Book of Days
BOOK OF DAYS: A POET AND NATURALIST TRIES TO FIND POETRY IN EVERY DAY
Sign up on the Contact Me page
Filtering by Tag: Green Mountains
Posted with BlogsyAugust 29: Mountain nocturne
Kristen Lindquist
August 26: Bread Loaf, Vermont
Kristen Lindquist
July 25: White River
Kristen Lindquist
We drove on Route 107 along Vermont's White River this afternoon. The water was very low, as is typical in summer, but we could see signs everywhere of damage caused by the floodwaters of Hurricane Isabel a few years ago.
low now in its stony bed.
Cows graze the floodplain.
July 24: Woodstock, VT
Kristen Lindquist
November 20: To Vermont
Kristen Lindquist
June 6: Reunion
Kristen Lindquist
I'm at my Middlebury College reunion this weekend, in verdant, summery Vermont, tucked in the Champlain Valley between the Green Mountains and the Adirondacks.
The only thing unchanged
after 25 years--
this mountain view.
November 18: Camels Hump
Kristen Lindquist
Driving south from Burlington on I-89 this frosty morning, Camels Hump, the second highest peak in the Green Mountains, rose misty blue before me. This familiar peak is so distinctive, and it was so beautiful, that I almost swerved off the road every time it came into view.
Misty blue peaks--
so clear, my memories
of hiking there.
Misty blue peaks--
so clear, my memories
of hiking there.
July 14: Misty mountains
Kristen Lindquist
Visiting a dear friend in Vermont, my second favorite state to spend time in. The feeling I get when I cross the bridge on I-89 outside Lebanon, NH, into Vermont, is very similar to the little thrill I get crossing the Piscataqua River Bridge to return home to Maine: this is a place I belong. These cornfields and rolling green hills and the roiling White River and road cuts of schist that I studied in college geology classes, they are familiar and loved. I'm particularly fond of Montpelier, with its gold-domed Capitol, historic buildings, funky shops, views of the Green Mountains, and a river running through it. So today I'm in one of my happy places with one of my closest friends.
As if in a dream--
distant mountains in a haze
beckon me onward.
distant mountains in a haze
beckon me onward.
November 19: Popovers
Kristen Lindquist
A chilly breeze blew through the parking lot when we left our hotel for breakfast... And was that a dusting of snow on Mount Mansfield? Lake Champlain, framed by the rugged ridge line of the Adirondacks beyond, was iron gray, deep and cold, its surface ruffled by the raw wind. As, shivering, I admired the view, I was reminded of my college years--the long months of walking around campus freezing yet loving the views of the Adirondacks and the Green Mountains. There's something about Vermont topography that clings to the soul despite the harshness of the elements. (Yes, harsher than Maine--at least the Maine coast, where I'm from.)
The edge was quickly taken off our morning chill when we stepped into Cafe, a favorite spot. Hot green tea with honey, oatmeal, scrambled eggs, bacon, and fresh-baked popovers with butter and jam--along with the company of old, dear friends--started the day off on just the right level of warmth.
Cold-morning breakfast:
Popover, strawberry jam,
and tea, shared with friends.
The edge was quickly taken off our morning chill when we stepped into Cafe, a favorite spot. Hot green tea with honey, oatmeal, scrambled eggs, bacon, and fresh-baked popovers with butter and jam--along with the company of old, dear friends--started the day off on just the right level of warmth.
Cold-morning breakfast:
Popover, strawberry jam,
and tea, shared with friends.
November 21: Mountains
Kristen Lindquist
The classic Japanese woodblock artist Hiroshige created a series of prints called "One Hundred Views of Edo," in which Mount Fuji is a near-constant presence--sometimes prominent, sometimes in the distant background. There aren't many direct comparisons to be made between Burlington and Tokyo, I realize. But in fact, the mountains that surround this small city in Vermont are just as much a constant presence as Fuji is for Tokyo. Of course, Fuji is a bit more dramatic, being a very high conic volcano apparently rising from the plains. (I've never seen it in person.) But I still thrill to recognize the various mountains visible here--less singular than Fuji, but no less distinct in their effect on those who live near them and who see them on a regular basis.
From the crest of the hill in the middle of the University of Vermont campus, you look west across glowering Lake Champlain to be confronted by the jagged wall of the Adirondacks. To the north rises Vermont's highest peak, Mount Mansfield. To the south, the distinctively shaped bare peak of Camel's Hump juts up from among surrounding hills. When I was in college, I climbed both these mountains several times, and once snowshoed up Mount Marcy, the highest of the Adirondacks. Mountain tops are such meaningful places, places of power that summon their strength from the surrounding landscape below and constant contact with the clouds. They literally touch the heavens. To live in a city with the visual touchstone of a distinctive mountain (or two or more) allows you, in a sense, to tap into that power for yourself, as well as the beauty. I think of the excitement I've heard in the voices of friends in rainy Seattle when the weather's clear and "the mountain is out"--Mount Rainier is visible!
Mist rising from peaks,
mountains protect this city,
commune with the gods.
From the crest of the hill in the middle of the University of Vermont campus, you look west across glowering Lake Champlain to be confronted by the jagged wall of the Adirondacks. To the north rises Vermont's highest peak, Mount Mansfield. To the south, the distinctively shaped bare peak of Camel's Hump juts up from among surrounding hills. When I was in college, I climbed both these mountains several times, and once snowshoed up Mount Marcy, the highest of the Adirondacks. Mountain tops are such meaningful places, places of power that summon their strength from the surrounding landscape below and constant contact with the clouds. They literally touch the heavens. To live in a city with the visual touchstone of a distinctive mountain (or two or more) allows you, in a sense, to tap into that power for yourself, as well as the beauty. I think of the excitement I've heard in the voices of friends in rainy Seattle when the weather's clear and "the mountain is out"--Mount Rainier is visible!
Mist rising from peaks,
mountains protect this city,
commune with the gods.