Nostalgia as the Excuse, but Not the Destination

Highway 100 is routinely mentioned as one of the most scenic routes in Vermont.  Little had we known almost 13 years ago when we drifted down to Waitsfield from our honeymoon destination further up in Stowe that we were on the beauty trail,.  We only knew that it was an idyllic little village that warranted a parking place and a stop for lunch.  Today, all these years later, we targeted it as the northernmost focal point of our venture up VT-100.  We had the day, a full tank of gas, and the draw of nostalgia to move us northward. 

Indeed, they proved to be miles and memories worth the investment of the day, alongside rivers, waterfalls, and what felt like wave after wave of colored hillsides nudging our little vessel along the currents of autumn.  Once in Waitsfield, we absorbed the community update volunteered by the gift shop owner otherwise busy painting her 26th year of wooden ornaments just off the highway.  We took her advice for lunch, but passed on the ornaments.  After a quick walk around town, we were ready for the road home. 

It was, after all, the serendipitous lake, barely 30 minutes away from our starting point, not the town, well over an hour further down the road, that had captured our imagination on the drive north.  Echo Lake, more linear than geometrical, stretches along the road just outside Plymouth, the birthplace of Calvin Coolidge.  The still water offers itself as a horizontal canvas for the sloping palette of trees circling and rising above it; the mountainous colors duplicated in the reflection.  It was this lake that finally drew us out of the car and into its enveloping silence for a hike, an absorbing view along its edge, and the tearing sound in the soul as we eventually drove away.  The placid lake, and its almost photographic duplication of the golds, the yellows, the greens and reds above it. 

I don't know where we will go tomorrow, but we can only pray for an equal serendipity to remind us of the value of a flexible vision, attentive eyes, and a willingness to park where memory has not already paved the way and rutted the view. 

Happily Lost and Finding our Way

We got lost, although the consequence was hardly catastrophic.  Traveling south on Vermont 5, we had parked at a roadside pull-off to get a more patient look at some red-leafed maples.  Reds are thinning by this time in the season, and a stand of consecutive maples had caught our attention.  After a few minutes of quiet absorption we walked on alongside the road, enjoying the closer connection and the more pedestrian pace.  It was only then that we had seen the small sign marking entrance to Pinnacle Trail.  A narrow entrance, we hadn't noticed it from the car.  No one was expecting us, and time was our own, so we stepped away from the pavement and into the woods and the leaf carpeted trail that, according to the sign, led .5 miles to the summit.  There were a few rocky climbs, but the surrounding birches and and pines and hemlock, oaks and maples and shaded hillside meadows beckoned in.  We found our rhythm, forgot about the car, and walked.

We had been doing a careful job of following the blazes marking the trail, signaling lanes and switchbacks, but near what must have been the half-way point we suddenly stopped.  "Where is the trail?" I asked -- as much to myself as to Lori.  We pecked around, but the absent trail became undeniable.  The clearing had suddenly petered out into a thicket cluttered with felled trees and undergrowth.  How could we have missed the marking?  It would be convenient to blame poor trail maintenance, or the obscuring effects of stormy weather that had recently passed through the area.  The truth, however, was closer at hand:  we had simply become engaged in animated conversation, and had grown too preoccupied with watching our feet to pay guiding attention to where we were going.  Both were understandable.  We enjoy, after all -- indeed treasure -- the company of each other.  And the terrain was uneven -- rocks and veiling leaves, twigs and branches, inclines and erosions.  Neither of us wanted a twisted ankle, or a rump-a-coaster slide down the hillside.  We were paying close attention to each step.

But as a consequence, paying such attention to where we were, we lost sight of where we were going.  Backtracking, the damage was easily repaired.  We had simply zigged when we needed to zag.  The turn took us higher and deeper and more fully into the shower of falling leaves.  It was glorious; better, to be sure, than the dead end, but only somewhat.  It, too, had been into the woods, among the trees and under the leaves, in each other's company, in the crispness of an autumn in Vermont.  If the ultimate goal had been that important we would have had some points deducted.  As it was, the primary objective was simply to enjoy the day and one another; and toward that end we were earning a perfect score.  That we eventually claimed the summit and its view of the Connecticut River down and across the way was only bonus, hardly the prize, itself. 

Drinking in the view and savoring the moment, we joined hands and picked our way back down, toward the mouth of the trail and our car waiting beyond -- nourished, satisfied, and smiling; still talking, but paying, perhaps, less attention to our feet and more to the wonders -- and markings -- surrounding

Grateful to the Leaves for Holding On

Driving north on Vermont 106, the hillside colors explode in the morning sun.  Locals would almost certainly say that the "peak" of color has passed, but the view is electrifying to us.  We have traveled hard to get here --  enduring equipment malfunctions, missed flights, rerouted schedules, lost hours and a missed dinner that we had been 12-months looking  forward to.  A few bare trees are not going to dampen our enthusiasm.  We drive patiently, attentively, appreciatively.

Banks of roadside trees intrude on the pavement, almost fighting for attention; as if to say, "Look at me; look at me!"  Streams gurgle along on either side, oblivious to the stones that litter and ultimately pave their way.  Birch trees stretch tall and upright, as though chastened for poor posture -- or more likely, basking in every glimmer of autumn  sun.  It is an ocean of neon yellows, warm coppers and reds, deep greens and white trunks.  The blue sky and the sweeping hillsides have endured waves of rain, whipping winds and a dusting of snow; holding on until we could get here.  Perhaps they are wearying -- winter, after all, is almost certainly on its way.  But today -- Sunday -- their intrinsic glory is worship enough; almost hymnic.  No wonder we began the morning spontaneously singing, "Praise to the Lord, the Almighty, the King of creation."

The little shiver might have something to do with the morning chill in the air, or it could simply be that we are euphorically, speechlessly, reverently...

...grateful.  Amen.