ON TO VERMONT
Today dawned bright and warm, a good omen for the drive from Montreal down through the Green Mountain State to Killington. I had lived in the Killington ski resort town from 1997 to 2003 and enjoyed the healthy lifestyle that goes with mountain living.
A very good night’s rest at Loews in downtown Montreal saw Ben and myself out for an early morning walk before the heat of the day set upon us. He was clearly still feeling pain from the bad left hip and progress was shall we say, sedate. Streets in a major city entertainment district are never a pleasant sight in the early morning and Montreal is no exception to the street debris that signals in silent disgrace the excesses of the previous evening. A sad reflection on the human condition juxtaposed with the architecture that evidences aspirations of a more worthy nature. A small army of the unseen workers that labour to maintain cleanliness and order before the bulk of the city workers arrive at their places of employment was transforming the scene to something better. This is part of life in a city, not exactly the most romantic part and so often forgotten.
I have done the drive from Montreal airport to Killington, my old ski hometown in Vermont, many times and so knew full well that today was to be a feast for the eyes. I set my route for Plattsburgh in NY in order to cross into VT via the ferry on Lake Champlain, a lovely little ride I knew well and had never tired of the scenery. The wonderful staff at Loews were extremely helpful in getting Ben and myself packed up into the van once again and we set out.
I am not normally at all worried when I drive across bridges - of any size - but I find the rusting hulking structures that serve Montreal to be worrisome indeed. They have always been thus in my experience and I am always pleased to be clear of them. South we went through rural QC to the border with NY. And there we faced a problem. The young border officer at the Nexus booth was difficult to for me understand and we had a strange little conversation of the crossed wire variety. And then it went downhill. He asked for Ben’s ‘papers’. In literally dozens of border crossings with Ben this was the first time I had been asked for his papers; but we were OK, I had the relevant medical health certificate I always obtain before travel. He looked at it and then said ‘yes, very good, but what about his rabies certificate’? I was completely unaware that it was a requirement to carry a pet’s rabies certificate and did not have it. Luckily Ben goofed up his adorable ‘please love me’ factor and a small international crisis was averted! Just a note to any readers that do take their dogs south, the Dept of Agriculture has been pressing US Customs and Border Protection to force that particular rule more stringently than has been the case until now.
The Champlain ferry ride was as lovely as I remembered it and we slid across a glassy lake under a clear blue sky.
The drive through the Green Mountain range that runs down the backbone of Vermont provides a delight of scenic opportunities that rival any I have ever encountered. It is not the stark majesty of say the Alaska range or the Rockies or even the Alps, it is just the most wonderful collection of small mountains which at this time of year is covered with intensely green trees. For me it imparts a wonderful sense of serenity and calm and well being. Come the fall the colours provided by the maples turning to red is spectacular and it results in swarms of tourists driving the byways very slowly as they take in the view, Locals call them ‘the leaf peepers’ which is very apt.
As I drew toward the end of this drive I began to recognize so many of the roads and byways I had cycled nearly 20 years earlier. Nothing much had changed and I found that strangely comforting. Vermont has a slow pace of life, maybe we could all do with a little Vermont in our lives from time to time.
Ben didn’t care. He had slept soundly on the back seat since the border incident missing every single green hill along the way. But he awoke as I turned into the steep gravel driveway of our host, Pat and Walter Linnemayr. They had been neighbours when I lived there and had been good friends for many years. Ben was delighted to see them and in his prancing around fell smack into a large bunch of catnip Pat grows in their lovely garden. I know nothing about catnip but I am told it may have been that in addition to the cool mountain air that transformed him within the half hour. From the sad, sore, stiff animal that limped around Montreal he became highly animated, very active and clearly very happy. His tail has hardly stopped wagging since we arrived here and it is a wonderful thing to see.
One strange episode occurred after dinner as the light was fading. I decided to take Ben for his normal post prandial stroll and we headed out down the driveway, him running on ahead. When he reached the road he turned left, walked a few paces, pulled up sharply, did a 180 and scooted off in the opposite direction. He did not stop util he reached the top of the driveway of my old house about a quarter mile away. This was a trip I had taken with my old border collie Rocky hundreds of times and for just a moment I wondered why Ben had chosen to run that way and to this spot. Two almost identical border collies, markings, physical shape and size as well as temperament - separated by twenty years, and yet……….