Starbells

Heidi has been teaching a free water aerobics course every Tuesday and Thursday evening up at our community pool this summer for the neighbors. Never one to half-ass anything, her days have been filled with making playlists, finding exercises, trying them out, and organizing them into routines. My role has been supportive spouse, making suggestions for 70s songs, driving to find pool noodles, and trying out a few of the more confusing moves in the pool to see if and where they fit in the workout. 

Today I stepped up my support: when Heidi wanted water dumb bells for some variety in the arm work, I came up with a design that was cheap and easy. A quick trip to the big box home improvement store for a couple more noodles (of the star-shaped variety), 20 feet of 3/4 inch PVC piping, and a little pipe-cutter, and 15 bucks later, we had all the makings for 20 little starbells. 

I assembled 4 to audition at the pool, but on the way up a couple of rumbles of thunder put the kibosh on that part of the plan. They are super cute, though, if I do say so myself.

Signs, Signs, Everywhere Are Signs

"I haven't driven since we've been here," Heidi said as she slid into the driver's seat for the first leg of our trip home yesterday. "You'll have to tell me how to go."

"You know the way," I reassured her. "It's left at the end of the driveway,  around the bend by the beach, past the F*ck Biden flag, over the railroad tracks, and a left again at the chicken coop."

She nodded, and we waved good-bye to northwestern Vermont.

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.