Because life is short & the world is big
It had been at least 15 years since we attended the Vermont State Fair. Back, then we had small children and spent a lot of time in the 4H Barn looking at the cows. Now it was just the two of us, going back to the Rutland Fairgrounds in summer 2022 to see if this annual Vermont tradition is worth our time as adults.
The answer” absolutely yes! Watch and see.
First bike ride of the year in Ludlow, just 10 miles into town and back. God, the roads are in bad condition! But it was a sunny 70 degrees. Lovely start to the season!
First kayak of the year on Lake Rescue!
From 85 degrees to 45. From ocean to lake. Big adjustments! Good to be home, though. Stick season has a couple of big advantages: we can see Lake Rescue from our house for a few weeks. And we can see the birds nests.
Why do I love kayaking? It’s hard to explain, but today’s excursion on the Caribbean Sea really has me thinking about it. Let me try to explain.
I have spent the past two summers on Lake Rescue in Vermont, where I spent hours paddling around that 200-acre body of water in the Green Mountains. Nowhere do I feel more at home than tucked into my little orange boat, floating in the middle of Lake Rescue.
But that watery home was always changing, a metaphor for life, I guess. Sometimes I would slip out of bed at 6 AM and waft my boat into the early morning fog, beckoned by the haunting calls of the loons. Sometimes I would escape my family (this was the pandemic, after all) for some quiet time to myself after dinner, and watch the bald eagle father interact with his child as the sun set over the lake.
Sometimes I would kayak fiercely down to the Red Bridge at the far end of the lake, only to see a storm coming in that would soak me as I fought the winds to get home.
On weekend afternoons in summer, I would soak up the energy of my neighbors as some people water skied, another set up a lemonade stand on the family dock, kids dove off platforms out on the water, and a giant inflatable pink pelican bobbed up and down.
Come fall, the people would leave, and Lake Rescue would become a place of peace and solitude. Most of the local birds would leave, but then visiting ones would arrive, stopping for a few days here and there on their way south, sometimes providing a thrilling show.
Kayaking in Puerto Rico is a completely different animal. We’re currently living in the southwest corner of the island, and the Caribbean Sea is an impossibly glorious shade of turquoise, or deep blue, or aquamarine, depending on the angle of the sun and the invisible organisms living in the water. The sea itself is a living being, breathing in and out onto the shore. Its waves can welcome your boat and gently accompany you on your ride, or they can toss you around, throw up obstacles, and remind you that you are a tiny speck on a huge ocean.
Kayak out a ways from shore and the world looks different. The palm trees wave from a distance. The sky becomes huge. Sometimes it grows angry, and besets you with torrents of water. It slaps you and resists you and makes you feel small and powerless.
Sometimes it teases you with beautiful weather, only to reveal its true nature when you’re far from shore and see the black clouds moving in, the ones that were hidden from view when your feet were on land. The waves grow restless. The thunder rumbles. The surging water decides which way you will go. White seabirds glow as they soar above you, reflecting the sun to your right, a stark contrast to the black clouds to the left.
The views are spectacular. Sailboats pose in front of black skies like supermodels strutting down a runway. You want to take pictures, but the sea takes your boat where it wants while you are focusing and shooting. You wrest control back from the sea as best you can — you, an insignificant mortal, vs. the sea, the turquoise lifeblood of the planet.
A rogue wave hits you. You are covered with water. It’s all over you; it’s around you; it’s under you. You are soaked. The sea is still restless. The strong wind pushes your hat off. You are glad you don’t have shoes; your bare feet are connected to the plastic boat. You keep paddling. You are soaked but still upright. You feel invigorated. You lean back in your seat, put your feet up, stop paddling, just experience the moment. Out in the middle of the sea. Water all around you. Sun above; storm approaching. You are part of the ocean. You are inside the water. You are physically connected to the planet.
One paddle, two blades. Dip left, dip right, left, right, one fluid movement. Get a rhythm and fly across the water. Or not.
This is why I love kayaking.
We’re finishing up our Vermont maple liqueur in a symbolic transition as we prepare to depart next week for the next stop on the Messy Suitcase tour, the birthplace of piña coladas: Puerto Rico!
Our September vacation in England (taking our oldest child, Aryk, who is pursuing their master’s at Bath Spa University, to school) was great preparation for re-entry to our traveling lifestyle, post-COVID version. We are double-vaxxed, indoor-masked, and ready to launch our lives again as traveling retirees.
Before we set off, we’re spending a long weekend in Colchester, VT, north of Burlington, with our son, Gavin, who was also with us when we launched the traveling life in 2018.
On Tuesday, Gavin returns to Champlain College after this break, and Bob and I head to Manchester, NH, to park our car at a park/sleep/fly lot and board a plane the next morning for Puerto Rico!
This time we will be renting a car instead of driving our own. We’ll have just one cat, Kaylee, instead of the three we started with — Equinox passed away in Mexico City last year, and Ellie lives with Gavin at Champlain College. We are heading to Puerto Rico, a US territory, instead of back to Mexico for COVID safety and COVID convenience — less testing hassle.
But life is too short to spend any more time waiting for the pandemic to end. It’s time to live again. We have to learn to navigate COVID while staying safe and enjoying life. We plan to spend a month in Luquillo in an oceanfront condo, and a month in San Juan.
Wish us luck, and subscribe to our blog!
Hasta la vista!
Lisa
I had a fascinating encounter with the bald eagle family of Lake Rescue this morning. They live there year-round, and have been residents for years, entrancing the human residents of this lovely lake in southern Vermont.
When I came around the bend in my kayak at 6:45 AM, the mother eagle was waiting for me in a tall tree nearby. Can you spot her?
I checked the nest: empty.
Then the baby popped up.
Mom immediately flew over to him.
She landed on a nearby branch and the two interacted for a long time.
It’s so awesome to start the day with this!
We are back in Vermont, we are vaccinated—twice—and May 18 is the official date that we are emancipated from the threat of COVID-19!
We have spent the last six months in Pennsylvania closing down Bob’s late mother’s condo while the kids finished their semesters of school. In the meantime Lisa has been working on the final edit of the Young Adult novel she began in late 2019, and both of us have been studying Spanish ardently.
We moved back up to our second home in Ludlow, VT, this past Sunday, and after months of cleaning out a lifetime’s worth of stuff, then packing up, moving out of one home, and moving back into another, we are frankly exhausted, physically and emotionally.
So of course, the first thing we did was relax in the hot tub with mimosas to celebrate the moment and toast the future.
There is so much to do here in Vermont—kayaking, hiking, birdwatching, visiting breweries, exploring New England towns, enjoying outdoor concerts, going to farmers markets, shopping, enjoying so much that Vermont has to offer. And we have started planning our next travels. Watch for that in the next Messy Suitcase blog!
Hasta La Vista!
We found the Tucker Johnson Shelter at the cold halfway point of a recent hike on the Appalachian/Long Trail south of Pico Mountain, just when we needed it. We had hiked a mile and a half up the mountain, to a point where the wind was becoming quite biting on a crisp November afternoon, so we were happy to take refuge in this three-sided building.
The trail guide that I use said that a shelter was going to be built sometime “after 2012,” and the building was a welcome sight. The shelter looked brand new, its blond wood barely weathered.
I did a little digging and discovered that the shelter was constructed by Green Mountain Club volunteers in fall 2018. (Read the story here.)
The shelter was open on one side, and had four bunk beds. A sign on the wall instructed hikers on how to hang their food so they wouldn’t attract unwelcome bear scavengers. There was even a privy (outdoor toilet) nearby, the lap of luxury for through-hikers.
I imagine a night of shelter can be a welcome respite in the middle of a long hike.
There was very little graffiti on the inside, attesting to the youth of the structure, but we enjoyed the stories the etchings told.
Inside, we found a sign-in book inside a sealed plastic bag, with lots of travelers’ comments as they stopped for shelter along the trail.
I enjoyed flipping through the book, where travelers with nicknames like V for Vendetta, Missing Person, andEarly Bird shared snippets of their lives on the trail. The first entry was in July 2109. The last was the one I left, signed by “The Hammster,” my new trail name.
Here are a few of the entries. If you click on individual pictures, they will expand so that you can read them better.
The last thing I noticed was a heart-shaped, painted stone that someone had left in the shelter. Choose love, my friends.
I kayaked Lake Rescue in 29 degrees this morning to see how it looked with its trees, some still fall-tinged, cloaked in soft early snow, and encountered an astonishing 25 loons swimming together back and forth in the south end.
I assume they were a migrating group that came from the Adirondack lakes and were gathering up others on their way migrating to the Atlantic coast. They made no sound, just swam together, occasionally craning their necks or ruffling their wings.
In the end, they took to the air, flying together in three or four glorious circles around the lake, sometimes, right over my head, before heading off to parts unknown.
Goodbye, loons. Safe travels. Thanks for the memories. See you next year!
Addendum: I have since learned that these birds are in fact not loons but white-winged scoters. Still stunning.
