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

ancient roads on a vintage Harley

   I have a collection of motorcycle photos showing the early days of motorcycling. Vintage machines with adventurous riders garbed in leather flight jackets and wide lens goggles. Occasionally, a passenger is riding pillion with a broad smile and flowing silk scarf. I love these images of the big-boned bikes, off-road tires and everyone so happy to be out enjoying the day. As it happens, I often don a long white scarf and wear a retro Harley Davidson cruizer jacket as my riding 'outfit'.

me in Retro pillion apparel

  I strive to re-live the nostalgia of the simpler times when we weren't 'bikers' but rather, motorcycle enthusiasts out enjoying an exciting jaunt in the elements of a tamed or wild world. This day would be such a day. As he often does, my driver will ask me; "...where would you like to go?" We knew our time was limited by a sunset curfew; that would keep us in our county for this venture out. I pulled out the map of record; a Vermont tourist map with many of the state and popular secondary roads already highlited by last year's  rides. On it was Hazen's Notch via VT rte 58, closed in the winter but open in summer. It's on the southwest fringe of 'the Kingdom', connecting two small towns. Let's start with that.

rte 125(?) along east of Lake Carmi

lake Carmi with locals on the dock

Richford today, once a booming RR town

  Stuffing the small tail bag with our coats, water bottle and map, we struck out first for my camera case, forgotten at my friends house along the way. It was muggy hot and my leather chaps were binding my legs when I would try to dismount in her door yard. She walked my tiny camera bag over to me and queried our travel plans. "Hazen's is a good run...have you ever tried Bakersfield Mtn road? it's a class 4; your bike can do it..." her appealing suggestion just the inspiration we needed for today's short run. I knew how to pick it up from Bakersfield, but not from Montgomery where we would terminate rte 58 and roll south to Waterville, after completing Hazen's Notch. So then, north to Richford then west to Franklin before drifting south to Bakersfield to trek the old mountain road remains open to the loggers and hunters in this modern era.

climbing to Hazen's Notch

  I smiled when I imagined our chrome pony, the 84 Low Ride, hiking along the dirt road past old farm fences and county markers long forgotten as the road was 'left fallow' when better lanes became preferred. I reminisced the old photos of bygone motorcycles on dirt lanes away from the crowded paved-ways. These 'ancient' roads would reveal evidence of past villages, lost farms, and hunting camps with stone walls, 'shoulder gaits' and faded signs. Cemeteries among the tall trees would mark the towns or villages no longer on the map. The thin grave stones would be broken or pushed over by rubbing deer or a bear gleaning the blackberries entwined between them.

a class 4 road over Bakersfield Mtn

  Finding the graded dirt road to the Bakersfield Mountain Road, we began the ascent gliding past old farmsteads until the trees were the only residents. The bike was running perfectly and the driver up front lived on such a road since he could walk. He had no worries navigating the patches of soft sand or clumps of loose gravel. The small boulders were just something to work around. He wriggled his heavy cruizer easily over the first several miles. Crossroads aren't marked on these wayback roads. Somehow, we zigged and zagged until our class 4 town road became a snowmachine trail and the shady lane followed a steady downhill grade. We were sort of lost. We knew approximately where we were, just not sure of our road to our target destination. The canopy was so dense, the sun could not cast a shadow to give us our direction. In the peaks and gulfs of the Cold Hollow spine, we had more choices than we wanted to find our way back to pavement. The goal was to go from Rte 108 Bakersfield over that mountain, by the old road emerging on Lappland Road in Waterville on the east side of that ridge. The old road was clearly indicated on the map. In the forest however, there were many old roads, and few old signs. At each junction, we would follow the better lane and hope for the best. The engine coughing for fuel, he switched her to reserve and we both prayed that would be enough to get us out and to a gas pump. I didn't snap a lot of pictures while divining our way through the woodlands as I was careful not to be in the wrong place while he coaxed his beloved bike through the wilderness. My weight in the second seat could be enough to throw his balance and drop the bike. I would focus instead on my random thoughts as I bet these trees had never seen so much chrome. We found some evidence of progress toward domestication and took a short break to stretch and steel ourselves for the possibilities. His bike weighs 668lbs. If we run out of gas or road, he would have to push it. Fingers crossed and a silent prayer, we remounted for the last leg. I grabbed a hurried picture of what I thought was a sign post, but it showed a a brilliant flash in the mirror over his throttle. Could it be our 'ride angel' keeping us on the right road? Probably, it was just a confused light meter with a reflection in the shiny square, but still it was fun to imagine we had a higher power along for the ride.

this is a county road?!

our Ride Angel? lead us out

 Finally, crossing a narrow, plank bridge the lane would normalize and open into a class 4 road. This would empty onto a paved road;  revealing  the shadow cast by the afternoon sun. We could turn right and head south on VT Rte 118, we had found Montgomery, an interesting buro in these timeless mountains. Some miles back, we lost the Bakersfield Mtn Road and picked up the much longer, less traveled Enosburg Mtn Road leading us 21 miles off course. It seemed like forty. Fuel and shade was spotted at TJ's where rest and recovery was taken.

fuel and creemes and startled tourists

a good place to rest

   Cooling off with creemes, we marveled at how determined our early homesteaders were. The terrain was demanding, ill-suited to farming, rough going for logging. The fortitude of the early Vermonters is newly appreciated as we recount the woodland miles over ancient roads traveled on his vintage Harley on a beautiful summer day. No tough bikers here, just motorcycling enthusiasts out for a ride. Enjoy the day and live your dreams ~ ell
this one is for the biker man that takes me places I would never venture, expanding my dreams

becoming a Real Boy

this is an interesting back yard...

  My boyz are ten years old now. I marvel in their twin-ness and in their individuality. Each with their strengths and talents, their challenges and barriers along the weaving road to adulthood, creating the fabric of their lives. They are navigating a childhood in a world and time that is dense with media driven expectations where success is measured by data and statistics that fail to capture human-ness. I linger on the fringe of their days, observing the unfolding of their experiences as young boyz, on an ancient planet plagued with distractions that drown the natural learning of a curious mind in an interesting world. Most days I have to ration their time with electronics, animated stories, and sibling rivalries. But this day promised to be different. We were invited to visit the backyard of Graham's forth grade teacher, Ms. Aiosa.
  This is no small thing for us. Graham is classically autistic; non-verbal with some sensory processing quirks and a fearless curiosity that makes it stressful if not downright perilous to go visiting, anywhere. He approaches new environments with a mix of cautious yet persistent, exploration; able-bodied boy with selective reasoning. He'll take great care to climb a rock, but doesn't understand a road is a dangerous place. His twin brother, Eli, is quite opposite. Hyper verbal, precocious, articulate and larger than life. His imagination is vivid, fantastic and very absolute. Scary-smart, his reasoning is at the other end of the autism spectrum; making social algebra painfully elusive and emotions beyond his control when dis-regulated. But at the beginning and the end of their labels, they are boys. This is my favorite descriptor of them and watching them grow into their boyhoods is the salvation of my motherhood. This afternoon, would be a wondrous experience in witnessing this beautiful unfolding.
   Because we don't get invited to many outings, because it is often unsettling for the hostess, because it can be stressful for me to attempt to manage my boyz in a situation that is not supportive of their challenges, because I am a wilted parent on a warm summer day; this was an especially appreciated outing. It came about as I had given a thank you note to Graham's teacher as she was exceptional in her inclusive nature with him in her class room. Within it, I slipped a note, on neon pink paper, inquiring if she would like to tutor Graham over the summer, in a play-based, teachable moment  style. Some days later she phoned me and graciously offered to have us over to her back yard. She knows Graham and bit about Eli, but still she opened her home and summer comforts to us. A large pool, a deck, Popsicles, a frog pond, trails and her own young son... a boyz delight. I had to accept.
 After recording the complex, rural directions to her back-country homestead, we gathered up our gear and set out across our bucolic  town. I've lived here for 24 years and still, have not seen all corners of this Lamoille Valley township. Once 5 rural villages, the remnants of the farthest crossroads of Cambridge became visible in our drive out. Paved state roads, to dirt secondary, to smaller class 4 town road, to a narrow gravel lane marked private. Old farm walls and straining barns gave clues to a long ago place and time. Her directions were excellent and we glided into her door yard parking our 4wheel drive Honda next to hers. It was a custom cabin, following the round living style of a yurt but with all the artistry of a thoughtful mind. Surrounded by hardwoods, gardens, a timber gazibo and the grand pool, it had a welcoming energy. I would spend the afternoon studying the features of its design.

Eli and Jaccob ~ Marco Polo

   She came to greet us and introduce the boyz to her backyard, her son and her vision of a summer well spent. There was no awkwardness, only easy conversation as we settled in for an afternoon of fun and sun. Graham explored the surroundings with careful attention and mapping every detail in his mind. He noted the yard, the mulch pile, the deck and the pool. He spied dead oak leaves  and made haste to them. Crumbling the crisp, brown leaves in his hands, he would sprinkle them in sun beams. Eli changed urgently into his swim suit and headed for the pool with a triumphant leap. All smiles and elated with the clear waters and the quick friendship of Ms. Aiosa's son. Graham required a little persuasion to get him into his swim trunks before attempting the pool's ladder. He loves the water and this was upto his neck so he could manage independently. He joined the two playmates, laughing and smiling as they splashed and tumbled in the refreshing waters. He enjoys observing from the edges, not sure how to play their game of water fighting. He soon tired of the cool water and wet antics, climbing out of the ladder expertly and choosing his land clothes. He dressed himself again and headed for the house. A bathroom break and exploration of the floor plan before returning to the pool deck.

"I can use this raft to get there..."

"first I'll get on it..."

"...then I'll get off it..."

"I'll use the ladder to get out of the pool.."

 He found a floating, fabric ball and began chewing it. Pool water won't kill, but it will cause a belly ache, so I commanded his release of it and tossed it to the middle of the pool. Graham didn't become angry; he studied the situation. There were floating rafts in the pool, one by the edge of the deck. He commenced to test it for worthiness across the water. With Ms. Aiosa's support, he touched it, leaned on it and then climbed on. He would ferry himself to the ball, that was his mission. Back into swim shorts and then onto the float and around the edge. The ball was forgotten as he explored the raft and all the ways to climb on and off. He became the master of his ship. I smiled with his teacher as we realized he figured it all out by himself and that we don't give him enough credit. Graham learns by doing and he taught himself a new game. I pondered, where on the developmental milestones lists of autism, did this accomplishment  belong? In his boyhood adventures, it was a natural event that most parents would never witness and perhaps take for granted as a part of growing up. With Graham and his autism, nothing is taken for granted. Every success is marvelous.

"...humm, now where's the frog..."

"... come on Ms Aiosa.."

  Satisfied with his rafting skills, he left the pool and went for his land clothes again. He is diligent about the right clothes for the task at hand. This time our hostess would walk him to the frog pond. King Frog, immediately appeared and he was filled with curiosity. Though he doesn't speak words, his body language, and facial expressions convey volumes in his desires. He began to walk out on the narrow plank that united the shore to a small rock centered in the marshy pond. He's sure of his steps, so I wanted to watch; Ms. Aiosa was not so certain. He made it out to the rock and reached for her to come as well. She elected to stay on shore; he elected to move his feet on the slippery surface. SPLASH! and then splash again. He slipped off the rock into the murky waters of lilies, algae and frogs. She lept into 'save' him. The silty bottom made it hard for him to find his footing; he flashed a look of panic but then smiled when he could stand and his teacher's hands held his. My camera was shut down, so I missed this precious picture of a little boy, covered in green pond slime, smiling and pleased with his survival in this 'other-adventure'. For Ms Aiosa, it was a moment of "oh-no"... but for me I witnessed my son become a real boy. He took a chance, tried out an idea and survived the consequences. How many times do real boys take a risk, try something foolish, pick themselves up to try again. It makes them stronger, smarter, happier in testing themselves on the way to becoming human.
  On this day, Graham lived this milestone right before my eyes. In all my wishes for Graham, in all my hopes and dreams for him, the hope that he will know what it feels like  to be A Real Boy, is the biggest and broadest of them all. Another proud stripe in his boyhood; a gift beyond price given by a teacher who sees what I always see. The little boys beyond the labels. For Graham, self confidence; for Eli a new friend. Thank you Ms. Aiosa for a summer afternoon well spent.
luv and peace ~ ell