Motorhome News from North America 24

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Motorhome News from North America 24 24th September - 3rd October 2006
New England in the Fall. The Hills are Alive!

Rain came eventually as it does, moving us on for the long drive west, across-country through Bangor, Newport, Skowhegan, and Rangeley (in the general direction of Montreal). We drove for two hundred miles beside rising hillsides and cloud-swept mountains clad in the autumn colours of broad-leaved trees, each leaf a bold dot of oil on the canvas: the bronze of beech, yellow of birch on stark white stems, red of oaks, ash still green awaiting the first frost, poplar shimmering gold on rounded stems, bright edged sumac, and the fresh orange and reds of maples; holding back, tempting us to stay a while, tantalisingly balanced on the edge of flame. By the roadside Maine homes showed early signs of neglect, flaking paint, rusty cars in unkempt gardens, cardboard boxes on untidy porches. Is this perhaps the land of yesteryear’s hippies?

That long drive took us out of Maine, climbing up through the dazzling colours of Grafton Notch and into New Hampshire, at Errol in the north, following the road down to the White Mountain National Forest. We were anxious to arrive in this area within the window of a few days when fall colours would be at their best - not too early, not too late. The weather had remained exceptionally mild both day and night and we were told that if it continued that way the leaves might fall before the colours peak. Our journey started in January in Arizona as you will recall, for the best of winter sunshine and with an outline plan to be in New England to witness the splendour of autumn colours only to be seen here - and in Japan we're led to believe. The spectacle owes much to the presence of mixed broad-leafed woodland over vast areas, but it is the maples that create the breathtaking magic, the ecstasy, the flaming reds in a scene as spellbinding and dramatic as the great fjords of Norway, the canyons of Arizona, the mountains and lakes of British Columbia or the magnificence of the rolling hills of Tuscany. It is hard to believe there are so many trees in this world. But it is not the trees alone that bring magic to this place. It is the variety of colour in every direction. As Janice says, “If all the trees were the same colour the impact would be lost.” How true. Perhaps our photographs will help to paint the glory, where words alone might fail. On the other hand, you might like to try your luck with a bit of painting.

Pick your own selection of fall leaf colours from those below and paint a few trees. When you have finished you should have the same picture as we enjoy from our windows as we dine each evening.

Your New England Fall Colour Chart:
Apple green, pine green, lime, citrus, yellow, ochre, chestnut, cherry, scarlet, crimson, ruby, plum, amber, tangerine, gold, copper and cerise.



We have trodden this route through New England before, back in midsummer 1988, when we drove our hired car along the precarious toll road to the top of Mount Washington. At 6,288ft the mountain is often shrouded in cloud - if we were to venture that way again it would necessitate clear skies and good visibility to make the journey worthwhile. Recent mornings had been overcast, brightening as the day progressed. With a keen eye to the cloud over the Mountain we first ventured to Sugar Hill and Polly’s Pancake Parlour around mid-morning to sample their renowned delights and wait out the sun. Six pancakes, sausage, and maple syrup heavier, we headed for brighter skies, Mount Washington and the cog railway; still pictured in my mind's eye as a smoky black silhouette, puffing and panting, “I think I can, I think I can.”

The brainchild of one Sylvester Marsh, the cog railway runs throughout the summer months, snorting dragon flames from beneath the boiler and belching plumes of black smoke across the mountainside. It takes 75 minutes of snorting, pummelling, rattling, banging and crunching to make the journey over cogs and rickety wooden trestles to the top, up backbreaking inclines as tough as 37%. Amazing as it might seem, the engines are those built in 1870, overhauled, repaired, rebuilt and refurbished until little is left of the original, but working still, carrying wagon loads of passengers to the freezing summit several times each day. It was cold at the top; 10 degrees Fahrenheit in the howling wind, horizontal icicles like jagged dogs’ teeth on the rocks angrily trying to bite our ankles. Janice was last seen hanging by the fingernails from the mountaintop sign.
The Appalachian Trail crosses over Mount Washington at the very top. There was one guy in shorts defrosting in the coffee shop, his forty pound pack resting on the floor, waiting for his blood to thaw before launching off again, down into the valley, challenging every last inch of the 2,100 mile stroll from Georgia to Maine. We have to be in Florida before we get snowed in, so we’ll leave that little walk for another time!

Temperatures - at normal living level, have been in the 60’s during the day for some weeks, helping us to get the best from our travels. Cooler nights are on the way with September in her dying days and jack-frost knocking at the door selling scarves and gloves. The heating came on for the first time at Franconia Notch State Park camp site, parked beside a babbling brook strewn with granite boulders. The air was golden with evening sunlight through the canopy, a flurry of beach leaves whirled across the path on a soft breeze like confetti at a wedding - and fallen leaves crackled underfoot on our forest walk next morning. Cape May warblers flitted in the treetops and the sweet musty smell of autumnal woodland; that tantalising tang of roasting chestnuts, followed us throughout the day. A major attraction in this winter resort area was the visible face of The Old Man of the Mountain, an outcrop of rock resembling a rugged face high above the road through the park - until 2003, when it eventually collapsed that is. Now, people come in hordes to see where it was! ‘The legend of the ‘Old Man’ lives on,’ the leaflets pronounce! Rather akin to a visit to see the Twin Towers.

As we’re visitors to the US, we’ll be polite and not mention the 2006 Ryder Cup. For some unknown reason we forgot it was happening on Sunday and had to read the result in the paper on Monday morning. Someone has to lose.

There’s no forgetting it’s autumn here. Fall and harvest are celebrated in no uncertain terms. Homes, stores and hotel forecourts are bedecked with captivating displays of hay bales, maze, and huge yellow pumpkins, straw men in bibs and braces and gingham shirts like lazy scarecrows, and antique ploughs on neatly cut lawns. Pumpkin lanterns hang in trees and shops are stocked with Halloween goodies: witches hats, luminescent skeletons and trick-or-treat masks. Garden centres have ‘Mums’ (chrysanthemums) for sale heralding Thanksgiving: red, yellow and purple, bright in pots everywhere.


It appears the hunting season will shortly be upon us. Gun shops are promoting repairs and new models, and ATV shops are offering a ‘Full hunting season service’ for $49.95'. What chance has the poor moose against the gun and a madman on a four-wheeled motorbike? I won’t bore you with my feelings on the subject of hunting. We have met many people in North America, men and women, who are proud to claim they are hunters. Give the bear, moose and deer guns, I say, then it might be a fair fight.
Wilderness suitable for hunting is not difficult to find across North America. There are many tracts of land where one could wander for days in dense forest without seeing another living soul, a road, a track, or a home. Driving major roads through the country as we do, we often travel twenty miles or more without seeing a house (though they might just be hiding somewhere along a narrow track beside a remote lake).

By chance a local paper headline caught our eye: ‘Anniversary celebrations at Squam Lake.’ The name meant nothing to us, but reading on, we were enlightened. The following day we took a gondola to the top of Loon Mountain, checking out the ski-trails and slopes for which this area is famous, before heading south, about thirty miles off our route, to Squam Lake. It is much like any other lake in North America; white-cottage trimmed around its shore, a scattering of small boats on wooden docks - a pair of mystic loons haunting the mist of a summer’s evening. You would surely know it if you saw it in the right setting, and heard the wailing call of the loon. Yes, this year celebrates the 25th Anniversary of the making of ‘On Golden Pond,’ filmed here on Squam Lake, with Katherine Hepburn and Henry Fonda. What better place to sit and ponder the inevitable, watching the passing of light trimmed ripples on water?

We arrived in the ‘Green Mountain State’ of Vermont on a fine sunny evening of long shadows and golden arrows in broad lines over grassy meadows by homely farmsteads. Our flight through the Vermont trees started in Stowe, a smart ski-resort of idyllic white houses and tall-spired churches, all so New England: white picket fences and art galleries, squeaky clean and affluent. It hasn’t changed a lot since our last visit, it has grown somewhat pleasantly, but the memories fade and there were things we missed. Beyond the motel where we stayed in ’88, is Smugglers Notch, a narrow pass on a steep switchback road between rocky outcrops. Even in the rain, this route was spectacular, passing through a narrow tunnel of overhanging trees in a kaleidoscope of dazzling autumn colour. The road was well used during Jefferson’s 1807 embargo on trade with Britain and Canada - and in the days of prohibition in the 1920’s; hence its name. The road is closed to traffic each winter, beyond the reaches of the snow-plough, but Winnie has no problem with minor excursions such as this. Bigger rigs would fall at the first hairpin!

Time passes as we travel, through areas of history, culture, wildlife, scenic wonders and hiking phases. This week the silver screen comes to mind with another one of those greats, 'The Sound of Music’, following closely on the tearful heels of ‘On Golden Pond’. The von Trapp family settled in Stowe after their escape from Austria, and the spectacular ‘Trapp Family Lodge’ serves as a reminder of their presence. Lunch and tasty pastries in the Austrian Tea Room out of the drizzle will long be remembered too! The Tea Room overlooks forested hills and a grassy meadow, tempting an arm-waving romp and a rendition of a certain song we all know so well. ‘All together now!’

For the next few days we would follow Highway 100 south, (with a diversion to revive our memories of Woodstock) down between the gentle Vermont hills resplendent in their fall colours, floor to ceiling murals passing by every window, driving slowly to capture the moment - lines of patient cars and trucks in the rear-view mirror.
Woodstock. Yes, we had to return to Woodstock after eighteen years - if only to check that the white picket fences and chocolate box houses on maple streets were really there. It has not changed; the functional main street shops are well turned out, spacious wood-lap houses nestle on leafy streets, heavenly church spires gaze ever upwards - an air of serenity, timelessness, pervades. It is a tourist town, but there is little if any sign of gift shops, just those you would expect to see in your own home-town: the baker, the ironmonger, the grocer and general store, an art gallery or two, a café, restaurant, hairdresser - without the out-of-town mall that would accompany any resort. It was enough just to wander aimlessly through town awhile, dreaming that such idyllic senses could exist back home.

Logging came to Vermont in the early 19th Century much as it did throughout New England. By 1850 some 90% of its forests had been removed, leaving barren hills and serious soil erosion. Then a certain enlightened gentleman named George Perkins Marsh came to New England’s aid. Brought up on a Woodstock farm he served in Congress in the 1840’s. His concern for man’s desolation of the earth was expressed in his book, ‘Man and Nature’ paving the way for sensible woodland management observed here today. His home and farm passed into the hands of two other great conservationists, Frederick Billings in 1869 and, more recently, Laurance S. Rockefeller who, with his wife Mary, gifted the rambling mansion and grounds of what is now known as 'The Marsh-Billings-Rockefeller House', to the National Parks in 1997. The vast areas of broad-leaved trees we see in New England today are the reflection of subsequent soundly managed natural re-growth.

Vermont is blessed with little industry outside of farming (particularly dairy) and lumber, amassing its wealth through tourism in all seasons and colours: the brilliant white of winter snow, the stunning greens of spring, the clear blue skies of summer and the sheer splendour of fall. Vermont as a whole remains robust in defence of its rural values, its culture and history. There is little evidence of development, no ‘Lots for Sale’ signs, no bill-boards on streets, no neon signs, no shopping malls, no rusty cars….. 'Lord, lay me to rest in peace in verdant Vermont when my card comes to the top of the pile'.

South on the 100 again through ‘Small Town America’, tree lined hills and little villages with white cottages on picket-fenced greens: Weston, Jamaica, Wilmington and Jacksonville; on and on, into the bold hills and valleys of Massachusetts and The Berkshires. Industry quickly became more evident, lumber and pulp, larger towns, North Adams - could be anywhere in England, strung out houses, hurrying traffic; and then, Williamstown, a touch of wonderland, with airy streets and landscaped lawns, huge bright maples, book-laden students, the home of Williams College and its Ivy League image, lively, young and cheerful, in the mould of Cambridge or Oxford. The deeper we dig, the richer Massachusetts becomes.

There could be more excitement from The Berkshires and east to Boston, next week.


Janice and David. The grey-haired-nomads.


P.S.
As you have always suspected, our blog only skims over the surface of our daily routine. We thought it might amuse you to know how we really spend our ‘average’ day. So, let’s tell you about Saturday:

06.40 Leapt out of bed to switch on the propane and water heaters. (The outside temperature had dropped below freezing for the first time since February in California)
7.00 Hot showers, breakfast and clearing up - stowing loose items and disconnecting electricity and water.
09.00 Departed campsite in bright sunshine. Return visit to Trapp Family Lodge to see the view without the rain!
10.30 Investigated the Vermont Teddy Bear Factory to look for a new outfit for Todd. Rejected the cowboy outfit, the frilly tu-tu, the baseball and hockey suits, the Elvis costume, Dorothy and the tin man, biker leathers …. Sorry, Todd, perhaps another time.
11.30 Called in at a redundant church in Waitsfield for Janice to admire a wonderful quilting workshop. (new hobby?) Chatted for ages with the very talented glass worker in the same building.
12.30 Stopped at the Saturday ‘Farmer's and Craft Market’ for fresh veg, cheese and bread, nosing about amongst the craft stalls in glorious sunshine. Lunched in Winnie on the supermarket car park - bread and cheese!
14.00 Onward drive to Woodstock. The Chili Cook-off had just finished on the green. Walked to the Marsh-Billings-Rockefeller House (National Historic Site) for a free tour and wagon ride through the estate.
16.30 Watched the launch of four hot-air balloons on the green and arrived at our campsite at Quechee State Park around 5.40pm. 100miles clocked today - exactly!
18.00 Salmon kebabs with stir-fry for tea. Wrote the diaries and downloaded photos of the day. Planned to return to Woodstock tomorrow.
22.00 Time for bed.

Some days are better than that. (You don’t really want to know all that, do you?) How did your day go?

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Photos

Winnie in the trees
The colours are coming!

Grafton Notch
Beyond belief

Mount Washington
The cog Railway

Mount Washington
Brave Janice, shivering at the top!

Mount Washington
The train puffs it to the top too!

Fall in New England
The scarecrow

Squam Lake
On Golden Pond The picture does not do it justice

Stowe
The Trapp Lodge
Sing us a song!

Woodstock
The Marsh-Billings-Rockefeller House

Comments

[liliram]

hi there
You must have suspected I'd be trolling through your blogs , much that I enjoy your writing and the information I gain from reading them. While you consistently write very well, your poetic inclinations become more evident (methinks) when you pass through lovely, verdant , quaint towns and villages. In this case, the hues of autumn. Lovely.