Nature: 1, Barefoot Hippie: 0

We do actually have other hobbies besides the road trip. My husband, the Nice Boy, is a more-than-amateur-but-not-quite-pro nature photographer; I prefer architecture and industrial or urban subjects and have less technical skill. We are both train enthusiasts. There are a great many photos from trips that contain all of these elements, and this is part of how I found myself leaping out of the car directly into a patch of stinging nettles on a beautiful September day in Vermont.

The reason that we were in Vermont in the first place is because at some point we had decided that we would force our lifestyle on our loved ones, and at Christmas we had given everyone vouchers for a 4 day stay at our favorite B&B in the Champlain Islands, along with Yours Truly as a personal tour guide and interpreter, and opted to take the Family Vacation to the next level: traveling with inlaws.

This was, predictably, not the most popular idea. The trip itself, when it finally pulled together, had not gone terribly well — somewhere between “never do this again” and “you are all dead to me” — because let’s face it, there’s nobody who can get on your nerves like family. This was the homebound leg, and by god it was going to be the scenic route now that everyone was safely ensconced in their own vehicle and the tension had ratcheted down a few notches. We had survived almost getting arrested by Border Patrol[1] and all we had to do was look at a few million trees, find a restaurant for dinner, and drive home.

Cue the sound of several huge diesel engines, throttled up to get up an incline somewhere nearby. If we had owned a dog at the time, we would have resembled him in that both of us immediately perked up and cocked our heads to locate and confirm the sound. I whip out the PantsNet and confirm a little dashed line in the right direction and we are off to see great big machines be all dramatic and awe-inspiring against the Green Mountains.

Since we’re the lead car, the sudden departure onto a side road causes some consternation. But the beast has been sighted, and even better, it’s headed for a crossing where there won’t be other cars, so I probably won’t get honked at or run over when we pull off to take a picture. The side road makes a loop, and crosses the tracks twice. With a burst of injudicious speed, we make it through the first crossing a few seconds before the gates start to flash, leaving everyone else behind, and tear ass to the second crossing. I triumphantly leap out of the car, camera at the ready, just as the train rounds a curve- it has FOUR bright red Canadian & Pacific engines and is phwoooonking dramatically. So great is my delight that I am 4 or 5 pictures in before the burning sensation registers in my brain.

I always ride barefoot, or, if it’s dreadfully cold, in sock feet, with slip on shoes at the ready. Formerly Tevas, which worked with both, and most likely on that day there are flip flops hiding somewhere in the passenger footwell but I am surrounded by souvenirs, gear, snacks, and whatever objects were too annoying to the rear passengers to be tolerated and anyhow it’s not like there’s snow on the ground or something, and there is a big shiny TRAIN.

I actually aimed for the greenery over the roadside gravel, thinking that it would be a gentler landing for my leap. The train is maybe 20 feet away just about to enter the crossing when it occurs to me that I am feeling far more pain than seems reasonable, and hope that I haven’t landed on a piece of broken glass or some rusted piece of broken-off metal buried in the grass. The moment of triump adequately captured, I look down to realize that I am square in the middle of a huge patch of nettles.

There may have been some undignified yelping shortly thereafter as I picked my way back to the gravel (also painful at this point) but it was the first really joyful moment of the entire trip. I mean, if you’re going to marry someone, you should probably marry the guy who thinks it’s perfectly sane to chase trains through the woods and wave at them from close enough to blow your hair back on some macadam road 300 miles from home, right? No matter how crazy his family is.

Even better, the train is a long one, and everyone else is still back at the first crossing, so it’s a full 10 minutes of leaning against the car in beautiful autumn sunshine, picking thorns out of my insteps, before the rest of the party drives up rolling their eyes.

The rest of the trip was entirely without incident, and we all survived, never to do this again. The train picture is framed and hung in my garage, I have since brushed up on my roadside flora identification skills, and I still ride barefoot.

[1] The Nice Boy has an …interesting relationship with the US/Canada border. More on this later.