And so, there’s a story here.
The story could start with how New Hampshire was just supposed to be an afternoon/early morning exploration, a stop over in our 5 day roadtrip before heading into Vermont and then down to Connecticut. I’d just looked on map and said, “Huh, White Mountains Natl. Forrest… sounds cool yeah? Lets spend a night there.” Which would bleed into the story about the hastily booked night at an Econo-Lodge (that turned into two) and the comfortable god-I-feel-like-I-could-live-here feeling I got hanging out in the cold parking lot staring up into star studded sky, my feet bare and touching the cold pavement like it was a wondrous carpet lit up underneath my feet. I say it all the time, and I think it even more, “I could live here” but… it’s different when you’re standing outside of your warm and cozy room, in thin pj’s, not-at-all-reliable service on your phone, staring up at the mountains with a true longing in your heart.
There’s the story about the rainy afternoon we spent exploring up in the mountains after getting a really late start and then getting lost for 2 hours on the roads and highways that run run run all over the mountains there, just trying to get back to somewhere that didn’t proclaim “Caution, Bears” while getting slowly soaked and feeling like the only people in the mountains. The story about how at almost 7 in the evening, the sun still just a suggestion behind storm clouds, me and Kat tried to cross a river running high, her in her much beat up Converse and me in my utterly useless Nike’s. There was a plan that involved, “so like, you just jump a bit and try and grab ahold of that sapling there on the edge and then…” before Kat decided to be smart and convinced us to turn back. I remember calming agreeing with her decision ( or perhaps I was the one that yelled into the trees “You won’t defeat me forever Mt. Potash! I will be back, with a horse! Because thats the only way you can cross this damn thing!”) before we turned back onto the trail that lead back to the car and warmth. And then we found an overlook that spread out the mountains in front of us like a painting of beauty and we got even more soaked and I felt my heart squeeze with happiness while our feet squelched and left a trail of dirty river water everywhere we went.
Theres the story about drinking hard cider on the bed back in our room, while nursing a bruised bottom and achy joints, staring up at the ceiling and wondering when did you become such an adventure and also when did you get so out of shape, while your friend watched How I Met Your Mother on her iPad. There’s a tale about the most epic breakfast we had throughout the whole trip at a place called Flapjacks Pancake house and the little toy train that sped around the restaurant making everything feel like out of a fuzzy dream. The tiny aside in the story about how i’m pretty sure my excessive photo-taking started grating on Kats nerves but how she put up with me like a champ anyways, and the all too perfect ending to the tale when we woke up on the morning we were leaving, to clear skies and perfectly sunny weather, before we started our overly caffeinated drive into Vermont.
So yes, there’s a story here.