October 2004

October 28, 2004: We. Are. Not. Dead.

No, really, we promise... We're not dead. We are most definitely alive.

Just lazy.

And Brickman House still stands... such as it is. So what else is new?

This house has survived the Civil War, survived raids of poachers and squatters looking to capitalize on it during years of lawless mayhem, supported generations of farmers and their families with peach and soybean crops, and provided shelter when the crops failed and the farmers had nothing else to their names.

So it was no surprise when the house sat here for six weeks or so while we played Normal.

Now, we recognize that "normal," for us, might not be really normal, but we managed a pretty close approximation of it in the last month and a half.

Or not...

Because we went on Vacation.

Now, we spend weekends away from the house here and there, and occasionally take a random week just to have fun, but for those of you who've been with us at least since our last trip to Scandinavia, you've kind of come to understand that our actual Vacations tend to veer off into unusual territory.

So...

When we last left you all lo those many weeks ago, we were heading off to Vermont to hike 60 miles of the Long Trail, the oldest long distance hiking trail in the United States. And yes, as a shout out to all of you who've emailed us in the last month wondering where the #$%& we've been for the last six weeks-- we get the joke, we promise. It was, in fact, a really Loooooonnnng Trail.

Very beautiful, very long, and Very, Very Hard.

(Damn. I know that last sentence is going to get us a ton of Google hits from the online Por... un Pron crowd, but oh well...)

Anyway, we stuffed our sleeping bags, sterilized our water purifier, packed our Lipton's instant meals, and slung our packs on our backs for a beautiful 60 mile walk in the woods during New England's peak foliage time.

Before we set out, we had a great day and night in one of my favorite towns in America-- Crunchy Granola Burlington, Vermont. Got some great new gear, had a few phenomenal meals, and hit the sack early to meet our shuttle service to the trailhead the next morning.

We must be doing something right karma-wise, because our shuttle service turned out to be terrific! We called around the day before we left, and hooked up with Jessica's Vital Transit. It's a family-run shuttle service, and we were picked up right on time from our hotel to head on down to the trailhead.

As it turned out, our ride was a total blast. Our driver Will, one of the company's owners, drove us down Vermont Route 100 on a veritable tour of the Mad River Valley. It was amazing. We meandered down the Valley, with Will pointing out good swimming holes (for when we come back in the summer), chainsaw artists, the town of Warren (with its faintly deranged killer Beagle hound who roams the roads), and all kinds of things we'd see on our hike. As a bonus over the three hour ride, we had a helluva discussion about Howard Dean, George Bush, Iraq, the environment, and God. Some combination...

We were sorry to see Will go at the trailhead (especially since, as a bonus, he left us with homegrown tomatos and apples to take with us-- yum!) but we were psyched to get into the woods. We got off at Route 73 at Brandon Gap, signed in on the Park Service's trail register, and set out for a brisk 5.4 mile afternoon walk in the crisp fall air.

Now, we've both done a lot of hiking and backpacking over the last twenty years, separately and together. We're experienced hikers, and we're reasonably active and fit. After all, you can't be a couch potato and sling around 2x6's, power tools, tile and topsoil every weekend. Our backcountry vacations have quickly become some of our favorite times together.

Unfortunately, what we didn't realize was that our 5.4 mile afternoon walk began with a rock climb of 750 feet over 1.2 miles-- straight UP.

Ugh.

250 feet into it we were seriously wondering what we'd gotten ourselves into. 500 feet into it we were begging for our cushy bed in our hotel. 750 feet into it we were crying for our mamas.

We pushed on, though, figuring it couldn't get much worse.

Oh, baby, were we wrong.

Little did we know, the entire trail was exactly the same, or worse:

Now, we're hardly wusses, but honestly, when we plan a hiking trip, we don't really think we're unreasonable in expecting that at least part of the trip will entail, well... walking.

Uh-uh. There is No. Walking. on the Long Trail.

The northern part of the Long Trail is nothing but a rock scramble-- UP a huge pile of rocks, then Down a pile of rocks. Then UP a pile of rocks, then Down another pile of rocks. Lather, rinse, repeat. Then lather, rinse, repeat... again. Then again... and again... until your knees give out, your toenails turn black and blue, your thigh muscles scream, and you're ready to vomit. At that point, don't worry. You've only got another mile or so until you reach the shelter where you're spending the night.

We spent the first couple of days pushing for our planned miles, which was hard when you had to watch every single step or risk breaking an ankle on the boulders:

We're sure the scenery was spectacular, but we wouldn't know-- all we saw was our toes as we placed every step excruciatingly exact so as to avoid the humiliation of being Medivac-ed off the wretched mountain with a broken leg.

The morning of the third day, we woke up and decided that there was no way we could do this anymore-- we were exhausted, miserable and sore. Our choices were two-- beat it to the next Gap on the trail, and call the fastest cab service our cell phones could summon, or figure out how to tackle the trail and have fun.

Since bagging the whole plan and crying pathetically to the nearest cab service would have been even more humiliating than being Medivac-ed off the mountain, we decided to figure out a way to stick it out. And we did.

We slowed our pace waaaaay down, and had ourselves a real, old-fashioned Walk In The Woods. Well, at least a real, old-fashioned Rock Climb, anyway.

The Green Mountains are magnificent. The lower elevations are like something out of Middle Earth-- incredibly green, deep and dense:

The whole trail climbs up and down miles upon miles of 12-inch wide rocky paths, that look like no one's ever been there before you, and no one ever will be again. Walk a few hundred feet, stop, take a huge breath, and look around... it will never be so easy to pretend you're the first person to step foot on this continent.

Every once in a while, you reach a summit-- some random rocky outcrop that breaks through the trees with a heart-stopping view of the valley below, and all the rock scrambling is worth it:

After a few days, we had figured it out-- we'd gotten into the rhythm of plunging down into the trees, and coming out into the summits, slowly and steadily, mile by mile. We had figured it out. Life on the trail was guuuuuddd-- we were loving the Green Mountains!

Alas, our Green Mountain High was not to last.

Right around the time we decided we were lovin' the Green Mountains, we had just come down off Breadloaf Mountain around 4 in the afternoon, and decided we were going to hoof it halfway up Mount Wilson, to a tent platform with an established fire ring, so we could have a luxurious dinner, and settle in with a canteen of wine around the campfire before retiring for the night.

It was a good plan. We found the tent platform, set up for the night, and cooked up a huuuge dinnter of chicken, stuffing and gravy. We built a fire, grabbed the wine, and settled in to relax and laugh about what we'd been through the last three or four days.

Five minutes later, it started raining. Whaaaa? Aww, $%&*! We scrambled to get everything around camp under cover and dry, and we did... right around the time it started sleeting. Sleeting?

The sleet drove us into the tent once and for all, burrowing into our sleeping bags in fleece hats, mittens and long johns. It was then that we cracked our trusty Long Trail Guide Book, and discovered that we'd camped out, in October...

At 3900 feet elevation.

And we now found ourselves in the middle of an Ice Storm.

It was a long, cold night. Thanks to good gear, we were safe and dry in our tent, listening to the wind howling outside, sleet and freezing rain tearing through the trees and pounding the tent fly. We snuggled up to keep warm, and waited it out. Can't say it was the most comfortable night we'd ever spent (umm, that'd be a five-star hotel in Scandinavia), but we admit, we were hardly in danger of freezing to death. That said, we were glad when morning came.

And what a morning it was. We were cold, so we packed up as soon as daylight broke, and got moving on the trail to get warm. Strapping 40 pounds of food, shelter, and everything else you need to survive on your back, and heading out into the middle of nowhere to spend a week cold and dirty, sleeping on the hard ground... ain't for everybody.

Hey, sometimes, we wonder why the $%&* we do it. But hey... you know what?

We'll take it for One. Perfect. Morning. On the trail alone, with no one else awake for miles around. Just us, picking our way slowly and silently for miles through Hans Christian Anderson's Snow Queen's kingdom, with every single thing around us covered in tiny, shimmery, ice diamonds:

It was beautiful, and we padded along silently for hours.

Then the fog cleared, the sun came out, and the trail came alive-- everything was bright and warm. We hoofed it along with other hikers passing us in one direction or another down the trail, stopping, chatting, and having a good time. We took pictures of each other, traded weather news, talked about the trail ahead and the trail behind. Most importantly, we enjoyed the views and scarfed chocolate at every opportunity.

Right around then, the Kilted One (who was not, I note, kilted at the time) took a wrong step and went down. HARD.

Ouch.

He got up limping, and availed himself of our stash of Ibuprofen, along with a slug of Yukon Jack, a flask of which he bought back in Burlington, thinking it was some exotic Scotch.

Clearly, Yukon Jack is Not. Scotch. To this day, we don't know what it is. But s'ok-- doesn't matter for the purposes of our story.

Anyway, after a dual slug of Ibuprofen and Yukon Jack, the Kilted One and his tender knee were feeling no pain. Six or eight more mini-Hershey bars, and we were on our way again.

Onward and upward. We powered up and down mountains, enjoying each and every summit:

Until, coming down from our last summit, the Kilted One took a BIGGER wrong step, and came down even HARDER.

Oooh. Really ouch.

Anyone else out there witness a 6'7" dude with a 60 pound pack take a header down a pile of rocks with his knee at a wickedly unnatural angle?

Oh. Just me then.

Anyway, after Dude picked himself and his assorted limbs up off the pile, he downed another fistful of Ibuprofen, another snort of Yukon Jack, a few more Hershey bars, and proclaimed himself ready to motor on.

Uhhh... Not.

According to the map, our next ascent was Mount Abraham, a hard core rock climb from 2500 feet to 4000 feet over 2 miles, and then another 5 miles to the next shelter.

Not gonna happen. We were bailing out, as soon as we humanly could.

The Long Trail bade us a very pretty farewell over those last few miles. They were leisurely, and scenic:

Much as we wanted to, we couldn't stay on the trail. The sky was blue, the leaves were russet, and the air was crisp, but I was really not sure how I could balance the exact doses required by the Kilted One for chocolate, Ibuprofen and Yukon Jack. And the knee was continuing to swell.

So we beat it down to Lincoln Gap, and hobbled out to the trailhead at Lincoln Gap Road, which, as we looked at the map, was fortunately 3 miles from Warren, Vermont. Hey! Warren! We know Warren! God bless Will...

Crippled Kilted Dude didn't even bother to stick out his thumb to hitch a ride into Warren-- instead he threw himself upon the mercy of the first minivan driver he finds at the trailhead parking lot. Lucky for us, it turns out to be a retired couple from North Carolina, leaf-peeping in New England for a long weekend in a rented minivan.

The wife was horrified at the sight of two filthy, faintly desperate hikers crashing out of the woods and bearing down on her, but thank heavens for us, the husband was an old, hardcore Appalachian Trail hiker who still goes out with his buddies a couple of times a year. He took pity on us, and agreed to give us a ride. Yee hah! Warren, here we come! The wife still wrinkled her nose at us, and we had to stop a couple of times along the way so she could take pretty pictures of the leaves and stuff, but they did take us all the way into town.

So we get dumped out, unceremoniously, on Route 100 in front of the Warren General Store.

The Warren General Store is not exactly what you'd think of when you think of a plain old general store. What it might be is a General Store, on steroids, for the upscale leaf peeping crowd who've raided the L.L. Bean catalog for Three Season Explorer Parkas in "Chili Pepper Red," Loden Green "Rugged Tough" pants with 105 pockets (101 of which are completely useless), and $300 boots with weather protection to beat an ascent up Mount Everest, who've come to see the New England foliage through the windows of hired sedans, stopping occasionally for 1/2 mile treks to some scenic waterfall or the occasional apple orchard offering free cider.

That said, we were THRILLED to discover the Warren General Store. It was a two story mecca of ready-to-go homecooked meals, ridiculously priced "one of a kind" items from local artisans, a terrific stock of wines, and the usual selection of touristy, 100% Maple, Direct-From-Vermont products. Yummm...

After five days in the backcountry, we loaded up on baked ziti smothered in marinara sauce and mozzarella from the Deli counter, mounds of Greek salad, a few bottles of red wine, a couple of fluffy sweatshirts (overpriced, but clean!), the New York Times and a few local newspapers, and most importantly, fistfuls of Maple Candy (my very favorite guilty pleasure from Vermont-- total trash, loaded with sugar, and tastes like Nectar from the Gods). We lugged our lunch trays and clean clothes out to the store's dining deck above the river, and proceeded to eat and drink ourselves silly, all the while catching up on how the world managed to screw itself up while we were on the trail.

At some point towards the end of the our feast, it occurred to us that we'd left the trail a day early. We were stranded smack dab in the middle of Vermont with no place to stay and no way to get to Stowe the next night, where we'd originally planned to get off the trail and had reservations for an outrageously luxurious night at the Historic Green Mountain Inn. And it was getting dark.

At that point, the non-kilted, severely limping Kilted One spied The Pitcher Inn, across the street from the Warren General Store, and decided to see if there was room. Unfortunately, there was not. Noooo... the $300 per night Chester Arthur room was booked, as was the $350 per night Calvin Coolidge room. Oh, and the $475 and up per night Stable and Hayloft Suites? Pfft... you peasants, you. They've been reserved for two years.

Hey, the money wasn't an issue (we'd have paid anything they asked for a roof over our heads that night), the rooms looked beautiful, and the Inn's dining room was top-notch. How were we to know it was one of those tony Historic Inns where people get married in fluffy white dresses and crisp morning suits among russet and amber falling leaves in a courtyard, spend their honeymoon weekend, and reserve the same suite every Fall for the next fifty years? Sheesh...

Bummer, though. We could've plowed through that wine cellar, and the lean, broiled game on the menu paired with sauteed fresh-picked squashes, pumpkins, and winter vegetables would have been a thoroughly enjoyed casualty. Don't worry, though... we'll be back. With a reservation.

Fortunately, however, thank all that is Good and Holy in this world, the desk clerk at the Inn thought the dirty, unshaven, limping, non-kilted Kilted One was somehow kinda cute, and bless him, he did nothing to disabuse her of that notion.

Believe it or not (I still don't) he actually flirted and charmed her into logging into the intranet room reservation service for the industry-only Lake Champlain Chamber of Commerce members, and she found for us the only decent room left in Stowe outside of some wretched Motel 6 or Econolodge. Even better, she scored it for us at the Chamber discount off-rack rates.

And oh by the way... even better? She summoned the Pitcher Inn's private shuttle service to take us there.

I have no idea how he managed to cajole the desk clerk into doing this. In fact, I'm sure I just. don't. want. to. know. I just want to make sure he doesn't forget how to do it-- I thiink I could get very used to the results.

Anyway, we end up in a suite at the Grey Fox Inn, just a few blocks from downtown Stowe, halfway to the winter ski lifts. It was hardly luxe accomodations, to be sure, but for what we needed, it was Hiker Heaven. Housekeeping gave us fistfuls of shampoo, conditioner, body wash and Tide detergent. We tossed our packs and luggage in the living room, scrubbed ourselves up and down two or three times over in a steaming hot shower, and threw every single thing we'd been wearing for the past week into the laundry. Ahhh... life was good.

Until the Limping One discovered that his glasses were gone. Yep, Gone. He retraced his steps mentally, and figured out that he'd lost them somewhere between the Warren General Store and the Grey Fox. Dude managed to keep them safe, sound and in hand through 35 miles of mountain, and somehow loses them the minute we get back to civilization.

Luckily, he had a pair of prescription sunglasses with him, so he wasn't completely blind, but now I'm faced with spending the last few days of my vacation with Ray Charles.

We managed, though, to pick our way towards the town of Stowe proper for dinner, and though we can affirmatively say that the town will never be known for fine food, we managed to find a French restaurant with edible food and a decent wine list. The meal was only marginally better than average, but we shamefully admit that hanging out in the bar for post-dinner drinks with 70 year-old Frenchmen keeping company with immensely tall blondes of plastic surgery-enhanced indeterminate age swathed in luxurious fur added much to the entertainment value of the evening.

We woke up the next morning, and stuffed our carbohydrate-starved bodies at the Grey Fox's legendary Dutch Pancake breakfast (don't know why it's legendary, don't know why it's Dutch, but by God we stuffed ourselves with pancakes filled with all kinds of ridiculously good and fattening things, racheting ourselves one notch higher on some medical risk chart for cardiovascular incidents), and wandered around Stowe, doing some shopping (read: procuring three more varieties of maple candy).

Then we discovered the English pub.

Ye Olde England Inne is the cheesiest faux-Tudor building in town, and we would have avoided it like the plague, except that it was a perfectly clear and crisp Fall afternoon in New England, the "Inne"'s restaurant had a huge, empty deck overlooking most of the town, and I have a secret love for British food.

I know... trust me, I know. There's no rational explanation for it, and I've spent half my life concealing my shameful addiction to kidney pie, fish and chips, and bangers and mash from my dearest friends and family. *Sob* It's been so hard...

So when we came upon the empty deck of Mr. Pickwick's Pub, housed in the "Inne," we were sucked in. Well, I was, at least. After living on instant Lipton's and burning thousands of calories a day hoofing up and down mountains, Ye Olde Hiker Bod was not going to be deprived of carbs-- lots and lots o' fatty, greasy carbs. The Limping One really had no choice but to follow me, or else be left out on the sidewalk, forlorn and looking for another luncheon companion.

As it turned out, we kicked back on a sunny deck, had a great meal, and a total blast. Some three hours, three courses, and three bottles of wine later, after digging into a cheese plate, a charcuterie plate, bangers and mash, fish and chips, and whatever else we ordered that we can't even remember now, we dragged ourselves to the Green Mountain Inn.

The Inn is everything it's cracked up to be, no doubt. We were quickly taken to a carriage house of eight suites, and our suite had a huge, plush four-poster bed, a fireplace, sitting room, and a whirlpool tub the size of our swimming pool. We once again grabbed fistfuls of sudsy things (and a bottle of wine) and plunged ourselves into the steaming hot whirlpool. Whirlpool? Guuudd. Wine? Even guuudder.

Dinner in the Inn's dining room that night was just okay, but we didn't care, because the night was capped off by both of us, blissfully unconscious, in the ridiculously fluffy, four-poster bed.

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