9 June 2009, Waterville Valley, N.H.

Heavy, relentless rain pelted us from the moment we left Ottawa, on to the traffic nightmare of Montreal, until we crossed the border at Stanstead into the United States. Miracle of miracles, not only did the rain stop, but we were greeted by an open lane and a rarity in our experience, a mild-mannered, even friendly U.S. Homeland Security agent.

At the Vermont rest stop the grass was sodden, the air cool and brisk, fine for a short relief walk with Button and Riley, our seasoned little travellers. Pleasant to be out of the car; short-cropped grass, nice specimen trees - crabapple, oak - mountains in the background. In one tree, a flock of some twenty tiny cedar waxwings.

Back on the road, daisies and lupins in the medians, traffic light, scenery bucolic and lovely.
Mist rising steadily from the forested valleys between the mountains. Orderly little towns, steepled churches, picture-perfect and prosperous farms, typically Vermont. Everything drenched, bright green. Nature run amok with its verdant summer excess.

At Franconia Notch, breathtaking vistas, despite lack of distance, the mountains close on the highway, fog closing in, suddenly clearing to mist. Clouds roiling and rolling by. The wind emphatically rocks the car. It briskly lifts white-white layers of boiling mist off the valley floor, through the thickets of trees, up the mountain slopes, masking the noble heights.

Rolling down the car window we hear the wind shrieking, a dishevelled banshee, the thick, ragged-dark clouds above the mountain peaks casually draping over the mountains, meeting and joining the rolling mist. We hurtle, spellbound, subdued by the fearful grandeur, through the Notch to our destination.

We're late, later than normal. Held back by the rain earlier in our drive, pounding so vehemently, voluminously through the atmosphere, visibility at a low ebb. Wind thrashing us so thoroughly that huge, fat drops of water pinged and bounced on the hood of the car, streamed over the windshields, the wipers furiously struggling to cope.

And this struggle had us of necessity driving slower, more slowly and carefully, particularly transiting Montreal, its traffic rush, the innumerable trucks, tractor-trailers, delivery vans reminding us indelibly of just where we were. Of course any time of day or night in Montreal on its major thoroughfares is 'crush-hour'.

As a result we used more fuel than usual, battling the wind, the rain, traffic conditions and time. All those elements conspiring to convince us this was not a well-considered plan. This mostly of the moment, and in hindsight, since plans are made well in advance of any possible knowledge of adverse weather conditions far into the future.

Once the ferocity of the rain abated we even caught the occasional errant glimpse of a determined sun exercising its brief will to pierce the steamy armour of the clouds. And there, a vulture, riding the crest of those high winds, its pinioned wings spread wide, body comfortably exulting in its element.