The one thing Mum was impressed by as we drove were the number of mountains we went past – and through, since they built tunnels through these long stretching ridges of forest-covered ridges and rises, stretching from southwest to northeast. These are not like the mountains back home – layers of rock in dusty grays, rusty reds and tans poke out where the roads were cut through them, in some cases showing off a small landslide because they are so soft compared to the unyielding granite of New Hampshire.
The forests are different as well, with fewer pines, and more deciduous trees – many poplars I imagine from their height and straightness, reaching for the sky along these deep-cut roads. Some are dead, a ghostly white-grey, reaching for the skies with skeletal fingers.
Between the mountains and forests lay fields, some ten times the size of farm fields back home, filled with the crops of summer – in one, Trixie spied some deer frolicking about. There are plenty of deer here – and we see too many dead ones on the side of the road, along with other unfortunate animals that tried to cross the road.