Pit Stop

It's a ways from Vermont to Virginia, a couple of stops to stretch and pee at least. Usually we play it by ear, stopping when the stopping seems good, but today? A day in August when the most direct route was through New Jersey? Our last stop was planned. Before we left Vermont, I found a farm stand not far off the Turnpike and close to our childhood home in Burlington County, that promised Jersey peaches. 

And I felt more than a little thrill when at last we reached Exit 5 and we headed off into the farmlands of the Garden State. Arriving at our destination 20 minutes later, I was genuinely surprised to find a very commercialized operation, complete with petting zoo and hay rides. The farm stand was more of a gift shop with produce, but they did have softball-sized peaches from their own orchard, just like the ones we used to pick with my mom, and local corn and blueberries, too.

The place was run by teenagers, most of them updated versions of the kids I knew when I lived here. A surly-sassy-spacy girl, who was almost a ringer for my best friend Nicci, waved me toward the restroom with exasperated (and totally wrong) directions, and a friendly blond girl was my cashier.

"Have you had a good day so far?" she asked while packing my produce in cheerful yellow plastic bags.

Feeling a little road-weary, I hesitated. It had been seven hours since we rolled away from Lake Champlain, and we still had three hours to go. "Yes," I answered, and then uncharacteristically elaborated. "I just drove here from Vermont," I said. "I was on vacation there," I explained, "but I'm on the way to Virginia."

Her eyes widened a bit as I continued. "I grew up in New Jersey," I shrugged, "and I had to stop for peaches."

"Wow," she said. "Where did you grow up?" I told her, and she nodded. 

"But you couldn't resist the peaches? You just had to stop?" She smiled, but I could tell she didn't get it.

Eh? Give it 40 years. 

Local Sports

As we drove along the Trout River yesterday and through the towns of Enosburg Falls, Montgomery, and Montgomery Center, we noticed yard signs in front of a lot of the houses and businesses we passed. Contrary to the divisive messages that so many of those signs broadcast lately, all of these had a unified focus. "Go for the Gold Elle!" they cheered.

A little research informed us that, a hometown girl, Elle Purrier-St. Pierre had qualified for the finals of the women's 1500 meter race. Furthermore, we learned, she would be in the blocks when the starting shot fired at 8:50 this morning.

It's been a bit a challenge keeping up with the Olympics here in Northern Vermont. The only broadcast TV our rented house gets is from Canada, which is only 10 miles away. Watching the Canadian coverage of the games has been refreshingly low key and without the laser focus on American athletes that NBC shills to US viewers. This morning, though, we wanted to root for Elle along with our neighbors up here, but since the Canadian women were playing for gold in soccer, there was no way that race was going to be on. So we rigged up a picture-in-picture kind of a set up, streaming the race on my laptop, while the Canadians and Swedes battled it out on TV.

Elle finished a disappointing tenth, at 4:01 flat, well slower than her personal best, but it was still fun to support her. Since she so far off the podium, NBC did not provide an after-race interview, and we turned our attention to the soccer match. What a nail-biter it was! Going past double overtime into a shootout and then sudden death? My heart was in my throat every time Stephanie Labbe stepped into the goal. And when she made that save, setting up Julia Grosso's game winning shot? Well! 

In the words of the Canadian Tire commercial we've seen a million times this week? 

We all play for Canada.

Pilgrimage to Dog Mountain

The destination was 80 miles a way, but in northern Vermont? That's over 2 hours. Still... it was Dog Mountain. And so we em*bark*ed on our journey, the fastest route of which was literally on winding country roads, across covered bridges, through tiny New England towns, over mountains on dirt and gravel roads, and up I-91, the majority of it without cell service.

Located on 150 acres on a private mountaintop spot, Dog Mountain is the former home of artist Stephen Huneck and the location of a gallery devoted to his work, as well as a giant off-leash dog park with trails and ponds, and THE Dog Chapel. 

Huneck built the classic Vermont-style chapel in 2000 and furnished it with dog-ended pews and stained glass. From the time it was opened, he invited visitors to add a picture and some words of tribute to honor the dogs they had lost. When we entered today, the walls were layered with thousands of remembrances, 

and we left, there was one more, a watercolor that Emily did of Sonic and Isabel.

Nature Dog

After three breezy days of choppy water, Lake Champlain was like glass this afternoon. The reflection of the sky on the oh-so-gentle ripples had me shucking my sneakers and cargo shorts in exchange for water shoes, gym shorts, a tank top, and of course, a kayak. 

While Heidi tossed a tennis ball and stick into the lake for the dogs, I paddled smoothly around the little inlet on the shore of our lake house. Any time I ventured past the dock, though, Lucy felt it was her canine duty to swim out and fetch me back. Eventually, with a little encouragement and a lot of treats, we got Lucy into the kayak, so that she and I could explore a little deeper water together.

It was hard to tell if she was actually enjoying the ride; she bailed out of the kayak more than a few times, but for a first attempt, I'd call it a success. And after the off-leash hiking yesterday and the kayaking today, Lucy has become quite the outdoorsdog, which naturally?

Pleases me greatly.

The Spirit Moves

Another day, another scramble through hardwoods, conifers, and over granite to make my way up a New England mountain with an expansive view. Today it was Eagle Mountain, the highest point overlooking Lake Champlain. 

It's been five years since my last summer sojourn up north, and I had almost (almost!) forgotten how much I love this terrain. I used to think that if I lived up here I would hike the mountains at least three times a week because I enjoyed it so much, but years away had me convinced that such a plan was only the result of young legs and fond memories. 

Today, a local hiker at the trail head let us know that dogs did not have to be on leash, and so Bill, Emily, Heidi, Lucy, Rosie, and I set off through grassy meadows. The sun was shining and the dogs ran up the trail and back to check in, excited by all the new sights and smells. Huge granite outcroppings and a variety of ferns defended the trail as we entered the woods and began a steeper climb to the summit. there was no view at the top, but a short path down and to the west led us to the edge of a drop-off and an open vista of the sun shining on Champlain and its islands.

We followed a loop back to the fork where we had entered the woods, and the blue sky and wide lane tumbling gently back to the parking lot were just irresistible, so even on these old legs?

I had to run.

Fearless

 Our Vermont adventures took us to Stowe today. After searching somewhat unsuccessfully for a lovely lunch spot and poking around the quaint village, we headed up Mountain Road past the turn off for the Von Trapp Family Lodge to Stowe Mountain Resort. There we pulled up to the booth to pay our way up the auto toll road to the highest point in Vermont, Mount Mansfield. As we idled at the foot of a very steep hill, a young man in a red polo, safari hat, and a name tag reading Paul ambled over to the passenger side of the car. 

"Have you all been her before?" he asked.

"No!" we answered enthusiastically.

"Welcome!" he replied. "It's 4 1/2 miles to the top, and another 3 mile hike to the summit, but you'll have 360 degree views about 10 minutes up the trail. Cars coming down the mountain have the right of way. Do you know how to put your car in low gear?"

"Um, I think so?" I said.

He smiled. "You think so? Or you do? Or you don't?" he laughed.

"How do I do it?" I asked.

"Pull the shift down to Drive and over to the left where it says M" he instructed, "then you have to use the paddles."

The paddles I knew. "These, right?" I flipped the levers on my steering wheel with my fingers.

"Right!" he smiled again. "Use 1 or 2 on your way down, instead of riding your brakes." 

After paying our toll, we started up the mountain. The road was steep, and my ears popped even before the pavement subsided to gravel a quarter of a mile up. After that, the grade was steep and the hairpin turns were harrowing, especially when we met another car coming down. My passengers, Bill, Emily, and Heidi were kind of white-knuckling it; without having to focus strictly on the road ahead, they could see the drop-offs and other hazards to either side. But I was unfazed, keeping an even foot on the gas and warily watching for oncoming traffic.

The trip to the top was worth the toll and the trouble: the views of Lake Champlain and the Adirondacks to the west and the Green Mountains to the east were stunning. The trip down, in low gear, was a bit grating, but we all agreed that timing our visit for late enough in the day that there was no upward traffic was a brilliant accident.

Later, at the house, when we told our guests about the day, my brother said, "Tracey is the bravest driver I know!"

"Thanks," I replied, "but bravery is when you're afraid of something and you do it anyway." I shrugged.  I wasn't really afraid today. Maybe that makes me foolish."

"Tracey is the bravest fool I know," he corrected himself, and we all laughed, but I think there may be more truth in that than I care to believe.

C & C Part 12

This story could never be complete without mention of Debbie and Louise, the founders of the company, but now that I've reached the end, it's hard to know what to say about them. They were in their thirties when they opened the shop. Debbie was a few years younger; tall and willowy she had the reputation as the "pretty one" and "the nice one," but she could be rigid and bitchy when she needed to or had a bad day. Louise was the dynamo behind the company's success. She had a loud, outsized persona, and with a booming southern accent and an iron will, she was the incarnation of a steel magnolia. 

Because she was so volatile and exacting, the mood in the kitchen would tense immediately whenever she came down from the office. It was impossible to predict if she would ignore you, praise you, or tear you a new one. Louise was a study in opposites: stingy and generous, belittling and supportive, relaxed and stressed, you never knew who you were going to get. But she was always, always confident; whichever Louise you were dealing with, she was committed to her position, 100 percent.

And, for some reason? Louise really liked me. When I quit to move up to DC, she took me and my sister and girlfriend out to dinner at the hot new restaurant in town. "Taste this," she pushed her appetizer toward me, "what do you think is in it?" When I told her, she clapped and said, "I think you're right!" Later that evening, she gave me a huge, beautiful copper skillet, made in France. It must have been worth over a hundred bucks in 1989 money.

A few months ago, my sister and I were talking and the topic of our days in the catering/cafe business came up. I did a quick Google search, found a recent picture of Louise, and texted it to my sister. "Oh," she said, "Louise is an old lady now."

Proof that it happens to everyone, in case there was any doubt.