two lakes, one story

On a mission for excellent ice cream, we commenced our adventure. What started as a strategic journey over the thin blue lines of our VT map, became a beautiful unfolding of excellent motorcycle roads, spectacular scenes and places known only by their names on the map. In our travel through the kingdom, a sharp contrast in philosophies was brought to light. It festers in my mind, even now.
 To begin, as we always do, he asked me 'where I'd like to go?' I had come across a gourmet ice cream shoppe in Groton on the Internet, I'd like very much to find it and taste the flavored cream and decide its ranking myself. We often sample the creemee stands of VT, grading the size, texture and service at each window across the green mountains. But this is more serious; after all, since Unalever bought out Ben & Jerry's, the 'home made' best of ice creams had declined in it's wondrous satisfaction of palate. It was time to find a new decadence in ice cream. So off we went beginning with a left out of my door yard, headed for a long run via the North East Kingdom.
   We wound our way over the distance of rte 109, standing up on the pegs when the pavement would jar the bike's frame at each pothole not yet cold patched. The junction with 118 would yield little better road surface, finally ending at rte 100 north. Heading into Eden where pavement would improve as we glided by Lake Eden and the obtrusive mountain behind. I smile at the memory of our woodland ride to Craftsbury only a week ago.

rte 58 N entering the NEK

  Through the burg of Lowell, we hooked right onto 58 north; a road with perfect complexion and vistas that left us speechless. After some miles, easing into Irasburg, we both commented how much better this end of the route was compared to the Hazen's Notch dirt lane we traversed a few weeks back. The expansive views revealed, the infamous quality known only in this corner of Vermont. We had entered the NorthEast Kingdom, 2000 square miles of God's country. Every mile tingled the senses with sights and scents unspoiled in these lightly-tread counties of Vermont.

rte 5 Barton and the lake

Crystal Lake Barton VT

 Divining our way east before south, we glided into Orleans and found the Rte 5 jct. Old city, with relics of Ethan Allen Furniture, Collette Stove Works and a once substantial RR junction. Hollow monuments to a lucrative past. Now so much of our brand-name furniture and wood stoves bare the made in China stamp. A once thriving local economy is fairing little better than the 'third world' manufacturing center that churns out the brands that Vermont made famous. We left this old place and marveled at the velvety black top of rte 5. Flawless, not a crack or hole in the rural road. Down thru Barton and then beyond. Few cars, no trucks and peaceful greenery all around. 'This is the Kingdom' as I smiled then wondered, 'how long will it stay so pensive?' Rolling onward, we spied a body of water through the trees, emerging to our east. Shortly we came to a state boat launch naming the lake. Turning onto the paved landing and to a pedestrian pull off, we could read that it was Crystal Lake. Enormous in scope, a steep ridge line on the east shore, just beyond our perch, a few power boats playing in the cool, clear waters; some fishermen casting lines from the grassy beach. We stopped and marveled at the shared beauty and versatile enjoyment of this lake. We said it together, "what a beauteous place, and anyone can access it. It's not the Lake Mansfield Trout Club. No "members only" in this place..." A pristine lake, held in public trust with access to any interested party. We could appreciate that.

lake Mansfield in Nebraska Ntc

  Only the week before, in our exploration of vintage roads, we stumbled upon a private lake high in the Nebraska Notch of the Mt. Mansfield  range. This was set aside a hundred plus years ago for members only. The heirloom Edwardian lodge was not open for a wayward traveler like us. It was nostalgic in its presence, celebrated by the member privileged guests enjoying the shade, the pure waters, the privacy that their restricted club afforded on that hot day.
 We weren't out to find this marvelous relic of the past; we were hoping to find the old road through the Nebraska Notch from the Stowe side giving way to Underhill. The very public town road of Stowe ended in the trout club parking lot.

Lake Mansfield Trout Club, members only

Rolling up on a vintage Harley with 'too loud' pipes and leathered-up riders; we got their attention. People looked on as we parked in the south end of the car lot. My driver remarked how there was not a vehicle there that was pre 2010 or under 30K in cost. Dismounting, we walked up the lane toward the lodge and opted to cross the spillway dam and rest on a shaded bench across from the swimming dock.
  Young swimmers were leaping and splashing, tossing beach balls and floaties in unrestrained summer glee. One ball drifted toward the booms set to stop hapless boaters from dropping over the jagged spillway. Kids were trying to chase it but abandon the task as it trapped itself on the gangway below the short suspension bridge. My big hearted biker man, leaped to its rescue. Navigating the steep weathered stairs to the catwalk, he reached over and grabbed the bright ball and handed it to the grateful children. They said thank you dashing back to the grassy beach and he ambled back to me. We studied the architecture and noted the meticulous upkeep of the sizable building. "There is a lot of care to this place; someone is paid, full time, to keep it perfect...this has to be a private place..."'indeed I thought, the kind of retreat where you must be nominated and approved to join as well as ample funds'; still, it was magnificent.

posted woodlands on a town road

  Rested and restored, we began to walk out of the shade, across the bridge and into the parking lot. This was an exclusive place, no public indulgences here. Still it was beautiful, a step back in well preserved time. Our attention was caught by a small framed man wearing pressed shorts, fitted sports cap and tiny round-rimmed glasses. He approached us as we tried to read the banner atop the flag pole. "this is a private club for members only. You are trespassing..." 'Funny how we've set here for an hour and he is telling us now. Bet he doesn't like my leathers or the well defined muscles on my bikerman's crossed arms...' I thought to myself. "ya, we finally figured that out... when I zoomed the Doppler trying to find the old notch road to Underhill, it didn't show the buildings here; only the green spaces. Guess I didn't zoom in enough..." I countered with a soft smile. "Can you tell me the name and age of this place?" I queried. "its' from the 1890's and its private, like a tennis club or golf course;  you need to leave and not come again..." his peevish answer. "We're sorry, the road is a town highway, we thought it would go all the way to Underhill. We've been riding the 'ancient' roads..." "It doesn't." he interrupted, "only, ski trails now. It's private property so stay on the trails. You need to leave now," he asserted "yup we were on our way out when you stopped us..." I defended.
 We turned and continued to the bike, smiling at his discomfort with us. "I didn't mean to barge in on this place, but the road is public - only the woods are 'posted'..." my driver confided to me. We mounted up and roiled the throttle for good measure before taking up the public road snapping a few more pictures on the ride out. 'Peculiar' I thought, 'how a small lake, albeit man-made, in the heart of the Mt. Mansfield State Forest, could be off limits to the public. Somebody had a vision way back in their time, but it didn't include the notion of Public Asset.' It was a legacy for the privileged only. Thank God our Presidents and Governors shared vision beyond that. I'm not bitter about a private lake and trout club; just confused as to it's location, on a town road, in a state forest; and sad that it would never consider people like us, despite our competent appreciation of the whole of it. Insiders and outsiders, exclusion just tastes bad in my mouth and sets wrongly in my mind.

success! Artesemo in Groton

exceptional icecream

  Oh yes, we found our gourmet ice cream, 191 miles later, in the classic Vermont town of Groton. Hand churned and scooped by the owner of the tiny ice cream shoppe. It was worth the journey and we'll be back. Artesano Ice Creame on rte 302 in Groton VT, and anybody can walk up and buy it.

This one's for them that ensured our public assets and the enjoyment of a greater good; a legacy for all Vermonters. peace ~ ell

dream to live

   In my dreams he speaks easily, has wavy blond hair and and rides a chopper-like stiletto bicycle trike with an electric motor. He smiles always, and chats with kids and neighbors he meets on the sidewalks. When I dream of him, all his best qualities are vibrant in his young man's competent body. He is gentle and loving and a popular member of our small town community. I wake renewed and inspired in my commitment for his quality of life.
   As I go to him to admire his sleeping features; I wonder if God sends me these dreams to affirm my belief in my blue-eyed wonder boy. I take in the faith, that my son's best interests will be ensured and his strengths and talents will be nurtured. He will become a happy, contented person. In my dreams, his challenges and barriers become great tools of teaching for all who know him.
  In my dreams, he succeeds in teaching all of us, what truly matters in our lives. He teaches us that quality of our experiences is a greater measure of life's value than the quantity of material gains. Like a prophet of love, giving and being, he radiates goodness of a life lived well.
  I wish that every person who knows him, could dream my dreams of him. His limits would become differences and not obstructions to knowing him, to guiding him to his person-hood. In my dreams, he is my hero. In my life, he is my greatest teacher. And I thank our Lord for bringing him to me and purposing my life in the quest for his wholeness and I thank my son for teaching me how to be a better human. I love you Graham, always and forever.
love and peace ~ ell

  

learning and living dreams....

 Every four weeks or so, when I remember to phone,  our horses need their hooves to be trimmed. One of the most amazing designs of nature is a horse's hoof. It appears to be hard and invincible, until you get stepped on or take a swift kick, but really it is a living, organic piece of nature's finest engineering, when it is properly maintained. We have been shoeing horses with steel, hoof shaped plates and specialized nails since the time of the Romans. I have paid thousands of dollars, to shoe many dozens of horses through the years in this expected norm.
 Horse hooves never stop growing and require skilled attention when the ground they tread upon is too soft to wear down the resilient structures  appropriately. In Vermont, it's often soft going on our green pastures and too many horses spend too much time in softly bedded stalls. This puts us in the precarious position of trying to mimic nature's work in the care and keeping of horse hooves.
  Here at INFINITY FARM, where we have assisted many awesome brown horses, we have provided a practicum for several apprentices in farrierey over the last twenty years. That is, our abundance of horse feet from orthopedically normal to the maladaptively bizarre, has been a fabulous class room for women and men just getting started in their vocation with hoof care. It was and to some very small degree, is a wonderful place for such a person to come and learn their craft in a forgiving and grateful environment. These horses are easy to handle and well mannered for the farrier. They are patient to a fault, despite their racing roots. Mistakes will happen as an apprentice struggles through the physical and cognitive applications of their trade. We don't mind. Hooves grow, and never stop. Most errors will grow out and provide an invaluable opportunity for the green tradesman to learn what not to do. Benefits blossom as the novice skill set is not yet rigid with habits for the aspiring farrier and creative solutions spring forth to every one's happiness.
  Our current farrier came to us, like all the rest, by social accident. I met her at a restaurant where I over heard her conversations with the customer she was serving. She was enthusiastically explaining how she was waitressing only to pay the bills as she learned the art and science of 'natural balance' hoof trimming. She "needed more horses to practice on..." That tweaked my ear and I slowed my walk to listen to this conversation. She was young and fit and presented a convincing case for natural balance trimming to a table of tourists who likely couldn't appreciate her vigor. But I could; we had been without a farrier for several months and so I tapped her shoulder to interrupt. Her long, ebony braid swung around smoothly as she met my query with a broad smile.  I recognized her from other horse works and we struck an immediate bargain to come 'practice' on the rescued race horses at our farm.
 Her first visit was exceptional from minute one. Though her novice tools were less than professional, her strategic workmanship was amazing. Our first horse was a young gelding with a blown out knee. This healed with a malformed joint and made it nearly impossible to properly trim his hoof for the horse's comfort. She took a long look, studied all sides of the too long hoof, evaluated his range of motion to lift it for her work. "Yup. I think I can fix it." I was ecstatic for this wonderful horse. We used a 50# salt block to hold his hoof in his comfort zone so she could ply her 'magic'. Half an hour later, with detailed narratives of the orthopedic science and equine physics of movement,  he had a new, normal looking hoof! Now for the other 3, all done with equal precision and in site. "She will be a great farrier" I thought as I encouraged her through every phase of the reformation to normal hooves. During rest breaks, it would take many of these early on in this physically demanding work, she would share her passion for horses, their minds, their feet. She would exude her joy in the work in her hands after years of searching for that calling of what her life's work would be. Not breeding horses, nor training them. No showing or vetting suited her quest for practical science in the keeping of horses. It was their hooves, those miraculous wonders of equine mobility. The uniquely equine anatomy that makes it possible for them to gallop at breathtaking speeds with nimble course changes and aires above the ground as they defend their being.
  Her dedication is reaffirmed with every hoof she holds. As months went by and her skills became honed, she worked with other veteran farriers and learned what she would or would not do in her practice. Evolving into natural balanced shoeing, she sent herself to an intensive, residential school at a ranch out west. She returned with confidence, skill, and conviction in her craft. She has become an accomplished journeyman with a professional's complement of tools. She will achieve mastery and someday teach others what the hundreds of horses she attends will have taught her. It has become her life's work, a Ministry to her, a blessing to us.
   For my part, I have witnessed one more apprentice, answer their calling, hone their craft, and live their dreams... INFINITY FARM ~ learn, grow, live...come visit some time; bring carrots.
luv, peace, ride ~ ell

this one is for them that learn their dream and live it...