We are anxious to complete the trip on or before our self-imposed
deadline of October 15, and plan on moving through Vermont, New Hampshire, and
Maine as quickly as possible. Vermont is
an upside down triangle; our route through the state is only 65 miles across. The pass over Killington is the last major
obstacle before us on this trip.
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| A typical Vermont landscape |
The ride is beautiful.
The trees are spectacular, as is the little college town of Castleton,
with its main street of maintained Federal and Georgian mansions. We have truly entered New England…the architecture
is utterly different than anything we have seen thus far. In the
West, old is 100 years old. Here, the
college was founded in 1787, and most of the houses were built about that same
time. Now, I understand, in the global scheme, a town 250 years old is
an infant, but the scale, scope, and sense of continuity here is so different
than in towns developed and arranged for automobiles.
However, we don’t tarry.
We are worried about the pass, so we push on. We have been warned, over and over, that the
passes over these Vermont mountains are nothing to sneeze at. They are fairly short, true, but steep and
demanding. With the days getting
shorter, and the chill in the air, there’s no time to be a tourist.
We have already made 30 miles when it’s time to find some
lunch. Rutland, Vermont is the center of
that state’s granite and marble industry.
There are stone cutting businesses and granite supply houses all along
the road, although we don’t see any of the quarries, they must be nearby. In West Rutland, we follow signs to the “historic
stone cutters district” and see some massive cut stones, but only one small
deli “serving since 1930.” Thinking
this looked promising as it was situated in an 1830’s townhouse, we climbed the
stairs, opened the door, and entered a tiny tavern with about 10 seats. The waitress looked like a Barbie doll, with
platinum blonde hair, false eyelashes, enormous, perfectly round breasts, and
bright pink lipstick. We asked about the
menu, and the two guys at the little counter laugh. She said, “We only have hamburgers and hot
dogs. Mostly, we just serve beer.” She was understanding and helpful, however,
when we asked for a place with a more extensive menu. She directed us to Mary’s Kitchen for a real,
home-cooked meal.
This truly is a locals’ place, in a converted clapboard
house. We sit in the former porch,
surrounded by a group of ladies who lunch, a minister, and pair of local
businessmen. We have been climbing all
morning and are kind of sweaty and rough for this genteel crowd. We are scrupulously ignored in this setting,
although we certainly feel eyes upon us.
We eat rather quickly, speak to no one, and make our way to Rutland. Rutland is a busy market town, nestled in the
midst of steep hills. It has a historic
downtown, which we glanced at from afar, and lots of big houses built into very
steep lots. I was fascinated by one
Victorian house that first appeared to have three stories, but actually had two
additional levels opening onto the steep downhill. The town is a-bustle with preparations for a
big art fair to begin the next day.
We climb up to the big park where the art fair is setting
up. Traffic is horrific, and we are glad
to step away from the crush for a minute to read a historic marker about John
Deere. Little did we know that he was
born in Rutland in 1804, and left his family there while he went to Illinois,
invent the steel plow, and found the company that is still going strong nearly
200 years later. We look longingly at
the art coming into the park, but know we still have to make the pass, so off
we go.
Getting out of Rutland is a hard climb with heavy traffic
and no shoulder. We have to stop often
to catch our breath. At one raggedy,
rough spot, we get off and push our bikes over grass and broken pavement. We pass Norman Rockwell’s studio on the way,
but again, we don’t stop. The road gets
rougher and steeper. We are getting
worried; we are still not to the pass. Finally,
we clear the outskirts of the town and pass the gates that mark the beginning of
the pass. The road widens. There is a big shoulder. To our astonishment, the grade eases and we
find ourselves plugging right up. After
all our anxiety about this pass, it is eminently rideable. It is easier than anything we ridden that
day.
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| Wes celebrates our final pass! |
Still, we are tickled when we get to the sign announcing our
arrival in Killington. We stop for
pictures and feel proud that we have cleared the last mountain pass of our
trip. We ride along the top of the
mountain. There are lots of resorts
surrounding the Killington and Pico ski areas.
When we finally spot the Inn at Long Trail, we are surprised at how small
it is.
We step inside and greeted by Karl, the desk clerk. The inn has low ceilings and tree trunk
beams. We are immediately struck by the
feeling of hominess and permanence.
There are couches and chairs nestled around a big fireplace. There is a stand up grand piano in the corner. There are all sorts of conversation nooks, a
game room, maps and pictures on the wall.
Its unspoken message is, “Come in and visit a while.” Behind Karl’s shoulder, we can see the Irish
Pub, with its dark wood, benches, booths, and tables. It, too, looks inviting.
Karl takes us outside and tells us to stow our bikes in the boiler
room in the basement. He tells us that
the inn is named after its proximity to the Long Trail, a Vermont branch of the
Appalachian Trail. They get a lot of
through hikers, some of whom stay in the trail campground across the highway,
some who welcome a soft bed and warm water on this part of their sojourn. Karl looks like an unreconstructed hippie. He has long gray hair, kind blue eyes, and a
mother hen energy. He has worked at the
inn for many years, loves his job, and is good at it. How few desk clerks have actually been
welcoming! They could take a lesson or
two from Karl.
As he shows us to our room, he takes us by the dining
room. It is built around a massive
granite boulder the size of a small cabin.
Just outside the dining room windows, we can see that the inn is built
into the living rock of the Green Mountains.
As Karl tells Wes that this is the oldest ski lodge in the United
States, I have to go touch the cool, rough strength of the boulder. At first he tells it as a joke, in reference
to 1.3 billion year old boulder which has survived three ice ages, around which
the inn is built. But it is also
factually true. The inn was opened in 1938, just as the ski industry in the
United States was being born. Most US
ski resorts, (including the one my father opened in Centennial) were founded
after WWII by members of the famous 10th Mountain Division, who
skied and fought through the Italian Alps.
Our room is tiny but nice, with real wood furniture and nice
linens. It is clear we are supposed to
spend our time in the lodge, not in our room.
That seems like a good idea to us.
It is not long before we are down in the pub, where we meet the owner,
who introduces us to the staff and other patrons. His family, the McGraths, have owned the inn
since 1977, and spent the first years undoing modernizations and returning the
inn to its original state.
At the bar, we meet an older couple who have just driven up
from the college town of Castleton to celebrate their anniversary. We celebrating too, and it is not long before
we are having a really fun conversation.
Both are former teachers: he taught high school math and she retired
from teaching at the college in Castleton.
We had a great time telling “Administrator
from Hell” stories. We laugh a lot; they
congratulate us on our trip. We
congratulate them on their 40th anniversary. It was sweet as it could be.
The dinner that night is good. While we are doing our laundry, Karl catches
us and says, “There are some through hikers I’d like you to meet.” He coordinates a meeting between two young
hikers and us for the next morning. We go the pub that evening, which is packed
with families and people of all ages, there to listen to some Irish music and
socialize. The musicians are really
talented, as can be seen in their intricate and beautiful instrumentals, but
their vocal music choices are drawn from the Irish cornpone/bar music bin. The schtick wears after a while; we wished
they would explore their lyrical side.
But the crowd was happy, the mood was good…who are we to complain?
Wes is ready for bed, but I am still restless. I take my computer to the game room on the
pretext of working on the blog. There,
instead of working, I watch three young children, two boys and a girl,
encounter non-electronic games. They
play Chinese checkers, make contraptions out of the Tinker Toys, play “Shoot
the Moon” and more. The dad, who looks
like an impossibly young executive, comes to get the kids for bed. The boys go willingly, but the daughter, who
is a bit older at about 11 years of age, is completely fascinated by the
Lincoln Logs. She tells her dad, “In a
minute!” and he says ok and disappears.
She is making house after house, all square or rectangular. As I get ready to leave, I crouch on the
floor with her and show her how she can make rooms, bays, and extensions with
the logs. She is building an elaborate
log mansion when I leave.
The next morning we meet the young hikers, who have the
energy of junior high boys called before the principal. Why were they being made to talk to these
old, weird bikers? Karl does the set up
and introductions. These young men are
on the final stages of their Appalachian Trail hike. We are on the final miles of a cross country
bicycle journey. One young man,
exceedingly fit, and wearing the athletic gear to emphasize his physique, does
most of the talking, while his compatriot stares into his tea cup. They are both from Virginia, where they work
in software.
They are avid cyclists and hikers. They have been taking the Appalachian Trail
in 4-500 mile chunks. They are going hut
to hut. They are going fast, carrying no
tent, very little gear and food. They
hike 15-20 miles a day, which is a lot in the tough and rocky terrain of these
mountains. I ask if they wear hiking
boots, and the answer is no. They wear walking
shoes. I ask if they don’t need ankle
protection. He replies, with just the
edge of a sneer, “We don’t. Other people
might, but not us.” I ask if they have
ever had a problem not carrying a tent, like getting stuck in the rain, or
finding the hut already full of hikers.
He again makes a sneering answer about making sure they get there before
anyone else…and oh, by the way, never listening to the advice of “civilians”
about the trail or conditions. “Civilians”
in their book, are day hikers or weekend jaunters. Only through hikers, like them, could be trusted
to convey knowledge. We don’t point out
that they actually aren’t through hikers, like the couple we met in Idaho. Karen and Mike hiked the 2200 miles from
Maine to Georgia in one trip.
After hearing all about their trip, Wes tried to steer the
conversation towards our trip. No
doing. Not interested. The talkative one did tell us that he had
seen us making our way up the hill from Rutland. He said, “I thought you looked like an old
couple on their way from grocery store.”
I wanted to pat him on his cheek and say, “Ah, youth! Someday you will learn that appearances can
be deceiving.” Just because we don’t
wear bike regalia doesn’t mean we are not serious bicyclists. We wish them well on their journey, and go to
breakfast. They don’t have the presence
of mind or heart to return the good wishes.
At breakfast, a 30-something woman in a hand-knit stocking
cap is sitting right behind us. She asks
if we are the cross country bicyclists staying at the inn. We say we are. She asks how we found the ride up. We say, “Not bad.” She launches into a loud, funny discussion,
for the benefit of the whole dining room, about her hike to the top of
Pico. She is enthusiastic about her
experience: “Man, it was just great. I
was walking up there, just breathing so hard, then I go to the top and it just
took my breath away. I mean, I could see
for miles. It was awesome! The trees were big, the boulders were
huge. I just loved it!”
She is from Pittsburgh, on a business trip to Boston, who
thought, “If I’m this close, I might as well go see the mountains.” She does this sort of short term adventuring
as a regular feature of her business travel.
When she finds out we are from Detroit, she announces to the whole room,
“I LOVE Detroit! I have the best time
there. I love your art museum, and man,
what great music! I have never had a bad
time in that city. Don’t you just hate
the way people talk about it? It is so
unfair. I think it is a great city!”
In Pittsburgh, she is active in the anti-fracking
movement. It is not long before she is
talking to everyone in the room about the dangers of hydraulic fracturing oil
drilling. Not everyone wanted to have a
heavy duty political discussion with their homemade pancakes with real maple
syrup, but we loved her energy and the fact that she got people going. We had to get a move on, but were glad to see
the conversation continued as we were leaving.
We are dragging our feet, delaying our departure, as we
loaded our bikes. Karl comes out and thanks us for coming to the inn. We tell
him we love the inn and that we will be back.
We can easily envision a family ski outing here. But now, on this chilly October morning, we
need to get down the mountain and onto the rest of our adventure. There are not many places on this journey
that so tickled our fancy, but this is one.
We will be back.
---------------posted from Centennial, WY
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