2006-07-25
leave no trace
The floors at the Gables Inn squeak when I walk on them. "Good morning," says the chalkboard by the front door. "Please wait to be seated."
I flip over the menu and read the inn's FAQ:
Q: "Where's Yogi?"
A: Yogi, our beautiful golden retriever, stays in the office when meals are being served. He'd love to say "hi" on your way out.
Q: Do people really order chicken livers for breakfast?
A: Yes.
Q: Where did the hot tub go?
A: It's in the corner of the front lawn underneath the Xmas tree.
Our waitress, a blonde ponytailed chick, wears a t-shirt that says, "Breakfast, lunch, and dinner" below a drawing of a martini.
Mama says, "I like those wildy flowers growing by the road." We sit on the lawn outside under bright yellow umbrellas. I can see Xmas lights on the pine beside a stone path.
"I'd leave them there year round," says Mama. She squints at the horizon. "Those clouds are just sitting there like a painting."
A guy in a tank top jogs past us. Then another panting dude streaks by, and another, and another. It's some kind of race. We watch them sprint and clap in clumps of three.
* * *
We take the scenic gondola to Mt. Mansfield. I feel like shouting, The Hills Are Alive! The squeaky pods are so different from the single chairs in the black-and-white photos of the 1940s, like two sleds nailed together. The pod sways from side to side as we creep higher. It rumbles with teeth-rattling gusto at the top. I step out quickly--almost hopping--as the pod swings around a corner.
The air smells sharper up here, full of green, growing things. A handsome Indian family in saris poses for a picture on a slab of rock. They chatter nonstop and blink at the ski lift.
Later we hike up Smuggler's Notch (which seems full of fat, leather-jacketed Harley Davidson women and another young family of Indians). I scoot past the Indian moms and leap from one toothlike crevice to another...following the watery rays of sunlight. At the top I can see long and deep into the distance...mountains bearded with pines, the jagged ski trails like scars between trees.
As I scurry back down, I spot Mama scrambling up, no problem, and laughing with the Indians. The only words I understand are, "Oh, my god."
"What language do you speak?" Mama wants to know.
"Hindi," says the girl with the longest eyelashes. "And what do you speak?"
"English," Mama says and everyone laughs.
As we leave, I pass a sign that says:
Walk only on the rocks.
Stay on the marked trail.
Take only pictures.
Leave no trace.
f-i-n at 3:58 p.m.