June 11, 2008 - Day One
The count-down over. No longer would our granddaughter's voice helpfully remind me over the telephone that there were ten days left, nine days, eight...before our trip. This time, we'd agreed we would invite her to accompany us. Every year when we go off on our spring trip she would ask if she could come along, and every year - up until now - we've told her she's too young, it would be too arduous for her, and when she grew a little older we'd consider it. Well, we considered it, and thought she was ready.
Eleven years old - but twelve next week - she had the stamina, the energy and the enthusiasm, we figured, to tough it out. Her mother and her uncles weren't that much older when we used to haul them to New Hampshire for a week of climbing. And although only eleven-almost-twelve, she stands as tall as her grandfather - towering over me - well formed, and vigorous with a healthy curiosity and an abiding sense of adventure. We'd described as much for her as we were able to, and the rest would be hers to discover.
Starting with the long hours of sitting in the back seat of the car, viewing the changing landscape as we drove from Ottawa to our destination in the Waterville Valley of New Hampshire. Most of the frenzy of packing had been concluded the night before. On Wednesday morning we got up a little earlier than usual, showered, and took our little dogs out for their morning constitutional. This would be the only opportunity for the day, so a ravine walk was in the offing.
After which, Angelyne had a quick breakfast of half a grapefruit and a bowl of cereal. The dogs had eaten earlier. We packed a thermos of hot, sweet tea, one of chocolate milk, a short one of strawberry yogurt, and almond-butter and honey sandwiches, along with bananas, and small oranges. The rest of the luggage went into the clamshell on the car-top carrier, our hiking boots stuffed in the trunk, and we were off.
She'd never been to/through Montreal that she could recall (only when she was 8 months old, an earlier trip to New Hampshire with us and her parents she wouldn't remember), and she wasn't impressed with the traffic, the density of the city, the length of time it took to traverse it. But it was a beautiful day, not too hot, lots of sunshine and a profoundly green landscape, with the odd anomaly of seeing those geological erratics on the Quebec landscape - and the seigneurial-era strip-farms.
We speedily passed farms, cattle out grazing, fields of emerging crops. Finally to approach the Canada-U.S. border. Nicely enough there were no line-ups; in fact there were scant few other vehicles waiting to cross. An older Customs/Immigration agent questioned us, scrutinized our passports, keyed in vital statistics, questioned our relationship with the big young girl in the back seat, the two dogs, and we were speedily cleared and waved through.
A mile on, we stopped at a Vermont rest stop. It never failed; however beautiful and sunny a day it was when we started out, invariably when we reached this signal stop, it would be heavily overcast, verging on rain, and cool enough that we required jackets. We did the usual walk-about with Button and Riley, to give them a chance to stretch and pee, then we settled in at a picnic table with our breakfast, Angelyne's post-breakfast snack. She ate voraciously.
That child is a stomach on legs. Most people eat to live. She lives to eat. The most pressing question of her day is "what's for breakfast/lunch/dinner?", or "can I have a snack?". Where she puts it all is quite beyond my ken, because she remains tall and willowy. The taste-quality of a meal can make or break her day, become the most memorable portion of her day's experience. I cannot recall any of our three children ever being so devoted to food.
It's a pleasant place to stop, nicely planted with viburnum, ornamental oaks and maples, the grass well mowed and in season beautifully coloured and scented with thyme. Alongside the rest stop is a farm, and often the cattle wander in their bucolic setting, a counter to the tourists who stop there for information and maps, the truckers who pause briefly for a quick cup of coffee, courtesy of the State of Vermont.
And the Green Mountains of the Green State further ornament the landscape. Once we're back in the car, back on track, on our way to our New Hampshire destination, the highways with their perfect paving, their manicured boulevarded dividers, the sloping green hillsides, the picturesque junipers, stately spruce and fir, look as though a master gardener has choreographed the environment.
These perfect divided highways were blasted out of the granite hillsides, the approaches to the mountain range. Stone outcroppings on either side of the highway appear as creative and monumental sculptures, further enhanced by groundwater seeping out over the granite, intensifying the colours of mahogany, browns, streaks of black - all enhanced by the overgrowth of vegetation, despite the impermeability of the granite.
We cross the state line finally, into New Hampshire, over the Moore Dam, and we've reminded that under-18s require seat belts, it's the law. Over 18s can gamble as they wish, they go seat-belt-less just as they go unhelmeted driving their motorcycles. The motto is, after all, "Live Free Or Die", transcribed by reality, if not convention, as "live free and die", as they most surely do, too frequently.
Finally, we approach the Franconia Notch, that wonder of Nature unparalleled, the mountains rising broad and high out of the landscape, taking one's breath away by their stoic immensity. Past Echo Lake, Eagle's Cliff on the way up Mount Lafayette - which, in earlier times when we were much younger, we were wont to climb with our young and enthusiastic brood. Angie's grandfather gives her a quick oral history lesson on the U.S. War of Independence and French General Lafayette, his name immortalized in gratitude.
We pass the Basin Cascades - to which we will return during the course of the week - and Indian Head, Mount Pemigawasset, and then continue on the relatively short while until we finally reach the cottage that we've rented for the week. Angelyne is assured, on fleeting through the rooms, that there is indeed indoor plumbing, because I've been telling her for the last month and more that she will have to become accustomed to sharing an outdoor two-hole facility.
The cottage is nicely equipped with a large refrigerator and electric stove, generous counter space and kitchen cupboards. A large television with a whole lot of channels, that we won't make much use of. And a large, miserably uncomfortable futon-sofa, alongside a somewhat more comfortable armchair. And of course the good-sized bathroom with sink vanity. A bedroom with a double bed, another bedroom with two single beds.
The two single beds are pushed together to make Angelyne more comfortable, lest we risk having her fall off the slender width of a single bed during the night. Heaven forfend.
Eleven years old - but twelve next week - she had the stamina, the energy and the enthusiasm, we figured, to tough it out. Her mother and her uncles weren't that much older when we used to haul them to New Hampshire for a week of climbing. And although only eleven-almost-twelve, she stands as tall as her grandfather - towering over me - well formed, and vigorous with a healthy curiosity and an abiding sense of adventure. We'd described as much for her as we were able to, and the rest would be hers to discover.
Starting with the long hours of sitting in the back seat of the car, viewing the changing landscape as we drove from Ottawa to our destination in the Waterville Valley of New Hampshire. Most of the frenzy of packing had been concluded the night before. On Wednesday morning we got up a little earlier than usual, showered, and took our little dogs out for their morning constitutional. This would be the only opportunity for the day, so a ravine walk was in the offing.
After which, Angelyne had a quick breakfast of half a grapefruit and a bowl of cereal. The dogs had eaten earlier. We packed a thermos of hot, sweet tea, one of chocolate milk, a short one of strawberry yogurt, and almond-butter and honey sandwiches, along with bananas, and small oranges. The rest of the luggage went into the clamshell on the car-top carrier, our hiking boots stuffed in the trunk, and we were off.
She'd never been to/through Montreal that she could recall (only when she was 8 months old, an earlier trip to New Hampshire with us and her parents she wouldn't remember), and she wasn't impressed with the traffic, the density of the city, the length of time it took to traverse it. But it was a beautiful day, not too hot, lots of sunshine and a profoundly green landscape, with the odd anomaly of seeing those geological erratics on the Quebec landscape - and the seigneurial-era strip-farms.
We speedily passed farms, cattle out grazing, fields of emerging crops. Finally to approach the Canada-U.S. border. Nicely enough there were no line-ups; in fact there were scant few other vehicles waiting to cross. An older Customs/Immigration agent questioned us, scrutinized our passports, keyed in vital statistics, questioned our relationship with the big young girl in the back seat, the two dogs, and we were speedily cleared and waved through.
A mile on, we stopped at a Vermont rest stop. It never failed; however beautiful and sunny a day it was when we started out, invariably when we reached this signal stop, it would be heavily overcast, verging on rain, and cool enough that we required jackets. We did the usual walk-about with Button and Riley, to give them a chance to stretch and pee, then we settled in at a picnic table with our breakfast, Angelyne's post-breakfast snack. She ate voraciously.
That child is a stomach on legs. Most people eat to live. She lives to eat. The most pressing question of her day is "what's for breakfast/lunch/dinner?", or "can I have a snack?". Where she puts it all is quite beyond my ken, because she remains tall and willowy. The taste-quality of a meal can make or break her day, become the most memorable portion of her day's experience. I cannot recall any of our three children ever being so devoted to food.
It's a pleasant place to stop, nicely planted with viburnum, ornamental oaks and maples, the grass well mowed and in season beautifully coloured and scented with thyme. Alongside the rest stop is a farm, and often the cattle wander in their bucolic setting, a counter to the tourists who stop there for information and maps, the truckers who pause briefly for a quick cup of coffee, courtesy of the State of Vermont.
And the Green Mountains of the Green State further ornament the landscape. Once we're back in the car, back on track, on our way to our New Hampshire destination, the highways with their perfect paving, their manicured boulevarded dividers, the sloping green hillsides, the picturesque junipers, stately spruce and fir, look as though a master gardener has choreographed the environment.
These perfect divided highways were blasted out of the granite hillsides, the approaches to the mountain range. Stone outcroppings on either side of the highway appear as creative and monumental sculptures, further enhanced by groundwater seeping out over the granite, intensifying the colours of mahogany, browns, streaks of black - all enhanced by the overgrowth of vegetation, despite the impermeability of the granite.
We cross the state line finally, into New Hampshire, over the Moore Dam, and we've reminded that under-18s require seat belts, it's the law. Over 18s can gamble as they wish, they go seat-belt-less just as they go unhelmeted driving their motorcycles. The motto is, after all, "Live Free Or Die", transcribed by reality, if not convention, as "live free and die", as they most surely do, too frequently.
Finally, we approach the Franconia Notch, that wonder of Nature unparalleled, the mountains rising broad and high out of the landscape, taking one's breath away by their stoic immensity. Past Echo Lake, Eagle's Cliff on the way up Mount Lafayette - which, in earlier times when we were much younger, we were wont to climb with our young and enthusiastic brood. Angie's grandfather gives her a quick oral history lesson on the U.S. War of Independence and French General Lafayette, his name immortalized in gratitude.
We pass the Basin Cascades - to which we will return during the course of the week - and Indian Head, Mount Pemigawasset, and then continue on the relatively short while until we finally reach the cottage that we've rented for the week. Angelyne is assured, on fleeting through the rooms, that there is indeed indoor plumbing, because I've been telling her for the last month and more that she will have to become accustomed to sharing an outdoor two-hole facility.
The cottage is nicely equipped with a large refrigerator and electric stove, generous counter space and kitchen cupboards. A large television with a whole lot of channels, that we won't make much use of. And a large, miserably uncomfortable futon-sofa, alongside a somewhat more comfortable armchair. And of course the good-sized bathroom with sink vanity. A bedroom with a double bed, another bedroom with two single beds.
The two single beds are pushed together to make Angelyne more comfortable, lest we risk having her fall off the slender width of a single bed during the night. Heaven forfend.
Labels: Family, Peregrinations
posted by Pieface @ 6:14 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home