“It’s called “The White” but I’m not sure why. A river so majestic has other names, buried deep in the round river stones. Now its curves are a part of me, and somehow I always knew I’d always long for it, to stay close to it, drive it, be frustrated by my inability to immerse myself into it, spiritually, like a baptism but then maybe what lays hidden within can never be seen properly by the conscious mind. When traffic stopped last week, and I was stuck on one of its high curves, just past the wafting aroma of Tozier’s jumbo grilled prawns, I couldn’t believe my good fortune. Since normally, it is impossible to linger on the highway, despite its designation as a secondary one, and meditate on this exact view, situated as it is on a lonely, dangerous stretch, devoid of pull-offs or friendly shoulders. There was even time to spare, to turn off the truck, roll the windows down, & be delayed without the option to go fast anymore, to have that decision removed. Looking downhill towards the flood plain, past the ranch style dwellings & odd outbuildings, that mighty, somber beast of summer “white” sparkled at me, non-plussed by human disaster, as easy in its flowing as lingonberry syrup. Somewhere ahead, more than 30 cars ahead, however, there was building in the air, a distinct feeling of misfortune. My blase, “thankful it’s not me or my loved ones” attitude began to wear cheaply, and ring sour, as ambulances passed, and huge trucks with significant winches meant for only one thing. Slumping in my seat, I offered up a meager prayer, thinking how much this tragedy stuff is wrapped up in all of us. We hardly see it sometimes, we hardly know what’s going down until it’s too late. No one goes untouched, in the end nor should any of us feel “immunized” from being hurt, cheated, led by the nose or killed off. Yet, in contrast today, when I found myself completely turned around and unable to locate east from west, I gave thanks to that same higher power, for another wild goose chase, even seeing geese on the side of the road as I drove, which made me chuckle. And then I kid you not “Chase Hollow” was the name of my turn off Route 25. I didn’t know this road, but now I do. As I slowed to squint at mailbox numbers, a pickup sped around me, and I figured it must be the guys she’d called to meet us at 3 to move the 250 lb sink. So I followed them, found her place & within minutes, they had me loaded up, with a 2x6 thrown in for free, to keep the monolith from sliding. And when I got lost leaving there, I had plenty of time to think of all my friends in the area: Patrick, Cindy, Laura, Chris, Dick (now deceased), the other Chris, even Butch, who’d had a camp up that way. I knew I’d come down somewhere eventually, and see something familiar, which going down usually does, eventually. I don’t know how we ever decide to move anywhere, when the magic is everywhere. These Vermont places just don’t let up or go away. They hide from some, they give generously to others, in the end, we’re all swimming way over our depth in a mystery beyond our comprehension. Oh, don’t be sad about it. I’m confident that those on their toes will parse out the BS when it gets up close and personal. Especially in paradise, one must watch for the wiggly hand of evil. Not that you would necessarily notice it, at first glance. Which is why I try to mess things up from time to time, create a little discord, just to nudge people out of their soporific slumber. With the Hanksville bridge reopened, but the road into Waitsfield closed and the App Gap in the middle of a repaving, one must think & navigate from the heart. Over the river and thru the woods. Like nobody’s business. ”
