“You know you’ve been holed up too long, when a simple trip to the grocery store highlights how far your chit chat skills have fallen. With real enthusiasm, but none of my usual eloquence, I stood before the cashier. “There’s nothing like a good box”, I said. He took up the gauntlet. “Right?”. Maybe there was a short pause, but he quickly glossed over it. “So much better than bags. And, you can use them again ... for other ... stuff”. I wasn’t quick with a comeback, but since I was watching him scan my items, I got an idea. “Nothing like a good potato,” I said, with some effort. We both watched carefully, as my bag of red potatoes went on by, down the conveyor belt, skidding gently, to a stop. Gosh, since when had buying food become so fraught? It thought back to the days of taking all my kids food shopping. Had it been easier, somehow, to arrive at the register with a screaming child? At least then, I could distance myself, somewhat. Not my fault! Now, it was clearly my fault. I was no longer on my game, saying stupid things, like this, to an employee, of a business I admired. Well, you can bet I ran out of there with my cappuccino, and took back roads, all the way home, despite 30 miles of frost heaves. A fail in town did not mean a fail, on the trail. I contacted my cohort immediately, upon reaching my wood stove. “Time for an adventure?” I texted, with a virtual wink and a smiley face. “I was just about to text you!” she exclaimed. The universe evidently knew, I was on the same page with at least one other person. I texted back. “I got an idea”. She didn’t need coaxing. We reconnoitered in my driveway, within minutes. We took the truck, feeling that we might need studs, and passed David’s house, then Lucky Seven, the artesian roadside spring, and finally, the Ripton store. But staying on task, we clipper-ed onward, to the turn-off, connected to another turn-off, where the road might, or might not be plowed, to Silver Lake. Impressive, really, how far we could drive, and then a little further, on un-sanded packed snow, until it was, decidedly, the end. We parked. “Here, not a moment too soon”, she quipped, as the dog bounded out of the back. “This is ... remote”, she breathed. We stood for a minute, in the silence, and the snow. “Oh, everyone says that about other parts of Vermont besides their own”, I replied. It would be an hour downhill, booted & snow shoed, to the closed up campground, its elegant hemlock groves leading to a frozen lake, and rushing sluiceway outflow, from miles distant Sugar Hill Reservoir. I was cold. My coat, not buttoned properly, was taking on too much air, and my sweat had soaked through two layers. “I prefer hikes to be uphill going in, and downhill, going out,” I muttered. She agreed, for there was no point in protesting the obvious. It would be a slog, either way, and only good humor would save us,. Our dog wagged and leapt to take the lead. There are times when enthusiasm is clearly, no fool.”
