I awoke at 8:30. I could hear the TV in the living room, and voices. Everyone was up but me. That’s usually the case when we travel. I stay up a little later than Art, reading in bed after he’s gone to sleep, and he’s up ahead of me in the morning. If I’m lucky, he’ll have brewed a pot of coffee. When I emerge from the bedroom, groggy and uncommunicative, he’s cheery and ready to get started on the day. Sharon is also a morning person. Fortunately, they have both learned to leave me alone until I’ve had two cups of coffee and am ready to join the world.
Everyone was dressed, too, and had eaten breakfast. I shook hands with Bob’s daughter Kathleen as she introduced herself. She was taller than I had expected, with thick dark shoulder-length hair and brown eyes. Her right hand was in a cast. She had clearly spent some time in the bathroom on her makeup, which was heavy but skillfully applied. I noticed the makeup because Kathleen was also wearing shorts and a T-shirt, socks and sneakers.
Bob was content sitting in an overstuffed chair, but Art and Sharon were eager to get going. I read the description of today’s volkssmarch from The Starting Point, the book published annually by the American Volkssport Association describing, by state and then city, the year-round volkssmarch events.
Trail is rated 1+ (that means almost as easy as possible) and is suitable for strollers but not wheelchairs (that probably means a few dirt stretches). Trail goes through a town in the heart of the Green Mountains, a place of year round recreational activities and spectacular fall colors. You will walk along a stream, on a bike path and through downtown Stowe and the lower village.
I knew from prior conversations with Sharon that Bob was not a fan of hiking or walking. When they were considering us joining us last year for a five-day hike in northern England, Bob was planning to spend the day in town while the rest of us went hiking. So I was a bit surprised that he agreed to participate in the walk today. But a volkssmarch is not usually a hike. Particularly with a rating of 1+, the only challenge might be the distance. Usually a volkssmarch is 10k (about 6.2 miles), but this one was 11k. However, we’d be in town or close to town most of the time, and we could stop and rest whenever we needed to. Besides, I knew Sharon was an avid walker, and I suspected she wanted to try a volkssmarch with Bob in the hope that he would enjoy himself and then be willing to go on others closer to where they lived.
We drove into Stowe in Bob and Sharon’s minivan, and we got to see the final miles of the area we’d driven in the dark the night before. The Notch, where the road narrowed, was a spectacular area of rock formations and fir trees. Cars had been left in several roadside parking areas. Sharon said this was a favorite rock-climbing spot. I looked up the cliffs on each side of the road, but didn’t see anyone. I wondered where the owners of the cars had gone. Art says he saw a lot of rock climbers.
Driving into Stowe on the downhill slope, we saw a number of resorts, restaurants, ski shops, bike shops and assorted other indicators that this was, indeed, a year-round resort. Within three months the skiers would be arriving.
We found the starting point for our walk, the Green Mountain Inn, in the center of the old part of town. While Art and I registered, Sharon found a photo op in a couple of old rocking chairs on a covered porch. She coaxed Bob into one of the rockers, set up her camera on a nearby table and activated the timer, dashed over and seated herself in the other rocker before the timer went off. Sharon has cultivated an interest in photography in the last few years. She’s retired now, so she has the time to spend with her camera and her computer. We’ve received a number of email photos of their dog, Milo, dressed up in costumes to celebrate various seasons.
When we travel, Art is the photographer and I am the journalist. On recent trips he has taken some shots that are just lovely – a blue heron standing in a river; a lone tree on a fell; an ancient castle in the mist. He has a good eye and it is getting better as his experience increases. Some of his shots have people in them, but the best ones don’t.
Sharon, on the other hand, is a people person with the camera. We have copies of photos she’s taken on our previous trips together. Almost all of them are posed shots of us, or us and Bob and Sharon, or just Bob and Sharon, standing or sitting at some picturesque or famous spot. That’s happened in Boston, in Toronto, in China and in Whistler, British Columbia. Sharon’s people shots have also gotten better with practice.
We followed the route instructions out of town to a short walk along the river, returning to town for a meander down the main street of Stowe before going through the gate to the bicycling and walking trail. Art and I like walking through fields, enjoying the botanical sights, and we have done a lot of it in recent years, so we were comfortable with the walk. Kathleen noticed numerous spiders – she was afraid of them – and grasshoppers, which sprang from the trail as we approached.
About three miles later we’d reached a stopping place for lunch. By this time Kathleen was commenting that her hips hurt – a common malady for people not accustomed to walking multiple miles at a stretch. We found a restaurant open for lunch, selected an outside table, and ordered what the menu described as a box lunch – a soup, salad, entrée and dessert. When the orders arrived, they were charmingly presented in flat plastic squares – “boxes” – with dividers. They looked like something I’d expect to see in Japan. Each course was a smallish portion, but exactly right for lunch, and the food was excellent.
The second half of the eight-mile walk took us around the perimeter of soccer fields; we watched middle schoolers practicing and running laps. We then entered what’s called the “quiet path”. This stretch of the trail was on grass. A pair of tracks, each six feet wide, curved through meadows. One of the tracks was for people walking dogs, and the other was for people only. I learned later that this “quiet path” is unique in that, rather than being purchased by a city or other public agency, all of the land was donated by local citizens. Walking this section of the volkssmarch was easier on feet and legs and hips than the earlier blacktopped section. Even so, Kathleen had lost her earlier comfortable stride. Sharon had slowed some, and Bob continued his patient pace.
We reentered Stowe near the end of the trail, noting the square white church with its tall steeple – a classic New England architectural landmark. By this time we were all moving less than briskly, and we were ready to climb into the van, make a quick stop at the grocery store, and head for the condo.
I asked Kathleen how she’d liked the walk. She said, “Well, I hurt. But it was great. I’d like to do it again tomorrow.” And Bob said he had enjoyed himself. Sharon told me privately that she’d checked out our Starting Point book, and that there were a number of walks within 20 miles of their home. She planned to suggest one to Bob for the next weekend.
“Mongolian Grill” for dinner. This dish is custom prepared for each diner using ingredients selected by the diner from multiple bowls of offerings prepared by the cook. It is intended to be eaten hot. On this occasion, Sharon and Bob and Kathleen all waited politely at the table, their meals in front of them, for Art and me to join them. Neither of us noticed. By the time we sat down, their dinners had cooled. Art fretted about this. A good meal, properly presented, is a special pleasure for him. He chastised himself for neglecting to tell them to “eat it while it’s hot.”
After dinner, Art and I drove seven miles down the road to the hamlet of Jeffersonville. As usual, I’d checked out AA meetings online before we left Washington. This one was at the Congregational Church. I hoped we could find it. As it turned out, it was the only church in town, at the main intersection, impossible to miss. During that meeting, on September 9, 2003, Art received his 20-year AA coin. After the meeting we chatted with an elderly fellow who gave us directions to the town of Underhill, where we could find a meeting the next night. “Just turn left at the intersection and go about 12 miles. The church is on the other side of the town park from the fire station. You can’t miss it.”
The next morning, Sharon wanted to take a ride in the country to photograph a number of covered bridges. She had found a map with the bridges marked. We stopped first at a rural souvenir shop to pick up maple syrup, and we added to our purchase T-shirts for our grandchildren. At the rear of the shop was a beehive; we watched the bees through the flat front glass panel. I wondered how the shopkeepers got the bees to stay in the hive. When we left the building, we walked around to the back, where we could see the bees coming and going. The bees didn’t know the difference between a natural hive and one made of glass with one side within a shop. They were doing their business, same as always. I told Art about this observation of mine, even though I knew he’d roll his eyes at my naivete. He did.
Just beyond Jeffersonville, Sharon directed us to turn right onto a dirt road. About a quarter of a mile down was a covered wooden bridge. We parked the car and walked across the bridge, which was no longer used for vehicle traffic. The wide wooden planks were worn smooth. Through the cracks in the side panels we looked out on a small river. Art and Sharon both took pictures with no people posing.
On the way back into Jeffersonville we stopped at a pasture where the hay had been mown and baled. The straw bales in the green pasture were too enticing a sight for Sharon to pass by. Our first group pose! Sharon positioned us behind the hay bales, lay down in the field on her stomach. While she adjusted the camera and set the delay timer, Art took a picture of her lying in the grass.. She ran over to join us at the bale. That shot is one of the best ones of the trip. She wanted us to pose again. I said, “Sharon, I will pose for five shots, but no more.” In all the years I have known Sharon, I think this was the first time I had ever set a boundary with her, and she honored it. Whose problem was that? When we’d returned from the east coast Sharon sent the five photos she’d posed us in. Every one of them was of professional quality. We all looked relaxed, happy and healthy.
Once back in Jeffersonville, we parked for another three-mile walk, this time along the river under a canopy of trees to a covered bridge. To Sharon’s disappointment, when we arrived at the bridge, it was being repaired. The posed shot was of the five of us sitting among broken-up chunks of concrete and heavy equipment, with a “bridge out” sign in the near background.
After a comfort-food lunch in a local diner, we drove back to the resort and rented a couple of movies for the evening. I wanted to check out the water park with the four-story slide. We walked through the park, noting the small wave pool. The chlorine-infused air and orphaned towels on wet cement walkways were deeply evocative for me, child of the military who spent a number of summers at officers’ club pools. I could imagine bringing grandchildren here to Smugglers Notch in three or four years. This little park had been designed for children and families. No child would want to do anything but spend entire days at the water park. When we come back with Mary and Malayne and Kyle, the adults can draw straws for water park duty so everyone will have a chance to do something besides sit by the pool and respond to multiple piping voices shrieking “Watch me!”
I wanted to try the water slide. These days I’m trying to challenge my fear of heights (actually, I’m afraid of falling from them). Four stories is nothing like a really high place, like the top of the Grand Canyon or an airplane cruising at 32000 fee, but I suspected that each step would have an open vertical space between it and the next step up. Those open places between stairs aren’t exactly cliff magnets, but they still allow for my mind to think of the possibility of falling. Even though there is no way on God’s earth I could fit through that space to actually fall. The human brain does wondrous things with fear.
I was wearing nylon shorts and a lightweight top, so I could have played in what I was wearing. But Sharon and Kathleen needed to change clothes first. So we all traipsed back up to the condo. Bob turned on the TV, saying he wasn’t interested in going back down to the water slide. Kathleen hadn’t brought anything for swimming, so Art lent her a pair of his shorts. She disappeared into the bathroom for about ten minutes. When she came out, she had belted herself into Art’s shorts, letting the 12-inch belt end dangle. And she had tied up her hair and removed all her makeup. Kathleen had beautiful pale Irish skin and a dusting of freckles. She looked just fine in her natural state.
I didn’t say anything. Women who wear heavy makeup do it for a reason, and that reason is not usually appropriate as a conversational topic unless it is brought up by the wearer of the makeup. Like, “I have this huge zit,” or “I have this large bruise where I (choose one) tripped over the cat and fell down the stairs/got drunk and ran into a door/had my eyes lifted last week/had a fight with my boyfriend” or “I’ve got these bags under my eyes because I’m 55 and that happens to women my age.” Makeup – whether to wear any, what kind, and how much – is a personal issue.
Back at the water park, the four of us approached the staircase – with varying degrees of eagerness, I noted - each carrying a blue and white inner tube. I remember the shiny black tubes of my childhood; you had to be careful not to burn yourself on a hot day when you sat in one. The holes in the middle were the size of hubcabs – fine for appropriation by children for non-vehicular use – but too small for adults with larger backsides. Water park tubes have evolved. They have handles on the sides, they’re about four feet in diameter, and the sitting hole is much more generous. But they’re designed to be carried easily up a four-story cement staircase.
I was right about the vertical spaces in the stairs. I focused my attention on the next landing, imagining that I was climbing the staircase at REI, the store where I buy our gear for hiking and other outdoor activities. That staircase is made of metal, with spaces, and so far I haven’t fallen through.
At the top, a U-shaped platform provided two points of entry to the water slide. The idea was to step in, resisting the water’s current, position yourself so that you’d go down the slide forward, if that was your preference, or backwards, if you were more daring, put your hands on the handles, and let the water carry you down. The slide didn’t look too steep, and it rounded a corner about 50 feet down, so it wasn’t horribly intimidating. I had a momentary concern that when I went around a corner my weight would carry me up and over the side, from whence I would plummet to the cement below. But I figured that, at 175 pounds, I probably wasn’t the heaviest person ever to use the slide, and that, most likely, if there had been any accidents caused by too-heavy people, they would have had a weight prohibition or the slide would have been shut down.
Sharon went first, backwards. Knowing she shares her fear of high places with me (touring the CNN tower in Toronto several years ago, we went up the outside glass elevator – Sharon stood facing the shaft, away from the glass), I wondered why she’d opted for the blind-way down. Kathleen jumped in and was on her way before she’d even settled in and grabbed the handles. I could hear her shrieking as she disappeared around the first bend. Art helped me into my tube and stabilized me before he let go of my tube. He would be the rear man, as he usually is on these adventures.
I whooshed down the water slide in about 20 seconds. At each curve my tube and I sluiced around the corner, riding up the sides like a luge event, then sliding into the trough at the straightaways. The smooth, exhilarating ride ended with a splashdown, a flip of the tube landing me face down, harmlessly, in a four-foot-deep pool. I waded aside quickly to make way for Art, who followed ten seconds later.
Everyone but Sharon was grinning. Apparently she had made the entire journey backwards, unable to see where she was going. She decided one ride was enough, put her tube away and sat on the edge of the pool. The rest of us clambered out of the water and headed back toward the stairs.
After three trips down the slide, I was ready for a break. Sharon and I chatted as Art and Kathleen made three more trips. We watched both of them as they made their final descents, laughing and shouting with pleasure. Kathleen’s hair had fallen and was soaking wet. Her face and eyes glowed. Sharon said, “I haven’t seen her without her makeup in ten years. I wish Bob were here.”
Back at the condo, Art and Kathleen and I went for a swim in the pool next to our building; I believe there were more than half a dozen such pools in the clusters of resort units. I swam a few laps, then floated for a bit, as Art rested by the Jacuzzi jets. I had a casual conversation with Kathleen about her broken hand. I was curious how the injury had come about, but didn’t want to be intrusive. I told her that one of my sons had broken his hand. He told me that he had tripped over a cat and fallen down the stairs. I suspected otherwise; his hand was broken in so many places that I thought an altercation of some kind was a more likely cause. Kathleen listened, then said, “He probably told you the story because if he’d told you the truth you would have thought he was bad.” I said I didn’t make judgments about good and bad (though I do make them, to myself, about foolish and wise). That was the end of the conversation. I opened the topic, but Kathleen did not pick it up.
I called the front desk to make reservations for Wednesday, the next day, for the daytrip to Montreal. The clerk said the van was full! I was surprised. That possibility hadn’t occurred to me. The clerk said, “We’re trying to find another driver. If we take an extra van, are you interested?” I said yes. I would get a call if there was room for us.
I felt a momentary wave of anger, again, at the check-in arrangements we’d made with Sharon and Bob. If I’d been the one checking in, I would have asked lots of questions to get myself oriented. I know I would have made those reservations for the Montreal trip, because I’d remembered reading that advance reservations were recommended. But it was late at night and everything had all been taken care of.
As it turned out, only one van went to Montreal that day. The resort scheduled an additional trip for Thursday, and called to let us know, but we had made plans to travel elsewhere that day. So the Montreal trip did not happen for us.
It’s been a while since I’ve gotten out of the habit of blaming others for my problems. I know I’m responsible for what I remember and what I forget. Still, I regress every now and then. Somehow it was Sharon’s fault that we didn’t get to go to Montreal. But just for a few seconds. Then I remembered the thinking that has replaced the old blaming syndrome. “We must not be supposed to go to Montreal.” I’ve found that the universe usually works things out for me the way they’re supposed to be. I used to fight these little unexpected schedule changes and disappointments. Now I’m usually able to go along fairly easily. A couple of years ago, as a rueful concession to the fact that I do not, after all, rule the world, I bought a new license plate frame for the Honda Accord that I drive. The old frame said LYNNWOOD HONDA 425-775-7575. The new one says, MAKE GOD LAUGH. TELL HIM YOUR PLANS.
Dinner was crock pot pork roast and rice; after a day of walking and water slides it was a treat to have dinner nearly ready when we walked in the door. At home, when I can smell a crock pot dinner cooking, I feel grateful to be married to Art, who got up a little early that morning to start dinner. It’s like a gift, even after twelve years. Art and I excused ourselves right after dinner; we planned to drive to Underhill for the AA meeting we’d heard about the night before. It was dark as we drove down the hill to Jeffersonville. We turned left at a sign that said “Underhill, 12 miles”.
In all the years I’ve driven, I can’t remember a darker road. No street lights, no road dots, no traffic in either direction. One lane each way. No stars overhead, though it was a clear night. I think the tree branches must have canopied the road. My impression was that we were driving straight into a mountainside. And Art, driving the speed limit as usual, no matter what the conditions. The headlights illuminated two “Moose Crossing” signs. Art told me that moose are tall animals; I visualized one appearing in the road, suddenly. At the speed limit we didn’t have a prayer of stopping. I suggested that Art slow down a little to give us a fighting chance of avoiding a moose, and because the road had curves with which he was totally unfamiliar. Art informed me that we were past the time of day when moose would be moving about; they were in the deer family, and those animals moved from feeding ground to sleeping areas at dusk. It was an hour past dusk, so I shouldn’t worry about it.
I worried anyway. No houses were visible along the road. I wondered if we had missed a turn. I was sure we’d gone more than the 12 miles the sign had indicated. It was spooky on the road, so isolated.
We came into a town. I couldn’t find a town welcome sign or any businesses that carried a name like “Underhill Tavern” or “First Baptist Church of Underhill.” We went clear through the town in about half a mile, and I never did identify it. And then we came to a stop sign at the entrance to a larger highway.
I was lost, which doesn’t usually happen. I knew we could get back to Jeffersonville if we gave up and turned around. I thought if we turned left we’d come upon a loop road that would take us back on wider roads. I wasn’t sure where the right-hand road went.
We turned right. Ten miles later we were back in Jeffersonville, having failed entirely to find Underhill. When we travel, we count a valiant attempt as actually attending the meeting. It’s about motive, and we’d intended to go.
Rather than a meeting, we watched “Chicago” with Bob and Sharon at the condo. I have been way behind in my movie viewing for the last five years or so. I think in the last two years the only first-run movies I’ve seen have been on airplanes. But this one had been recommended by several friends, so I figured it was a fairly safe bet. Still, it seemed a little odd to be sitting with friends, on vacation, watching a movie. When the movie was over, Bob turned the channel to the 11 o’clock news. The weather forecasters were keeping a close eye on a tropical storm, Isabel, that was expected to become a hurricane. At present, it was off the east coast of Florida. It was expect to turn inland and move north. Bob commented that this one might make it to New England. I worried about that a little. It would be disappointing if the hurricane cut our cruise short.
The next morning, Sharon and Bob and Kathleen turned off the TV, packed up the snacks they’d brought, gave us hugs goodbye, and left for New York. It was a quick, practical goodbye, as usual; I’m sure we’ll see each other again within a year or so. I wished I’d had more opportunity to talk with Kathleen – I suspected there was way more to her than I’d seen.
I was glad for our time with the three of them. I concluded, as usual, that our friends offer us the ability to grow and to experience life, if we allow for that possibility.
Suddenly, it was quiet. We’d planned to be going to Montreal today, but the clerk hadn’t called. So we had an open day.
I expect that most people would relish an open, unplanned day. I’m embarrassed to admit I feel a little uneasy when that happens. It’s like lying awake at 3 am, staring at the ceiling above the bed and looking at my life. I like to stay busy, with a list of things to do. Even if, on that list, is to read the stack of magazines I’ve brought along. Which, as it happened, I’d already done in the evenings, as everyone else watched television.
Art and I settled on watching the other movie we’d rented, “Adaptation”, starring Nicholas Cage and Meryl Streep. The movie had gotten pretty good reviews, but it hadn’t played long in the theaters. Even if it had, I might not have asked Art to go with me. He is not a fan of movie theaters. I suspect it’s because he doesn’t like sitting in the dark with a bunch of people he doesn’t know and can’t see. Or maybe he’d just rather be home, puttering in the garage or working a crossword puzzle. At any rate, I have developed a fairly good idea of the kind of movie he’ll enjoy. It will either be what I call a “kill and maim” – an action film full of shooting, special effects and car chases – or a nice little character picture. An example that comes to mind is “Nobody’s Fool”, a Paul Newman movie from a few years back. I didn’t think “Adaptation” would fall into either of those genres, so I hadn’t suggested we go see it. It was a good one for the VCR, though.
After lunch we went on a three-mile hike on the Smugglers Notch resort property. Most of our recent walks have been volkssmarches. Last winter we took a couple of hikes in rainforests on the Big Island of Hawaii and on the Olympic Peninsula. On these occasions the sights had been interesting or the scenery spectacular. For some reason, I have come to expect that will be the case every time we walk outside of our neighborhood at home. This day’s hike was in the woods, but it was just woods. No groomed trail, no viewpoints. Not even an appealing bed of pine needles through hushed forest. About the best I can say about it was that it was good exercise. It occurred to me later that these trails weren’t constructed for hiking. They were for cross-country skiing. When there is three feet of snow on the ground, the place looks completely different. The needs of skiers are different. So we were just out-of-season users.
We went for another swim in the late afternoon. Art got out of the water after a short time. He said he’d sit in the sauna for a bit, then take a shower. I agreed to meet him in the game room so we could walk back to the condo together. I swam a few laps and then struck up a conversation in the shallow end with a woman from Brooklyn. We talked for half an hour or so. I forgot about my agreement with Art. I assumed he’d gone back to the condo to start dinner.
When I finally reclaimed my towel and walked through the clubhouse, Art appeared. He’d been watching for me, waiting. I apologized, embarrassed at my thoughtlessness. Art was forgiving, as he usually is on vacation. Plus, he knows me. Though I think of myself as an organized person who keeps commitments (and is annoyed by those who don’t), Art says I frequently say I’m going to do something and then don’t do it. For some reason, when I do that, I don’t think of it as not keeping a commitment. I think of it as changing my mind. I never do that deliberately when another person is involved in the plan, though. Art is very steady that way; if he says he’s going to do something, he almost always does. When I want him to make a repair or take care of a mechanical something, he usually says, “I’ll think about it” or “I’ll see”. That means he’s not yet committed to it. But when he says, “okay”, I know it’s a done deal. Art is a “don’t commit until you’re absolutely ready”. I’m more of a “commit if it looks like a good idea”.
What did get Art annoyed, though, was getting back to the condo and finding out that I had put his white underwear into a laundry load that included one of my red shirts. It’s not the first time this has happened, unfortunately. I used to be much better at keeping bleeding fabrics out of the white loads. I don’t know whether it’s because I’m buying a different kind of fabric, or whether I’m forgetting because I’m getting older. I do know that Art never mixes colors with whites. Every now and then he’ll say, “I’m going to start doing my own laundry if you continue to have problems with putting coloreds and whites together.” Then I feel remorseful. We have a housecleaner, and someone to take care of our lawn, and Art does the grocery shopping and the cooking. The laundry is about the only tangible household task left to me. (I take care of all the finances, all the social and vacation planning, and most of the interaction with our combined eight children, but that’s not really a “household task”.) I apologized again for the pink underwear.