My road trip meditation is only interupted by truck stop coffee breaks At last the darkness begins to fade and in
the half light of morning, I find my way to the Coffee Time Diner. After a good solid breakfast and a burger to go for Doc
we are on our way again.
We are climbing and as we swing around a wide curve it begins. The first long view of the mountains is always amazing.
The morning mist hangs in the valleys. The mountain tops look like islands floating in a still, pink sea.
I feel a catch in my throat and my eyes are wet. Doc is sitting with his face on the dashboard. His eyes are shining,
too. Spring comes to Vermont with a a bang. It seems to happen over night. The world is gray and cold, day after day and then,
all at once, the sky is blue, the sun is shining and all the leaves seem to have openned at the same time in one grand burst
of green.
It is warm for a Vermont morning. Still, I'm glad I brought my jacket. Off in the distance woodstove smoke curls
up into the pale blue sky. We continue grinding our way up the highway. Springtime waterfalls splash down the great walls
of granite on both sides of the road. On the next stretch I can look off into the countryside for miles. There is the town
of Milford nestled in the foothills of Black Bear Mountain. Its tall white church steeples imitate the peaks behind them.
Just a few more miles and we come to our exit from the highway.
We turn onto the Starr Route. The road curves and turns and passes through small towns. These are towns with white
houses with black shutters on tree lined streets that lead to the village green. The green has a gazebo and maybe a fountain,
sometimes a statue and always flower gardens. At one side of the green you will find a church with a steeple. Each town has
at least one, sometimes two or three. Down on Main Street you will see an inn, a few stores, a couple of restaurants and a
couple of bars. Then, there are more houses, farther and farther apart and then it is open land again. Fifteen or so miles
farther down the road another town with a name ending in -ford or -field and the whole scene repeats with few variations.
In Fenton we turn off the Starr Route onto the River Road. The river twists and bends, narrows and opens wide and
flattens out. Good fishing here. I find a pull off and let Doc out. He is in the river in record time.
I wander down to the river bank and just sit there for a while. I'm half wishing I had my fishing rod and the other
half of the wish is to be in bed somewhere, anywhere. I am so tired. I close my eyes. The morning sun is on my face and all
I can hear is the rushing water.
The next thing I know my face is covered with kisses, sloppy, wet, dog kisses! "Doc! Get in the car!" We follow the
river for miles, then, turn off and begin to ascend, making our way through the gap. Doc twirls around the car seat. He knows
we are getting close, by country standards, anyway. I have down shifted to second gear and we are only halfway up the Gap
Road. Tall pines close in near the side of the road. After taking sharp curve to the left I see a clear view of the back of
Misery Mountain. The Falls of Las Grimas cascade down the entire mountaide. There are still huge masses of ice at the top.
You have to be here to see the sun flashing off the ice and the water and hear the roar and feel the power.
We continue up to the crest of the mountain pass. The White Mountains of New Ham[shire are in my rear view mirror.
Straight ahead lay New York's Adirondacks. Eight layers of Mountains fold behind themselves as we decend until the last layer
disappears from view. We have crossed the gap.
We round a couple of hard turns and we are on the flat. Corn fields and hay fields and pastures roll by. On the right,
two farm kids in bluejeans stand at the end of a long driveway. Their hair is slicked back and they hold lunchpails in their
hands. They are waiting for the school bus. I was one of those kids so many years ago.
Time seems to have stopped in this place. I am looking at my child self. I am smiling now as we pass Frenchie's Crossing.
Frenchie is pumping gas in front of the General Store. He waves as I go by. I feel like I had never left. Only a couple more
miles to go to Maple Corner Road. The trees are so tall and so close to the road they bend over and meet overhead. It makes
a dark, green tunnel. When we were kids, we would whistle when we walked through. "Are you sure there's no such thing as a
ghost, Mom?" I am 10 years old again. I make a right turn past the old Mosher Farm. Doc is looking all around and making little
yip noises.
And there it is! The farm, our farm. The white house and the red barn are exactly the same. A tire swing still hangs
from the old Red Maple in the yard. My mother and father are standing on the front porch as if they knew I were coming. I
pull into the yard no longer tired. I let Doc out and he runs to the porch first and back to me. Then he puts his nose to
the ground and he is trotting toward the woods. In an instant an old city dog becomes a country dog again.
J.P. Wood, writer and teacher, died Tuesday at his Cambridge MA apartment. Born in Maple Corner, Vt. He was 87. He
spent his early years after graduating from UVM as a free lance journalist traveling the world. He lived in Cambridge, MA
for the past 45 years teaching journalism at Emerson College until retirment. Burial will be in the family plot in Kent Corner,
VT.
