Vermont Part 1: Driving

This is the first in a series of posts from the Vermont trip.  Each was written during down time, some of it almost as it was happening.  Little has been edited from the original. 

If you want to skip the blabber and go straight to the photos, click on the first one.  That will open up a page where you can click through enlarged pictures.

9/19/12:  DRIVING

Cheryl pulls up at 9:30 a.m.  We pile her stuff and mine into her trunk, mount her bike rack, and load our bikes.  I’m bringing Kermit to Lake Champlain, Vermont.  Tom has found a house on South Hero Island that will sleep four, five if two agree to share a bed.  He’s mapped out a handful of routes that will be flat or, he says, no hillier than the Sourlands. 

We’re just about finished when Tom calls.  He’s in East Brunswick, at Larry’s house, ready to leave in five minutes.  Cheryl takes the back roads around Hillsborough.  Although it’s a weekday and we’re making very good time on Route 87 through New York State, we’re half an hour behind Tom every time he calls.  As we get towards early afternoon, Tom and Larry stop just north of Glenns Falls on the Northway.  “We’re at a McDonald’s,” he says.  I whine about that.  “There’s a Subway too," he says, which brings Cheryl much relief.  Cheryl ups her speed.  I’m not a fan of Subway, so I cobble together a far-too-healthy lunch of yogurt and fruit at a convenience store while Cheryl and Tom gas up.  We eat in the car as we follow Tom up the Northway for two more exits. 

north of Glenns Falls on the Northway as seen from the passenger seat through the driver's side window

 drafting Tom

another photo taken over Cheryl's shoulder

Taking a day off from caffeine, I’m having trouble keeping my eyes open.  

“I need another cup of coffee,” Cheryl says.  Her wish is granted when we stop in Plattsburgh for a quick food shopping trip.  I fill my basket with high-protein dairy and two bags of pretzels (covered in yogurt and in chocolate, to undo my good-deed lunch).  We’re just looking for tomorrow’s breakfast.  We’ll do a real shopping trip later, Tom says.

We’re back on the highway for ten more minutes, and then we’re pulling into the ferry dock for a two-mile trip across Lake Champlain to South Hero Island, Vermont.  Larry jumps out of the car with a childlike grin.  Tom and I grab our cameras.

There’s a windmill on the far shore.  With the boat moving and my lens zoomed beyond 20x, I can only steady the camera so much.  The boat turns towards the dock; the windmill is out of sight.

We follow Tom onto a local highway.  Cheryl has a good buzz on now, and she's reading every sign out loud.  This helps to keep me awake. 

We turn onto Wally’s Point Road and drive a mile on a winding, cow pie-riddled single lane to a group of houses on the water’s edge.

“Wow!”

We drop our bags in the front room.  First I use my cell phone so I can text the pictures to Dale and Jack.  Then I grab my camera and zip around the yard with it.

 Larry takes it all in

 Dale wants to know where we put the bikes:  outside, for now

 our shoreline

There’s a note in the kitchen that tells us the water is pumped and filtered from the lake.  It’s OK for washing, but not for drinking.  There are three small jugs of bottled water on the counter.  That won’t be enough for the five of us.  We’ll have to find something in town tonight.

Lynne arrives to much fanfare.

Eventually everyone is outside.  I’m tired enough to crash out on the hammock for a while.   

 I close my eyes for a few minutes.

Even from inside we have an uninterrupted view of the lake.  From the deck we watch paddleboarders.  Tom suggests that we wait around for sunset. 

 paddleboarders

Cheryl calls me to the deck for a different view from between the trees.

Now it’s time for dinner.  We all pile into Cheryl’s car, carrying an empty water jug. There’s a pizza place at the other end of the road.  That should be simple.  It’s closed.  We drive on, passing a restaurant that looks relatively expensive and crowded.  We drive on. 

There’s a general store on the right.  Lynne and I go in to look for water.  We buy all four of their 2.5 gallon jugs.  Lynne asks about restaurants.  The clerk tells us to drive “down the road.  You’ll go through some lights. Turn left.  That takes you to Milton.  There’s a bunch of diners all on that road,” he says.

“Down the road” becomes 15 miles.  We stop at the second diner we see.  The overly friendly waitress even fills the small jug for us.

“Stars!” I exclaim on the drive back.  We spend a few minutes outside of the house gazing at the sky.  

Tom says “This is going to be epic,” to which I agree because that’s always the way it is when he leads and I follow. 

We’re sitting around talking about nothing in particular. Larry, Lynne, and Cheryl are in front of the plug-in fireplace, which blows a stream of hot air towards them.  I’m so beat that I can’t even make a simple beaded watch without screwing up and sending glass bouncing all over the wooden floor.  It’s time for bed. 

I’m sleeping on a fold-out bed in the living room, in my 1992 sleeping bag and a pillow from Tom’s house.  I set my alarm for 8 hours of sleep, hoping to be awake before Cheryl is so that I can get the coffee made for her.  Through my tinnitus I hear crickets, the refrigerator, and a quiet hum from the artificial fireplace.