“Forest Road 25. That’s where I ended the day, but where I started the day was north of Montpelier on a wild goose chase. You wouldn’t think a road driven for 30 years could still present mysteries & dangers, yet on this day with light snow creating a glaze of ice on top of frozen mud, it did just that. The new (used) truck had its first opportunity this morning to shift into 4L, on a mild hill, made treacherous by ruts. Hope springs eternal! Let it be said that I tried to reach my destination, and surely, another day, I will succeed. However, anyone who has been around the block a few times will advise you to always have a Plan B. Or be open to one. I sat in my Chevy in front of the State House, taking advantage of the easy, curbside parking for an oversized vehicle. While reviewing my options, I happened to observe a family reunion, most likely a child’s birthday celebration, attempting to occupy a picnic table under arctic conditions. No sooner had the cake in majestic tin been ferried to its location, and all invitees assembled, then wind of northern quality completely dispersed the attendees. Despite all the frantic hugging, 5 minutes was all that could be endured, outdoors, at such an event. It was in this spirit, that I drove on. No longer feeling singled out by nature’s wrath, nor the only victim of its vicissitudes. Not knowing where to, or for how long, only cognizant that I could not return home. Between houses, this is how it feels. One house is not your own, the other house is not your own - not yet. Better than renting, by a long shot, but decidedly nuanced in the short term. Wind at high velocity, blowing across the highways in squalls, flying up in front of cars, not serious but cautionary. I continued south, thinking only of one seductive car park on Rte. 100. And there it was. Gathering snow shoes and poles, and camera bag, bolstered by the presence of a few other vehicles, I thought “this can’t be all bad”. You just don’t know. You want to know. Your discomfort from the start, not knowing the trail system, not understanding the inhospitable trail heads, is something to acknowledge, but not be limited by. I don’t have to prove anything. I’m just poking around. The trail led up into a woods. Then a fork in the trail precipitated my first decision. Of course I’ll take the road less traveled: a few ski tracks to the left, past the “Entering Wilderness” sign. It’s quiet out here. It’s the real Vermont. Not so real unless you want what it has. What kind of religion drives a person to go off radar, in order to find an alternate system? Some would say: “Hard telling, not knowing”. That strange phrase was introduced to me, years ago, and has hung around. Those who said it the most, didn’t know why they said it. I both pity them, and love them, unconditionally. How far to go up this trail? I followed the skiers tracks, myself on snow shoes, to a place where the tumbling brook allowed itself to be seen. Crouched with my camera, sitting in the snow, wet, and frankly, uncomfortable, I framed my shots. then the shussing sound, as four skiers appeared from the white, impenetrable forest. At this higher elevation, from a rugged elevation that I could never master, I delivered a feeble wave to them and a smile born of an inferior race. For when you see these gods descend out of nowhere, barely scratching the glazed, crusty snow pack, weaving between trees and on edge of precipices, it’s like sighting the immortals. They do things between trunks you don’t think could be done, relax in sub-zero temperatures, joking, laughing, affable, casually competent. I don’t know who taught the these tricks. I wasn’t in that world growing up. I gawk, I stare, I don’t even try to speak to them. For they are of another dimension. After they passed, I followed their tracks for a mile or so, upstream. The snow pounded down, in waves, threatening to obscure their route. I couldn’t follow it to the end. They obviously had something on me. I took it upstream, as the light faded, as far as I could without being stupid. When I turned around, I felt my lack. They’d gone further, executed a messy stream crossing in which skis had obviously been removed, and gone on to accomplish some greater journey. Who does this? Returning to the truck, half expecting a note pinned to my windshield, I checked for any sign of them. Exhausted, exhilarated, I reminded myself again that being forgotten is not necessarily a permanent condition.”
