Shower at your own risk

Somewhere on the New Jersey Turnpike, I tell my girlfriend about my grandfather’s only rule about the cabin in Ryegate Corner, Vermont. “Turn the clocks to the walls,” he said. “Eat when you’re hungry, sleep when you’re tired.” It’s the same schedule kept by the cows at the Nelson family farm, the closest residence to the red, slope-roofed shack waiting for us 600 miles north. The drive takes roughly 13 hours and throws two unexpected hurdles: the Saw Mill Parkway, which sends us on the world’s shortest trip to Manhattan, and a fruitless search for Taco Bell, which doesn’t seem to exist in Connecticut—at least, not visible from I-84.

In retrospect, Taco Bell seems like a strange thing to crave on a trip to the land majestically called “Northeast Kingdom”—too suburban, maybe—but this is the thin line that you walk during any vacation. Can we successfully avoid our occupations, dabble in recreation and maximize relaxation? The lack of Taco Bells—and our heightened scrutiny of every sign for food—suggests we might be in over our heads.

We arrive at the cabin at 6pm and drop our bags off, then drive across the border to Woodsville, New Hampshire, to grab a bite at Woodsville Pizza, which looks like a Denny’s on the inside but turns out spectacular pies. By 9pm, we’re back at the cabin, stuffed and ready to turn the clock around.

The Northeast Kingdom feels less than regal—the town of Ryegate is overcast during the majority of our stay—but the cabin is the real draw, our castle, a hunting shack that my grandfather bought decades ago and converted into a tiny three-bedroom, one-bathroom house. Two bathrooms, actually, if you count the outhouse standing 20′ behind the cabin, and two full baths if you count the outdoor shower, a five-gallon PVC bag attached to a pulley system in a tree near the outhouse. It’s the type of setup that would impress the Clampetts, but might earn low marks from the Swiss Family Robinson.

The interior is a mix of ski lodge odds and ends and photos of past generations of occupants. On a wooden mantel above a TV that receives two stations is a picture of my grandfather using the outdoor shower. His back is to the camera, so that his pinkish rump looks at the camera lens. Next to the photo are two bare-assed imitations, one of my uncle and one of my cousin, as if imposing a third rule for cabin life: “Shower when necessary, and always at your own risk.”

We spend the first day recuperating from the drive and cooking an enormous pot of soup that lasts us nearly the entire stay. That night, we drive 40 miles northeast to Littleton; it’s the equivalent of high school kids cruising asphalt islands in suburbia, but a bit sexier, given the threat of possibly running into a moose. We sing along with Paul Curreri and Devon Sproule, a little Charlottesville in my car, and my girlfriend humors me while I play fake local, pulling over in the small town of Bath so we can look at—not really admire, but sort of gawk at—New Hampshire’s longest covered bridge beneath a stormy sky the color of steel wool.

There’s plenty to do in decent weather—the cabin is within 100 miles of the highest point in the Northeastern U.S. (Mount Washington), a spiderweb network of hiking trails and the Ben & Jerry’s factory—but we’re forced to scale back our outdoor plans. We know that we won’t swim in the Ammonoosuc River at my family’s spot or hike the La Luz Trail, but we’re reluctant to leave until we both feel strongly about doing so.

So, “vacation” starts to lean a bit towards the familiarity of “recreation.” We make repeated trips to Wells River, population 350 or so, to hunt up action. However, the weatherproof activities available to us are few in number—bowling in what looks like an old barn, or getting coffee at a Dunkin’ Donuts that may as well function as the town’s civic center—and the town is small enough that businesses keep inconsistent hours. The exception is a fairly new Super Wal-Mart, as noticeable in this town as a UFO; we grab a few films (O.K., Jack Black movies) and then retreat back through the woods to the cabin. 

For a couple days, we stay close to home —listening to music while we cook meals that are simple but feel extravagant, laughing through School of Rock and High Fidelity. You know the part in High Fidelity where John Cusack edits his list of dream jobs to include “owning a record store,” a job he already has? The vacation feels like this—like realizing you’d rather enjoy something humble than lack something spectacular.

After a final day of steady rain, we decide to leave the following morning. The end of the trip is a mess.

I leave the outdoor lights on at the cabin by accident. We again fail to find a Taco Bell in Connecticut, and I seriously begin to wonder if Senator Joe Lieberman has it in for flat-grilled burritos. We hit the storms that sent tornados through parts of Virginia, and spend a half-hour hiding in my parents’ basement in Fredericksburg, listening for winds that sound like trains. I know it’s a half-hour because I’m using my cell phone again, watching a clock. Weeks later, a time-stamped “Notice of Enforcement Action” arrives from the State of New Jersey and informs me that I skipped a toll, then threatens to increase my fine by roughly 2,000 percent if I don’t pay within a few weeks.
 
But I’ll leave you with this: For one afternoon during our stay, we drive west to Burlington, a part of Vermont I’ve never been to, and we shake the cloud cover. We walk through a college town that feels familiar, but only enough to make us aware of how it differs from Charlottesville. We eat dumplings folded in front of us and listen to a high school band play “St. James Infirmary” during the Burlington Jazz Festival, a song that she sings and that I love. The kids try to keep time with their conductor while we sit on a bench, bodies reflecting the sun, and forget about clocks.