Last Fall

The great storyteller Rudyard Kipling, who lived in southern Vermont for a time, penned some lovely words about the transformation of a Vermont fall: 

"A little maple began it, flaming blood-red of a sudden where he stood against the dark green of a pine-belt. Next morning there was an answering signal from the swamp where the sumacs grow. Three days later, the hill-sides as fast as the eye could range were afire, and the roads paved, with crimson and gold. Then a wet wind blew, and ruined all the uniforms of that gorgeous army; and the oaks, who had held themselves in reserve, buckled on their dull and bronzed cuirasses and stood it out stiffly to the last blown leaf, till nothing remained but pencil-shadings of bare boughs, and one could see into the most private heart of the woods." Rudyard Kipling, Letters of Travel (1892–1920).

Whitingham, VT, birthplace of Brigham Young

This, and more, will be what I look back on about living here in the Upper Valley. Fall here is perfection. This final year in northern New England has brought us down to our lasts: our last beach trip to Maine, our last blueberry picking in Lyme, and now our last fall harvest season surrounded by high-definition warm-colored leaves shimmering across the mountainsides and trickling through the river valley.

Baker Library, Dartmouth campus

Billings Farm, Woodstock, VT

Fire Station in Grafton, VT

Killdeer Farm, Norwich, VT

view of Hartford, VT and into New Hampshire

But has this been our final Fall? Returning as a leaf peeper doesn't feel right. Not too long ago on a family drive through the back roads, Boy and I sat stunned at the charming and unpretentious scene in front of us. There were leaves that sparkled as they fluttered on the tops of trees. There were dairy cows roaming on pastures of grass that were at least seven different gradients of green. There were wise old barns that stood tall and strong despite worn doors and peeling paint. Covered bridges, meandering rivers, jaunty farm stands, and white steepled churches. We looked at each other and asked, "Why are we leaving?" It was then that we made a solemn pinky swear that we'd return in retirement or after our brood of kids leave the nest. So perhaps this won't be our last. Until the golden years are upon us, that question will linger around for now.

Colors are not around for very long. And it breaks my heart to leave this wonderful place filled with wonderful people. Farewell, Fall of my dreams. For now.

"Nature's first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf's a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay." Robert Frost, "Nothing Gold Can Stay," New Hampshire, 1923. 

Canoeing the Connecticut

Gliding through water.
Floating past strands of lily pads.
Listening to the watery silence of the New England wilderness.
Smelling the dank thickness of verdant trees growing along the banks. 
Cupping my little girl's long, twig-like fingers that lay curled in my hands.
Watching my son peering over the side of the canoe and tracing the water's edge.
Witnessing teenage boys leaping off the old railroad bridge and into the sparkling blue.
Smiling at my handsome man deftly paddling our family on a perfectly sunny July morning.

We ended a perfect morning on the river with a perfect breakfast at Lou's--home of the best buttermilk pancakes in thee universe. Thank you, Ledyard Canoe Club of Dartmouth College. We are hooked. Maybe I'm crazy, but I want a canoe for my next birthday. For Christmas, I want snow shoes. But we'll talk about that another day; I've been bitten by the bug of the Great Outdoors.

Aside from the greatness of beauty that divides the lands of Vermont and New Hampshire, I do think that I should be a candidate of eyelash implants. Lesson that should have been learned by now: au naturel eyes is a serious transgression for my stubby lashes. Vain and wishful thinking, so be it.  

Pond Skating

"Summer fading, winter comes, frosty mornings, tingly thumbs...water now has turned to stone..."
--Robert Louis Stevenson, taken from "Picture Books of Winter"

Occom Pond is no Rockefeller Center ice skating rink, but I'll take it. Our quiet New England pond is iconic-looking enough for me. To qualify as a true Vermonter/New Hampshirite, it's high time we acquire our own ice skates. [Note to self: scour through every thrift store in April.]

Has Mother Nature muzzled March's lion? We're seeing lamb-like weather already--and if February continues to play tricks on us, our ice skating weather may soon be over. As for the snow that is in the forecast this weekend, there better be a blanket of it in our backyard for a particularly eager little boy.

And for an eager mom.

NH Places: White Mountain National Forest, Mount Washington State Park, and Franconia Notch

I grew up in a state that boasts five national parks. These places of red rock glory are our favorite playgrounds. If Boy could build our family a house on the top of Dead Horse Point, he would.

Here in the Northeast, there is only one National Park, in Maine, and it's a 6-hour drive according to Google. After our trip to the White Mountains, I don't see why New Hampshire doesn't have a National Park. As a place of such beauty with so many things to do and see, why not?

On our way up the mountain, the trees gradually became white. I love first snow. Our drive through the Kancamagus Pass felt like a Christmas tree wonderland. It would've been lovely if Bing Crosby was with us in the car.

We stopped at a place marked 'Scenic View'. With all the fog wrapped around the horizon, I felt like we were missing out. Our kids didn't seem to mind. Nor did they complain of cold little hands and noses.

We missed driving the Mount Washington Auto Road by a hair--it was a huge downer. Completed by 1861, the auto road to the summit is the oldest man-made tourist attraction in the U.S.  Can you believe that people traveled up the mountain with their horse and buggies? The road will reopen in May because traveling this road is too risky during the winter--did you know that Mount Washington is infamous for being the "Home of the World's Worst Weather"? You betcha. The WORLD. I didn't think that New Hampshire had it in her. We almost caved in to buy tickets for the Cog (a steam engine that climbs up to the summit), but the stiff ticket rates were too much for this trip. Next time.

Our last stop on our two-day trip was getting to see New Hampshire's state icon: The Old Man of the Mountain.

[Before the collapse. Source]

Old Man's face collapsed in 2003, so we only saw a little nubbin of his forehead. One unhappy little boy was greatly disappointed.

Although it was a colder-than-usual October afternoon, we loved the peaceful Profile Lake scene and its beautiful craggy mountainsides.

[Source]

Okay, so I lied. Franconia Notch wasn't our last stop. A friend of mine suggested making a visit to Littleton so we could grab some sweets. Chutters is the world-record holder for the longest candy counter in the world. Yeah, I said it again...the WORLD. There was a 112 foot-long stretch of large glass jars ready for the taking. Out of the four of us, I'm unsure who was most excited. I don't think any of us have seen candy like this.

They had gumballs in every color. Circus Peanuts (eww). Bubble Tape. Sour candies to your heart's content. Their fudge counter would put BYU Bookstore to shame. They even had Pop Rocks. We drove home on a sugar high.

I already can't wait for summer so we can do this trip all over again.