Vermont rocks!

While this didn't happen out my front door, it happened out a front door. Namely the front door of the hotel we were staying at in Londonderry, Vermont. Dee Dee was attending a Wanderlust yoga festival for 5 days and I went with her with my mountain bike and trail shoes loaded into the Jeep. I should have left the bike at home as there was no mountain biking in southern Vermont. And after a few trail runs I understood why.

 The first day there I dropped Dee Dee off to be all bendy for the day and drove around to various outfitters buying maps and getting trail info. The second day I had a challenging route all planned out, aided by the fact that a Wanderlust sponsor was paying to have the Stratton Mountain gondolas running all weekend. 

My plan was to take the gondola to the top of the mountain (3940'), run 3/4 of a mile of connector trail to the Appalachian Trail, drop down the mountain to a dirt road I had driven the day before, run a mile on the road, run up Stratton Pond Trail to connect to the Appalachian Trail again at Stratton Pond, climb back to the top of Stratton Mountain and take the gondola back down. A 14 mile loop with a lot of climbing, but still reasonable, I thought.

Well, Dee Dee's yoga sessions didn't start until noon that day, so after I dropped her off I was getting a pretty late start. Dee Dee rode the gondola to the top of the mountain with me, gave me a kiss and told me to be careful (she always says that).

After hearing of my plan, the gondola operator at the top of the mountain warned me that the gondola's quit running at 5:00 pm. So, I jogged down the connector trail and found a handy log to stash a plastic bag of dry clothes behind for the return trip down the mountain. A short time later I came to the Appalachian Trail junction and turned South, heading down the mountain. It was Friday and I happened upon a lot of hikers heading the other way up the mountain. They were all carrying huge packs and moving pretty darn slow. I was feeling pretty smug, not being encumbered by anything more than a water bottle belt and a couple packs of GU.

It became apparent pretty quickly why everyone was moving so slowly. Rocks. Boulders. Baby heads as far as the eye could see. What I had envisioned as a quick drop down the mountain was turning into a scramble down what for all intents and purposes was a dry waterfall and creek bed. I traveled a good half mile before my feet even touched dirt. Running when I could and scrambling when I had to, it took me an hour to cover the first two and a half miles, losing 1500' along the way. This did not bode well for my plan since I would have to cover the next 11.5 miles and climb 1700' in four hours.

Thankfully, I'd been clever enough to plan a bailout route. At the end of my first 2.5 miles I crossed a grassy snowmobile trail that would cut a whole bunch of distance off my loop and it promised to be a whole lot more runnable than the Appalachian Trail.

 

So I turned right up the snowmobile trail, heading North in order to connect with the Appalachian Trail again. Yep, the grassy doubletrack was way more runnable and I made good time but was regretting leaving the shade of the deep woods. I stopped to take pictures of this wetland I crossed and was hoping to see a moose lift it's head up out of the water with a mouthful of water weeds (c'mon, that's what every picture of a moose looks like). No moose but I did pass by a ruffed grouse that did the whole broken-wing dance for me so I knew there were some chicks around somewhere.

A little over 3 miles later I connected with the Appalachian Trail again and started my 1800' climb back to the top of Stratton Mountain. Almost immediately I started running into the hikers I had met on my way down the mountain at the beginning of the run. And, yes, I had to explain to each one of them how this was possible. Also, each and every hiker told me about the young moose that was hanging out on the trail near the top of the mountain. This gave me added incentive to hustle my way up the mountain, running the dirt and climbing the rocky sections. I must have passed a half dozen hikers and every one told me about taking pictures of the moose that was apparently casually modeling on the trail. I kept up the hustle, now with my camera in my hand.

 I topped out on the mountain at this restored fire tower without so much as a glimpse of the damn moose. I found my dry bag, changed behind a bush and climbed aboard the gondola for the ride back down. The gondola operator asked how my run had gone and I told him it was a nice 9 miler except that I was the only person on the mountain who hadn't seen the damn moose.

The following day I drove over to the trailhead of the Statton Pond Trail and ran it up to Stratton Pond and back, a very pleasant 7 mile outing with probably a half mile of boardwalk.

Paddling the big muddy

 So, it occurred to me on Monday that, with a week of daily showers, the creek near my house (Chartiers Creek) would most likely be deep enough to paddle. Ordinarily you can cross it without getting your knees wet. So I emailed one of my lunatic friends, Kim, to see if she'd be interested in a 4 mile paddle down an unknown section of the creek and then a 4-5 mile trail run back to the put-in. Not surprisingly she said yes and that Tuesday afternoon would work.

Kim met me at the takeout, where we left her car, our running shoes, a cable lock for the boat and the last chance to come to our senses. We jumped in my Jeep and drove a very circuitous route to the dirt road I figured to launch from. None of the creek was visible from the any of the roads we drove on so what awaited us was going to be a complete surprise.

We drove up and down the dirt road once looking for a place to launch from and finally decided on a place where fishermen had made a path down to the creek bank. Well, down to where the creek bank would have been had the water not been so damn high. This is where I explained to Kim that the tandem kayak we would be using was never meant for this type of paddling. It is intended for farting around on little ponds or quiet lakes, has absolutely no keel and is a bear to keep tracking straight. I let her know that I knew nothing of the 4 miles we were going to paddle and my major concern was for big trees down in the creek making dangerous strainers. I think her response was, "Whatever."

We unloaded the boat, threw our paddles in it, cinched up our PFDs and slid the boat down through the weeds to the water's edge. Boy, the water was ripping. A swift muddy torrent promised to make for an interesting trip.

This is the point where things stopped going as planned.

We plopped the boat down into the water, I took one step on the edge of the bank and promptly slid down the mud and into the creek up to my waist. Kim, following my obviously inspiring lead, took one step down the bank and was immediately swimming next to the kayak as I held onto it. Luckily, my right foot had found good footing and I was able to remain standing and hold onto the boat so it didn't disappear down the creek. It took us a good 5 minutes to stop laughing long enough for Kim to crawl up into the front of the kayak. I then threw my left leg in, pulled my right foot out of the sucking mud and we took off downstream.

 The creek was about twice as wide as normal and for the most part nice and smooth, but the current was really moving. We slid through several sections of minor whitewater, ok, brown water, and banged off a couple of rocks and submerged trees.

 Passing under this railroad bridge was pretty cool since a year and a half ago Kim and I had run across it to take an unguided tour of the abandoned Mayview State Mental Hospital buildings before they were torn down for development. I even talked my wife, Dee Dee, into snowshoeing across it this past winter.

 Oh yeah, it's all smiles and laughing here. Two hundred yards later an 8 inch perch jumped out of the water and landed in the kayak between us and the screaming started. While I frantically tried to grab the flopping, jumping fish Kim continued with the screaming. Meanwhile, nobody was paddling or keeping an eye on what was coming up on the creek as the swift current swept us downstream at a good clip. I finally got hold of the slippery little bastard just as I felt something smack me in the back. We had spun around and were going down the creek backwards and the thing I felt hit me in the back was indeed a big tree down acting as a strainer on the creek. I flipped the perch out, smacking him right into the log, and into the water. As much as that must have hurt I'll bet the poor bastard was happy to be away from the screaming. Meanwhile, the water was trying to push the boat under the log, which was only a couple feet above the water. Pushing us along the downed tree caused the upstream edge of the boat to dip low and take in a good wave of water. Kim reached out and grabbed the tree and we both pushed hard and got clear and out into the middle of the stream. Getting the fish out of the boat seemed to have brought an end to the screaming.

We barely had time to get our boat oriented back downstream when the takeout came into view. A nice sandy beach maybe? Eh, not so much. It was a bunch of big rocks the folks at Wingfield Pines had placed along the water's edge. Not so much a takeout as a place to smash our fiberglass boat to pieces. Now, depending on who you talk to, Kim either climbed triumphantly out of the boat onto the rocks as I held onto them OR she was nearly knocked unconscious by my paddle blade as I frantically backed us up towards the rocks. Who you gonna believe, me or a fish-hysterical woman with a potential head injury?

We carried the big-ass kayak about a quarter mile up to Mayview Road and cable-locked it to the guardrail next to Kim's car. We then changed into our running shoes and headed out onto the trails of Boyce/Mayview Park. The 4ish mile run back to the Jeep was pretty and uneventful (we even saw a waterfall) except for the trip and tumble I managed to fit in with the Jeep basically in sight.

We drove back to the kayak and loaded it on top of the Jeep. Kim took off and I headed home. Every time I came to a stop I was treated to big waves of sewage-grey muddy water splashing down onto my windshield. Wipers don't work so good on mud.