me to realize that 13-year old boys are better climbers. A few moments ago, I imagined scampering across the net like Spiderman but as I labor, I look like Peter Parker’s chubby older brother Clint who tries to keep up while his inhaler and pocket calculator fall out of his fanny pack.

We move at a fast pace. Hazel told us we’d lose track of time, and time is the last thing on my mind. I’m too busy keeping up with Sam while making sure this harness doesn’t cut off all circulation to my hips. We try every challenge, Sam always going first, my strategy having more to do with me not wanting Sam to see me slip, fall and dangle like a giant spider’s next meal than with common courtesy. We head to a huge V-shaped rope, and then it’s onto foot rings as we swing and teeter across. This is sort of like American Gladiators, without the steroid rage and skin-tight trousers, although this harness isn’t doing me any favors.

Sam and I traverse the course to the “Gauntlet,” a combination of rings and platforms that requires more than one mini-leap and scramble. We’re on level three and determined to get over to the top platform and the zipline. Sam gets there first and is greeted by Kate Everett, Marcus’s fellow team leader, her red hair poking out from underneath her helmet. I’m still making my way across a tightrope challenge as Sam stands on the platform. “You’re about sixty-five feet off the ground,” Kate tells us. She starts to explain what’s in store for us when I look over to see Sam standing there with both clips in his hands as he listens. Hmm, both clips in his hands – that looks funny. I must have missed that part of the video, and I don’t remember hearing Sam say anything about “Permission to transfer.” Uh oh.

“Sam,” I say in my calmest, most fatherly voice, “Clip on now. Immediately. Do it.” He stares at me with a terrified look, but he clips back on as Kate gently and firmly scolds him, warning him he’ll have to leave the course if he does it again. This mini-drama of unsafe adolescent behavior doesn’t slow us down because after a short tutorial in ziplines, we’re off the platform and hurtling down the wires, laughing our heads off, trying to outrace each other.

Marcus hoists a ladder and unclips us, and we head back for more. It’s been close to two hours, but it feels like fifteen minutes. My fingers are like bruised Vienna sausages, my shoulders are killing me, and I’ve been in a full sweat since I put my helmet on. But we continue, working our way up the course, and by now it’s crowded. We wait for our turn on the challenges as Kate, Marcus and Matthew Macdonald, the third team leader, navigate the course, responding to “Permission to transfer” with shouts of “OK.” All Sam says to me is, “This is awesome.”

The rope swing is our final challenge. Kate meets us on the platform as Marcus unhooks the rope swing from its tether below. Sam goes first. He sits down on the edge as Kate clips the heavy buckle attached to the rope onto his harness. I can see the weight already pulling him off the platform, but he hangs on. On the count of three, Sam lets go and he flies down, the long rope swinging him in huge arcs back and forth. He lets out a happy scream. Now it’s my turn, and I’m not ready for the tug of the thick rope. I’m slipping off the platform – Kate tells me to go for it, and I fall for what feels like forever before the buckle catches, and I swing back and forth, the late summer air rushing past my face. It’s not every day a 40-something man gets to spend a morning in a tree house, swinging like an ape with his son. Now if someone can just get me down from here, I might even try it again.