Shadows of Mt. Washington

Mt. Washington Shadows
Originally uploaded by Roadduck99

I regularly drive by New Hampshire's Mount Washington as I commute to my home away from home in Montpelier, Vermont. Combined with its neighboring peaks, Mount Washington is an imposing presence in the Northern part of the state. And yet it remains a very accessible mountain. Several towns are at its base, and the peak is accessible via car or train.

This accessibility is a conundrum. The mountain is an imposing presence, a massive hulk looming over the highway. The peak is covered with snow for much of the year, and the height of the mountain often creates its own weather. It's not particularly inviting, to say the least.

And yet there it is, a constant presence amidst north woods civilization. Routes 2 and 302 guide traffic around the mountain. Towns like Gorham and Bretton Woods dot its base. It's like living next door to a giant. You respect the mountain and aren't inclined to mess with it, but you always have the opportunity to check in and see what's going on.

The Mountain looms large over Lancaster, NH.

For this reason, Mount Washington has a certain appeal to me that is missing from Maine's own giant, Mount Katahdin. Katahdin is a hulk in its own right, but it's also kept separate from the populace, safely tucked away in Baxter State Park, miles away from the nearest town.

View from the top of Katahdin.

I'm certainly not saying that it's preferable to have people living on the slopes of every mountain. It's important to maintain wilderness and protect these habitats. And while wilderness has its romance, the mountains among us have a romance of their own. One can gaze up at the heights and see how they are impacted by the change in seasons, or even the day's weather.

Part of me longs to live next to this giant rock, and spend my days learning its secrets. I want to climb it, drive up it, take the train to the top. I want to visit the weather station at the summit. I want to sit on its rocks and write about the mountain surrounding me. And I want to take my camera out every day and chronicle the many moods of the mountain. I'm a mountain guy who lives next to the ocean, but my dreams take me to the hills. For now, I enjoy my periodic drives by this giant beauty.

Montpelier Vice

It's been awhile since I wrote about Montpelier. In fact, it doesn't look like I even finished the essay I started about Big Tree, the wonderful band that I saw at the Langdon Street Cafe last spring. (And rather than going there now, let me just say this: if they are in your town, go see them. The live performance is mesmerising.)

In a similar vein to Big Tree tonight was the "Indie Folk" band Rusty Belle, from Amherst, Massachusetts. OK, so these guys were right up there, too. "Indie Folk" doesn't really capture the sound of this band, which moves from folk to blues to country to rock to eclectic, Tom Waits-sounds. Rusty Belle is another vibrant live act, and seemed to have a pretty good following established in Montpelier. All of the the band members are mulit-instrumentalists, which leads to such oddities as the fact that three different band members sat behind the drum kit at various times, as well as the fact that the primary drummer also appears to be Rusty Belle's best guitar player. All band members are fine singers, highlighted by frontwoman Rita Rockit, who's stylings are at times reminiscent of Janis Joplin.

Rusty Belle rocks

Terrific live music is always appreciated, but the revelation of this trip was the Three Penny Tap Room. Open since May 1, this is a first-class beer bar with a rotating menu of brews on tap (leaning heavily toward Belgians this week), along with top shelf bottled offerings, wine and liquor. Thursday nights are know as "Cask Night," in which a new cask of exotic beer is openend and enjoyed. Tonight's offering was the sublime Harveistoun Ola Dubh Special 12 Reserve from Scotland. According to my new friend (and proprietor/bartender) Scott, only three casks came into the US, one of which landed in Montpelier. (Another may have found it's way to Portland's Novare Res, but I haven't confirmed that.)

So what's so special about Special 12? Well, this is a lovely stout that has been finished in casks in which Scotch was aged for 12 years. The result is a low-carbonation chocolaty/oaky tasting brew that definitely drinks as much like a liquor as it does a beer. In fact, the Three Penny served it in 8-oz snifters. This is definitely a sipping beer. At 8% alcohol, that's just as well.

Stout finished in Scotch barrels. Is this even a good idea? Why, yes it is.

This epitomizes the Three Penny's niche. It's a place for Beerophiles. The bartenders (particularly Scott) are extremely enthusiastic about beer, and really love the product that they have brought in to share with their customers. It's not a cheap night out, however, with beers listed on the blackboard at prices ranging between $5 and $18. (Though I have it on good authority that you can get a PBR there for only three bucks.) But given the ultra-high alcohol levels in the brews offered, this is merely incentive to keep the consumption to a reasonable level. You can have a tab of $25 before you even think you're started (something else I have on good authority.)

Three Penny Taproom

Montpelier's night life is stronger than ever, with terrific music nightly at the Langdon Street, and the new Three Penny Tap Room. If you are in town, check it out!

Meet the Robinsons

Well, here's another trip to Vermont, and another chance to see some live music at the Langdon Street Cafe. Montpelier's cooperatively-owned hangout is just 225 steps from the front door of the Capitol Plaza Hotel, so it's terrifically convenient to pop over and have a brew or too without the need to get behind the wheel. Add in the first signs of spring - temperatures in the 50's even after sundown - and an intrepid traveller can find himself in a right proper mood to see a band.

Tonight's experience was a step up from last month, where I saw over-enthusiastic bluesman Blue Fox at the same venue. Gracing the stage tonight were Dana and Susan Robinson. The husband-and-wife duo bill their act as "new old time music." This means that they play traditional Americana and English folk music. I believe the "new" part refers to the fact that much of the music is penned by Dana Robinson. Dana plays guitar, fiddle and mandolin, while Susan accompanies him on banjo and guitar. Unfortunately, Susan arrived with a bum hand, so she was only able to play on about half of the numbers, however she contribute sweet harmonies throughout the show, and provided lead vocals to a couple of traditional English ballads.

Despite giving the spotlight over to his wife on occasion, however, Dana is the focal point of this act. He had released four solo albums before forming an act with Susan, and the original songs are all his. He sings with a pleasing tenor reminiscent of Cat Stevens, and plays a crisp, percussive finger-style guitar. On some tunes he picks up the fiddle or mandolin while Susan plays guitar. And while he loves the traditional old country music that fits his wife's voice so well, Dana is clearly most influenced by Woody Guthrie. The show featured a cover of Guthrie's "Pastures of Plenty", as well as an original titled "What Would Woody Do?" (The answer: "Write about it, talk about it, sing about it too.") Robinson's songs evoke the same folksy America that Guthrie wrote about more than half a century ago.

Whenever I see live music, I like to watch the guitar player and try to pick up some tips. Alas, Dana Robinson plays a fast finger-picking style that I won't be attempting for awhile, and it was difficult for me to really follow along with everything he was doing. Fortunately, Susan plays a more basic rhythm guitar. Her playing featured mostly basic open chords that were enhanced by hammer-ons and pull-offs and some fairly simple walkdowns (or walkups) on the chord changes. If you are not a guitar player, I'm sure this doesn't mean a lot to you. If you're a novice like me, who has only recently begun working these effects into his guitar playing, it's fun to watch. It shows how it really doesn't take a lot of flying fingers to turn a simple song into something with enough motion in the melody to make it sound fairly complex. This is not to say that Susan only plays simple melodies - she's a fine musician who (if I'm reading the bio correctly) has only been playing guitar for a few years. However, much of what she plays gives hope to a hack like myself.

But enough about me. Although I had never heard of the Robinsons before this week, I was excited to see that they were bringing this style of music to the Langdon Street Cafe while I am in town. They move next into Maine, where they are playing house concerts in Bangor and Blue Hill, and then a show in Massachusetts before heading back to their home in North Carolina. Dana Robinson is a former Vermont resident, and I gather that the couple comes to the northeast regularly. Their next trip to town will be to play at the Northwoods Stewardship Center in East Charleston, VT, in July. I say it's well worth the effort to see them play live.

Waiting for the Flood

I'm in Montpelier again, for a week this time, and things are a little different. People are waiting for a major flood. Not just on alert for it - they are actually waiting for a flood to happen. The situation is very similar to the circumstances that led to the great flood of 1992. Downtown Montpelier is situated at the convergence of the Winooski River and its tributary, the North Branch. The problem is that the Winooski is frozen solid East (upstream) of the North Branch. The current concern is that, given the proper circumstances (warm temperatures and rain), the upstream ice will break up and lodge at the river bend just downstream of the North Branch. A pileup of ice will effectively block the North Branch from properly draining into the Winooski and, voila, back it up into the streets and basements of Montpelier. This map shows the flood zone from 1992. It's actually a pretty small geographical area. However, it does encompass basically the entire Montpelier business district. Importantly, it includes both my workplace and my hotel. I am lucky enough to be on the third floor of both buildings, but my rental car would be lost in a major flood.

The residents of the city are on alert, but they are keeping a good sense of humor about the whole thing. Businesses have decorated their storefronts with sandbags and plywood in a sort of community-art project. The Capitol Grounds Coffee Shop has gone a step further by lining its exterior walls with coffee sacks filled with sand. Many a storefront features pre-flood or Noah's Ark sale signs. I have several cool pictures that I would like to post, but alas, the interface between camera and computer is back in Maine.

Life goes on as well. This is a big week for Montpelier, as the annual Green Mountain Film Festival is in progress. This ten-day festival features 38 films, both new and old, drama and documentary, but primarily independant. The thread is good filmmaking and a good story. Many films are followed by discussions led by filmmakers, critics, historians and social groups. It's an impressive lineup, one worthy of keeping an eye on in future years as well.

While I hope to get to a film or two before I get flooded out, I have yet to do so. Tonight I stopped by the Langdon Street Cafe to listen to some music. I managed to catch the final few minutes of a student film about young musicians, and a nice five-song set by said musicians. Unfortunately, I did not catch the name of the young duo. They played mostly original music, and the themes presented in their songs reflected this limited worldview. The best song was a cover of Van Morrison's "Brown Eyed Girl."

The main attraction for the evening was a gentleman by the name of Blue Fox. Blue plays acoustic Delta blues on steel resonator and slide guitars. Blue has a terrific voice and is an accomplished guitarist, but he wasn't really getting it done for me tonight. I thought he was trying to overstep his bounds as a guitar player, bringing out a bag of tricks on almost every song. While technically impressive, Blue struggled to integrate his solos into the rhythm of the music, making them sound forced rather than natural. As a novice player whose next solo will be his first, I feel odd criticizing Blue Fox's performance. But as I said, his style wasn't working for me on most songs. When Blue stuck to the basics and wove the song's melody into the rhythm, his playing really shone.

I appreciate that Montpelier continues to have much to offer, despite being a very small city that practically rolls up the sidewalks at 8 p.m. I have my eye on a film festival movie for tomorrow evening, and if things work out, I hope to report back on that very soon. I also look forward to posting some pictures over the weekend. Hopefully they will be whimsical sandbag decorations, and not the "devastating flood footage" variety.

Wild Rides

Roller coasters. Little train rides on rickety-looking tracks, featuring high-speed plummets, neck-whipping turns, and stomach-twisting loop-de-loops. Invariably they feature names that sound monstrous or death-defying. Names like Oblivion or Phantom's Revenge. I've been on only two in my life, a kiddie-coaster at Funtown, USA, and a grown-up (albeit small) coaster at Palace Playland in OOB. The last one was 20 years ago, and I didn't enjoy it. Only crazy people go on roller coasters.

Crazy people like my brother-in-law's partner Frank. In addition to being crazy, however, Frank is easy going, fun loving, and persuasive. Devilishly persuasive. "You gonna ride the coaster with me?" he asks, referring to Kraken, the big blue mass of twisting steel at Sea World. (Kraken bones, perhaps?) I'm looking up at it rising behind the stadium in which I'm watching the sea lion show. I'm skeptical, and not much of a fan of heights. It looks tall. It is tall!

"It's not that bad." Frank's lived in Florida for 15 years or so, but he's got a strong, if soft-spoken, Brooklyn accent.

"It'll be fun!"

Can you trust a guy who sounds like he should have a name like Frankie the Fish?

"It'll be a good warm up for SheiKra." (Shreik-ra?). SheiKra is the new coaster at Busch Gardens in Tampa. We've bought a two-day pass with the intention of hitting Busch Gardens in a coupld of days (both parks are owned by Anheuser-Busch).

I've seen the pictures. SheiKra's first drop is 200 feet. Straight down. It's the only dive coaster in the USA. I have no intention of going on SheiKra. However, as a compromise I agree to ride Kracken. Frank really wants to ride it, and it's no fun to go alone. Did I mention how persuasive Frank is?

I get strapped in to Kracken, and the car starts the climb. It's going up. Very high. I can see a long way as we climb, and I wonder what I've gotten myself into. Soon I find out - steep drop into a big loop, sharp turns, twists, climbs, dives. It's a quick ride, and I'm a little shaky getting off. It was OK. Actually, I have a big smile on my face from the adreneline.

Another compromise. I'll ride one or two coasters at Busch Gardens, but I won't ride SheiKra.

We arrive at Busch Gardens two days later. It's Halloween. It's a Tuesday, and the park is very quiet. The first coaster that we arrive at is Gwazi (sounds like a jungle beast), a long, fast twin wooden coaster. Frank doesn't like it bacause it bangs you around a lot, but I kind of want to give it a try, because it's a novelty. My nephew Jason wants to go, so we get in line together. The first disappointment is that only one of the two cars is running. This means that we won't go screaming by a bunch of other people travelling 60 mph in the opposite direction. It also means that there is a long line, exacerbated by the fact that this is the coaster closest to the entrance.

The long line allows us to take a good look at the undercarriage of this huge structure. Eh, kind of rickety looking, though I'm told that it's only a few years old (I'm also told that it will be torn down in the near future). This adds to the excitement. As we wait in line, we can also see SheiKra in the distance. Cars climb slowly to the top, go around a sharp 180-degree corner, then approach the precipice. Slowly they reach the edge of the 200-foot plummet. Then the car stops as the riders look straight down, 200 feet. SheiKra lets them consider this for about five seconds. And then they are gone.

It's a long line on Gwazi, and we see this scene repeated over and over. I'm not riding SheiKra. Finally we get on board, and Gwazi takes up to 60 miles an hour in it's first plummet, removing the gravity from below our seats. I can't see the track in front of us. There are no loop-de-loops on this one, but it makes up for them with fast twists and turns, and the potential that something is going to break from underneath. It's another good ride, more fun for me then Kracken was, making up a bit for the 45-minute wait.

We catch up with the others at the hospitality tent, having a beer. I have a quick drink (they are complementary), then we head off to the birds. As we continue our trek around the park, we approach SheiKra. It doesn't look any more pleasant up close (see left).

"You gotta do it once, just to say you did it."

Frankie the Fish has spoken, and soon he, Jason and I are quickly walking up the stairs. Unlike Gwazi, there is no line for SheiKra (nor will there be any for the rest of the day, this being off season and mid-week). This isn't necessarily a good thing. There's no time to reconsider, and no justification ("the line is too long") for turning back. Soon we are climbing. Waaay up. Soon we are on thes thin little rails curling around a corner 200 feet in the air. It doesn't seem very sturdy to me. I'm openly questioning my own sanity. Then a jolt, and we slowly inch over the edge. There are only three rows in this car, and we're in the last one. I'm actually not looking straight down - I can't see the bottom of the drop from back here. This is good.

For a couple of seconds (that seem like about a minute). Before I know it, we are plummeting straight down. It happens so fast that I don't have time to soil myself. Soon we are in a big loop.

WhooooooOOOOOOOOaaaaaaaaaaaaa! A couple more twists an then we climb again and .....

What? Another 90-degree dive? Nobody told me about this!

The second dive is not as long, then it comes up into a nice twist and a plummet into a pool, allowing the car to splash water on unsuspecting passers-by. Then we are done.

(Here is a video showing the whole ride. Hang on!)

At this point I am hooked. Since there is no line, and since we didn't actually get to look straight down, we make the quick climb back to ride again. This time we are in the second row (the line for the first row is a little longer). The ride continues to be frightening, but exhilerating.

Afterwards, I ride three more coasters. Scorpion is smaller but it's tight loop-de-loop generates some serious G-forces. Montu is an inverted coaster that whips you around the outside of the curves. Both good rides. But for my money, the best coaster at Busch Gardens is Kumba, with 130-foot drops, 60-mph turns, and a world-class corkscrew. It is an incredible rush.

The twists of Kumba.

So now I am a crazy person, and I can't wait to get back to Busch Gardens and ride the coasters again. It brings a entirely new world of possibilities for future vacations.

Planes, Trains, and Automobiles

Phew!

I'm on the train, riding home from Boston, and thus ending a two-month stretch in which I:

• Drove to Vermont
• Flew to DC
• Flew to Dallas
• Drove to Vermont
• Flew to Florida
• Rode the Downeaster to Boston

Except for the Florida trip, all have been for business. Ordinarily I welcome the business travel, if only for the opportunity to write for my blogs. As many of you are aware, I have not been doing that. I have usually been travelling with others, leading to an inordinate amount of evening activity. Furthermore, I've just had no time to catch my breath, and have been too tired to put a lot of thought into writing.



Not that all has been bad. My trip to Montpelier and Vergennes in October was past the peak foliage season and most of the leaves were either brown or on the ground. This doesn't stop the hotels from being packed with tourists, and because I'm not the greatest organizer in the world, I was too late to get into my go-to hotel in Montpelier, which was sold out for the nights I was in town. I still enjoy the leaves at this time of year, despite their lack of peak color. The varying shades of brown and sienna are starkly beautiful, and one can look deep into the understory of the leaf-matted woods and see the serene emptiness. It is still early enough in the year that one can safely take the north route through the mountains without fear of sliding off the road into a snowbank. The White Mountains of New Hampshire loom large and muscular on a clear day, and the extensive stand of white birches of Shelburne are spectacular in the morning sunshine.



I am also happy to report that I was pleased to find some nice restaurants in Vergennes, a pretty little town about 15 miles south of Burlington. I have a friend in the area, and she took me to Park Squeeze, a warm little hole-in-the-wall that features local, organic food and drink, including the wonderful organic Wolaver brews from the local Otter Creek Brewery. With help, I've been more successful at sniffing out good places to eat in outlying Vermont towns than I was a few months ago.



Though scenic, driving between Maine and Vermont is no picnic. It takes me four hours to go between Brunswick and Montpelier regardless if I take the scenic route or the Interstate. Still, driving is a pleasure when compared to flying just about anywhere. In the past six weeks, I've seen the inside of the following airports: Portland, ME; NY - Laguardia; NY - JFK; Philadelphia; Washington National; Dallas; Tampa; and Sarasota. I've seen security ranging from the quick shoes/carryon xray zipthrough in quiet Sarasota (where I received my first-ever Homeland Security patdown - I passed), to the mysterious air-puff scanner in DC. I've had flights delayed due to weather-related air traffic backup, and due to the unwillingness for a plane to start up at 6:00 on a cold Tuesday morning. And I've seen everything from surly, not-gonna-discuss-it ticket agents (DC again - not directed at me), to the ultra-friendly, ultra-fashionable staff at Jet Blue.



Jet Blue - now there's an airline! This discount carrier arrived in Portland a few months ago, and their service and attitude are unlike any other airline that I've flown. Reservations are easy, as was the cancellation of one of our party's flight. Jet Blue boasts self-checkin kiosks, at which we received more prompt and courteous human assistance than most "agented" ticket counters. On board the seats have plenty of legroom and your own personal satellite television screen. Ordinarily I like to read on the plane, but who can resist watching the 1978 battle between college football titans USC and Alabama on ESPN Classic? And the icing on the Jet Blue cake is their stylishly-painted tails, which feature blue patterns ranging from pinstripes to harlequin patterns and often match the suits and accents of the in-flight crew.



Even a terrific airline like Jet Blue is a pain in the ass to fly, however. For a short flight on the eastern seaboard, one might spend more time at the airport (including taxiing time) than in the air. And it's depressing to approach security and see the box full of potentially lethal half-used jars of lotion or tubes of toothpaste. These containers exceed the acceptable 3.5 ounces of capacity that might render them harmless. Sometimes they are in a plastic baggy that is too big to be safe. And as silly as all this seems, perhaps the most depressing thing about air travel is witnessing how obsessively connected American society needs to be these days.



This is more evident in airports than any other place I've seen. In Dallas I watched a woman conduct a business meeting using her laptop (and $10 wireless internet connection!) and cell phone. After boarding a plane in DC, a woman in front of me was working on an email on her laptop while the young man next to me was furiously sending text messages with both his cell phone and his blackberry until about two minutes after we were asked to turn off electronic devices. After the flight attendant (link) informed us that we would be delayed for a while at the gate and electronic devices could be used in the meantime, the cell phone, blackberry and laptop were all whipped out again. When it came time to once again turn off the electronics, laptop lady again kept desperately typing away at an email, even giving the flight attendant a head fake, "I'm closing the screen, see?" then resuming after the attendant continued down the aisle.



Perhaps it appears hypocrical of me to pass judgment on these people as I sit here on the train, pecking away at my keyboard. It feels different to me, however, as I am at the moment not connected to the outside world. This is my first trip on the Downeaster, and it's been a to ride. For one thing, there is ample leg room - much more than on the Boston - Portland bus. I can actually sit comfortably with my laptop on the tray in front of me. The seats are wider, too, and today it's much less crowded than the bus (having several passenger cars will do that). It's a little more expensive than the bus, and takes about 1/2 hour longer due to the additional stops, but the comfort and the cafe car (Booze for sale! Whoo hoo!) more than compensate. I'll still take the bus if I'm going someplace near South Station, but in going to North Station (my training was across the street), nothing beats the train. At $44/person, it doesn't seem all that economical compared to driving when two or more are travelling unless one is going to park for a couple of days, but sometimes the worry-free comfort is worth the extra expense.



And so I've reached the end of my ride, and the end of my travels for a little while. I look forward being able to relax, perhaps catch up on my sleep and excercise, and get back to a normal diet. I also hope to find more time to reflect on the elections, add to the summer/fall book review series, do some off-season baseball analysis, write about my golf exploits, and reflect on my new-found passion for roller coasters.



But first, I think I need a nap.

Relax, You're On Green Mountain Time

Relax, you've got 1,400 words ahead of you . . .

I tried to have dinner in Bethel tonight. I really did. Same with Royalton. I drove through both towns looking for a restaurant that would satisfy my jones for “Local Character” in small-town Vermont. By the time I drove through the Eye of the Needle, I figured I was out of luck.

More on that in a moment.

Today I stepped out of my normal, Montpelier-centered duties and took a field trip to West Haven, a tiny town about 20 miles west of Rutland on the New York border. It’s budget season, and these meetings are easier when done face-to-face.

The drive from Montpelier is two hours, so I had a lot of car time today. There was about 30 miles on the Interstate, but the rest of the trip is what I call “classic Vermont” driving. Classic Vermont driving is defined by the landscape. Vermont’s terrain, first and foremost, consists of mountains. (“Verde Monts” = Green Mountains, remember.) The choice is to either build the roads over the mountains, or between them. Most Vermont roads have wisely been built between the mountains.

The paths through the mountains for the most part follow classic pre-automobile trails. In some cases, the roads feel hardly wider than a carriage path. This is because the glaciers didn’t have the decency to put a lot of space between the hills. Add to this the fact that the slopes are generally too steep for either housing or agriculture, and the valleys are downright cozy. For much of the drive along routes 107 and 100 through the center of Vermont, the spaces between the slopes are probably less than ½ mile wide. Tucked in this space, along with the road, are houses and farmland and, usually, a river. Water, after all, follows the lowland and it’s natural for the road to follow the river. I have seen no place where this is more true than Vermont. The buildings and fences are so close to the road that it sometimes feels like you are trespassing on private property. At other times it’s just you and the river. Villages pop up in places where there is a little more space between the hills.

Then there are the valleys, which are simply spectacular. West Haven is in a region known as the Southern Lake Champlain Valley. This is, as the name implies, the valley surrounding the southern part of Lake Champlain and the rivers feeding from it. Much of this area was a big(ger) lake a very long time ago. Now the valley is rolling hills with the mountains forming a picture-postcard backdrop.

Of course, if you give people room to spread out, they will. This brings us to Rutland. I’ve been to Rutland before – I actually went to a friend’s wedding there about 15 years ago. Rutland’s name isn’t pretty, nor is it’s reputation. It’s big (for Vermont) and crowded (for Vermont) with lots of cars and box stores and strip malls.

It’s not that Rutland is so bad compared to most of the country, mind you. It probably falls somewhere between North Conway, NH (pretty mountains, tons of shopping centers) and Bangor, Maine (lots of people, sprawling at the edges) from an aesthetic standpoint. It’s just that, compared with the rest of the area, Rutland comes as a bit of a shock. You’re driving through these little towns that hardly register on the maps, that are just oozing with the rugged, rustic character of Vermont. Suddenly, you’re in Rutland. You could be in anywhere, USA.

It’s the little towns in Vermont that are so appealing to me. They are so small and out of the way that nobody would ever consider putting a McDonald’s in them, much less an Applebee’s or an Olive Garden. Each of these towns is its own little treasure, with its own little businesses, stores and restaurants.

Or not.

I decided that, on my drive back to Montpelier, I would stop in one of these little towns for dinner and soak up the local flavor. I had good luck on the way down, stopping at the Vermont General Store in Pittsfield for a sandwich to go. The store had a terrific supply of specialty and natural foods, and an old-fashioned looking beverage cooler bursting with local brews. While the staff weren’t in any rush to hand me my lunch and get me out the door (typical of Vermont), the people were extraordinarily friendly, and my sandwich was terrific.

On the way back, things didn’t work out quite so well. The very things that make the place so charming also make it difficult to find a restaurant. There just aren’t a lot of places that can support many restaurants. I didn’t want to stop at Killington or a mountain lodge, because those places are designed for tourists, not locals. When you do come across a restaurant, you’re often coming around a bend at 50 mph. Due to the two-ton pickup truck in your rear view, a quick slam on the brakes is out of the question. Inevitably, this is followed by a windy stretch of road with river on the left, mountain slope on the right, about two feet of breakdown lane on either side of the road, and no hope of turning around for several miles.

I finally decided that I would stop in Bethel, the charming (of course) little town where I would pick up the Interstate. Bethel was actually a pretty good sized-town. Lots of little shops on the main street. This being after 5 pm, all were closed. There were couple of convenience stores that might have had a deli, but that’s not what I was looking for. I drove to the edge of town on the three major roads. Nothing.

Undeterred, I recalled that when I exited the Interstate earlier in the day, I had seen a sign that promised food if I headed in the other direction. This turned out to be Royalton. I saw a sign for the Fox Run Inn and Family Restaurant. I figured I was in business, until I saw the Realtor’s sign out front. Royalton also featured the Village Pizza shop, which looked to have counter service, laminated seats, and a beverage cooler in the seating area. So much for your frigging local flavor!

It was soon thereafter that I passed through what I have dubbed the Eye of the Needle. This was a narrow underpass below some train tracks, wide enough for only one vehicle at a time. Of course, there are sharp corners coming into the Eye from either direction, so the trick is to slow down and, in the absence of headlights on the other side of the Eye, gunning it for dear life.

As near as I could tell, the Eye symbolically separated the part of Royalton where there is “not much”, from the part where there is “even less”. At this point, I decided to cash in my chips and head back to Montpelier, where there is much local flavor that I have yet to experience.

It’s unusual for me to get in the car once I park it at the hotel, because there are so many places to eat packed within a few blocks that I usually walk everywhere. Since I was already in the car, I took the opportunity to eat at “The Pig” (again, as dubbed by me). The Pig is Finkerman’s Riverside Barbeque, on Route 2 in Montpelier. Finkerman’s has the kind of roadhouse feel that I like in my BBQ joints, but is also kid-friendly and was quite busy this Wednesday night. It’s a different kind of feel for Montpelier, a little more of a “marketing concept” atmosphere, but kind of funky nonetheless. The staff was very friendly, and there are a lot of local microbrews on tap. Alas, the service was kind of slow (one shouldn’t have to wait too long for pulled pork) and the food was ho-hum. It seems like a fun place to get together with friends, but it falls short of places near my home, like Buck’s Naked BBQ in Freeport or Beale Street in Bath (and South Portland and Augusta).

And so ended my big adventure for the day. My evening meal was a bit of a letdown, but I truly enjoyed driving the byways of this little state and learning more about my home away from home.

The North Maine Woods

I'm sitting outside the Cosi coffee shop in the Ballston section of Arlington, VA. My plane to Maine leaves in about three hours, and it's too nice outside to be sitting in an airport. Reagan National is less than a half hour from here via the Metro rail service. I'm in town for orientation and training - two days of power point presentations followed by a field trip to the Potomac Gorge reserve in nearby Maryland.

Today's weather was ideal for the hike. I had some concern earlier in the week, because the area was hit by a foot of snow over the weekend. However temperatures soared into the 60's, and we had ideal conditions for what turned out to be a three hour hike over the rocky trails. There were still pockets of snow on the ground, but they did not really impede our footing.

I was overdressed from the beginning, and had to shed several layers during the trek until I was down to my tee shirt. This was a far cry from the conditions that I met on a field trip just a week earlier. Instead of the hustle and bustle of the nation's Capital, I was far up in the Maine woods. I was in the upper St. John River area of Aroostook County, in unincorportated towns that, for the most part, don't even have names. They go by cryptic code letters, "T12 R17" and the like (which stands for Township 12, Range 17). Locals just use the numbers. "Twelve Seventeen" is all the information one needs, though a few do carry fancier handles like "Big Ten Township".

The area sounds remote, even for Maine, and it is. In fact, from certain parts of the state it is easier to get there by leaving the country and driving through Quebec, Canada for part of the journey. This is exactly what our party did. However, it is unwise to assume that the area is largely devoid of human activity.

This was a surprise to me. In looking at the state of Maine, one sees the western half of Aroostook County (along with the northern portions of several other counties) as vast wilderness, with no towns and little reason for anybody to go there. However, if one looks at a map that also shows Quebec, one sees a series of towns that dot the Maine border. These towns are populated by people who do one of two things, farming and lumbering. Those in the forestry industry cut a lot of lumber in Quebec. They also cut practically all the lumber in this part of Maine. One can not last long in this endeavor without being able to speak French, because most Quebecois don't speak any English whatsoever.

The border crossings aren't the busy entry points seen along the major thoroughfares of the state. They see a few dozen people a day, usually the same few dozen people every day. Because the logs are sold into lumberyards on the Canadian side of the border, some pulp truck operators may cross a few times per day, depending on where the lumber is being harvested. In general, border crossings are pretty uneventful. Even the US guards seem to recognize that a terrorist would be going pretty far out of his way to cross at St. Juste and navigate the logging roads to gain entry into the country.

The logging roads are legendary in Northern Maine. The first rule to remember is that the pulp trucks have the right of way. These roads are owned by the timber operators and they are, first and foremost, there for the forestry industry. The trucks go fast, and they aren't going to move over for any four wheeled vehicles. If you see one heading your way (which isn't always a given on the windier parts), you need to slow down, move over, and give a friendly wave as the truck goes by. The main roads are barely wide enough for two vehicles during the summer months, and they are downright snug with snow piled on either side. It's also worth noting that the road beds are primarily ice-covered, so the driving is slick. That doesn't appear to deter anybody from driving well above the posted 40 mph speed limit.

When I left on the St. John trip there was no snow cover in Southern Maine. That was the case for much of the drive north, with such outposts as Bingham and The Forks showing bare ground. Not until we were in the snowmobiling town of Jackman, almost to the Canadian border, was there consistant snow cover. Driving north through Quebec, however, it’s apparent that winter is in full force. Several feet of snow were on the ground and large snow banks lined the streets and driveways. Much of the land consists of open fields dedicated to farming, and the constant wind sweeps drifts of snow that need to be shoveled days after the last storm. The towns are very utilitarian-looking, with functional homes nestled close together and sitting close to the roads. There are no subdivisions, and nearly all of the homes are along the main roads. There are a few grocers, gas stations and maybe a restaurant or two. It gives all the appearance of a hardscrabble life, and harkens back to the US of 40 years ago, before formulaic chain stores homogenized the landscape.

There is very little industry along Quebec – Maine border. Other than farming, the towns of Daquaam, St. Pomfrey, St. Juste and others of the region simply serve the timber industry of Easten Quebec and Western Aroostook County in Maine. Men cross the border into Maine to harvest the wood, and the wood crosses the border back into Quebec, where the lumber yards sell it to paper mills or saw mills. Part of what makes this region of Maine so mysterious and magical is the lack of a human population, however there is a great deal of economic potential in the woods that is being exploited by the Canadian population just a few miles away. And in fact, while these are truly “deep woods”, it is not virgin forest. Most of the timber has been cut several times over the past couple of centuries. I’m certain that the forestry practices have affected the mix of the tree species in some townships, but here is living proof that forestry is a long-term sustainable industry. In fact, the land that we are visiting is conservation land, part of which is acting as a sort of laboratory to test the impacts of new silvacultural techniques designed to maintain the makeup of the forest, and conserve parcels that have unique or interesting characteristics. This is humanity coexisting with nature, where both people and animals are sustained by the wild forest.

The wilds of the St. John River are also treasured for the wildlife. Wildlife abounds – moose, lynx, marten, otters, and snowshoe hares are abundant. Bears roam the territory in the warmer months, however they are deep into their winter hibernation during my visit. There is some snowmobiling activity in the region, however the access is too limited for there to be many cross country skiers or snowshoers. There are many cabins along the river that are used by hunters and fisherman. They are accessible by canoe, although the river is very shallow for much of the year and canoeing trips can involve a fair amount of carrying as well. The cabins are very austere, usually one room with a woodstove and a bunk or two. The people who inhabit them (most are leased by the same individuals for many years) don’t need much in the way of modern conveniences. It’s truly frontier living.

The North Maine woods are a region unlike many others in the country. Most undeveloped land in this country is difficult to access – mountains or barren land. This is not the case in Aroostook County. The terrain consists of the same rolling hills of the towns across the border, very similar to the foothills found in Oxford and Franklin Counties in the southern part of the state. However nobody has chosen to build a town amidst wide expanses of the forest, and as such it is the largest contiguous forest remaining in the United States. It is wild and unique and, as such, is a treasure. There are sexier portions of the North Maine Woods that are currently under development pressure. It’s beautiful country, but it’s beautiful because humans haven’t made it look like the rest of the country. My hope is that we see it in our hearts to keep part of the wilderness wild, and maintain the treasures that the wilderness houses.

Verde Monts

That's my fancy title for this post about my recent trip to Vermont (even the French were onto the "Green Mountains" theme). Last week I spent three days in Vermont's tiny capitol, Montpelier. With a population of just over 8,000, Montpelier has a true "small town" ambience, but at the same time has a lot to offer within a small area. In addition to being the home of the Vermont state government, Montpelier is a center of higher education, with three colleges as well as the New England Culinary Institute.

Montpelier is a compact, picturesque town, with its downtown confined to a few blocks. One can start walking at the west end of State street, where the State House and government buildings are located, and reach the other end of the business district (Main Street) in less than five minutes. The walk takes one past the Capitol Plaza hotel, along with many shops and restaurants. The feel is reminiscent of Portland's Old Port district.

The NECI (which boasts the Food Network's Alton Brown among its alumni) is a treasure for the city, which benefits from its three teaching restaurants (a pastry/sandwich shop, a casual restaurant and a high-end dining establishment). However the true spirit of the city can be found in the Coffee Corner, a fixture on the corner of State and Main for half a century. The Coffee Corner looks for all the world like every eggs-and-coffee greasy spoon that you've ever been in, but there is a notable difference. The Coffee Corner is a place where eggs share the menu with tofu as easily as state legislators share booths with farmers. With a nod to Vermont's liberal and independent spirit, consideration is given to vegetarian and vegan diners, even to the point of having a separate grill in order to avoid cooking vegitarian selections alongside meat products. The Coffee Corner is also a founding member of the Vermont Fresh Network, which "builds innovative partnerships among farmers, chefs and consumers to strengthen Vermont's agriculture."

Montpelier is full of many such delights. Businesses use the tables of the Capitol Grounds (the trendy, liberal coffee shop) to hold informal meetings, and even the liquor store has artistic photographs in the front window. The lawns donwtown are kept immaculate, and the victorian inns are tidy and well kept. I found Montpelier to be a wonderful place to relax and breathe the fresh air. I look forward to my next trip, when I hope to have more time to explore all that the city has to offer.