We mount our bicycles at the top of Sherburne Pass. (The town of Killington was originally named
Sherburne, but it was too easily confused with other names, so it officially
changed its name just a few years ago.
The pass has kept its original name.)
It is distinctly chilly, although the sun is out. I don’t have gloves or mittens. Wes has gloves to put over his bike gloves,
but for reasons unknown does not put them on. The ride down is fast and
cold. By the time we reach the valley
floor, we are both bringing our hands to our body’s core to warm them up.
This is a beautiful part of the country. The valleys are cut with rivers; the
mountains rise steeply and glow bright yellow and red above us. My ability to enjoy this beauty is being
hampered, however, by how cold I am. At
a corner, about 5 miles below the summit, I pull in to a sports shop, where I
buy a pair of ski gloves with photo sensing. (So I can use my phone without
taking my gloves off).
As we come out of the shop, we look across the highway and
see a house completely off its foundation.
The houses and barns next to it have obviously just undergone a major
renovation. The shoulder of the road,
which had been excellent, now is patchy.
Parts of it have fallen into the Ottaqueechee River. The traffic is fairly heavy, but we soldier
on, seeing more and more signs of something amiss: another building off its foundation, strange
dark marks high on the side of a barn, the width of the road strangely
narrow.
I see the name of a furniture builder I recognize from the
pages of Old House Journal in a re-purposed warehouse not too far from
Woodstock. I call a halt, and under
Wes’s protestation, tell him I want to visit the workshops of Thomas Shackleton
Furniture. Housed in a former wool mill,
the factory and showroom were a fascinating visit. After viewing the handmade furniture and
pottery, we stopped upstairs to see the workrooms. There, we encountered two young people in the
midst of hand-building two pieces of furniture.
I stay and watch for a long while.
Wes goes to look at the artwork downstairs.
The young woman, dark haired and long limbed, was using a
hand planer to shave the smallest edges from the footboard of cherry sleigh
bed. A young man, massively built, and
wearing a bandanna over his balding head, is working on a walnut sideboard. He is carefully chiseling dovetail joints to
construct an upper drawer. I find out
that each piece of furniture is made by one person from start to finish. The individual builder meets with the wood
supplier, and sources the specific wood for each piece. The builder preps and cuts the wood, then hand
builds and finishes each piece. I say,
“It must be so satisfying to see a piece from idea to shipment.” They both nod vigorously; she says it is one
of the main things that keeps them going through years of apprenticeship,
becoming a journeyman (person?) and finally mastering the art.
He tells a story about friends who want him to make them
furniture. When confronted with the
price of a handmade piece of furniture, they are shocked and say they will just
get a piece from Ikea. I tell them I
think Ikea is a form of “classy trash”—it is visually very well designed, but
made of the cheapest materials and scantiest structures. Ikea won’t last the decade: the works made by
these young artisans will be given to the purchaser’s grandchildren. As I get ready to leave, the young man notes:
“Usually, it is the husband who stays to talk to us.” I note: “I am ten times the gear head that
Wes is.” He says, “Well, that is what it
takes.”
Before I leave, I ask about the Shackleton name and find out
that Thomas Shackleton was indeed cousin to Ernest Shackleton, of the ill-fated
Endurance voyage to Antarctica. In that
trip, the ship was frozen in the ice for months on end, but Ernest Shackleton
was able to save his entire crew through great personal heroism and
effort. Making furniture from tree to
truck may not be as dangerous as sailing to the Antarctic, but it is heroic in
its own right in this age of flashy trash and corporate consumerism.
Back on the road, Wes thanks me for making him go to this
workshop. We keep following the river,
with the shoulder becoming more and more suspect. We round a corner, and see the Woodstock
Farmers’ Market. There are lots of cars,
but we are suckers for hand raised foods, so we stop, despite our intentions to
keep moving.
As we are parking our bikes, we notice a hand-drawn sign on
the backside of the red clapboard building.
Well above my height is a scrawled note, “Hurricane Irene water
level.” We peer at the note, and look
around at the surrounding buildings, seeing the tell-tale signs of high water
on the market and the adjacent building, which houses a glass workshop and
artist studios. One of the store manager comes out. We ask her about the sign and she tells us
that the water had completely crossed the road.
They had to do major renovations just to get open again, but were lucky
compared to some. 
We get some rolls and cheese in the tourist packed market
and go down the road to a series of tables next to the river. I go in to get soup for lunch and discover
that this business had been completely swept away in the flood. It is hard to imagine the sweet small river on
which we are sitting raging with such force.
As we are eating, I realize that we have now completed 4000 miles. We take pictures in front of the river and
think about my brother Steve and the recovery they’re facing.
Because this is the Columbus holiday weekend, the pretty
town of Woodstock is full of people, buses, cars, and bikes. The Columbus holiday passes with very little
notice in other parts of the United States, but here in New England and Upstate
New York, it is a big deal, although it could be more accurately called “Leaf
Peepers Weekend.” Making our way through
this crush is no fun, but I call a halt to Wes as we go by a particularly
intriguing local art store. We go in and
are very struck by the high quality of the artwork. Both Wes and I stare at a beautiful print of
aspens next to a frozen lake with the mountains in the distance. It is fairly rare that Wes and I both get “beeped”
by an artwork. We try to listen to these
impulses, but this is not exactly the right moment to buy a piece of art. We walk away, as we usually do, to see if the
image stays with us. We walk through
the throngs, and check out a few stores.
The town reminds us of Aspen—not at all in the way it looks, of course—but
in the sophistication and expense of its goods and the profound sense of place
in its design and layout. As we walk
along, we become more committed to the artwork and decide, “What the hell? Let this be the one memento of our trip.”
Back at the store, we make arrangements for the print to be
shipped to Wyoming. We have a long
conversation with the store owner who was a longtime resident of Detroit. As usual, we have to allay her fears about
the destruction of the city. She had many
wonderful memories of her time there; she had lived on the far southeast of the
city and in Indian Village. She had heard that there were even more
artists in the city than when she was there.
She compared the situation in Detroit to New York City in the 1970’s,
when that city was its most dysfunctional and yet a haven for young
artists.
After our purchase, we return to the traffic. As we pass a covered bridge, I see a road on
the other side of the river. I use my
newly discovered mapping program to take us to the “road less traveled.” There we ride up and down hills through tiny
villages and little farms under glorious red and yellow trees. This is Vermont at its most charming; we
wonder if we will have the same experience in New Hampshire.
The short answer is “No.”
First of all, there is a snarl of freeways, roads, and bridges as we
cross the Connecticut River into Lebanon.
Traffic is intense and we feel quite exposed. At long last, we clear the access roads and
confusing one way streets and are ready for a break. We spot a diner. The diner is full of students from nearby
Dartmouth College. When we go to sit
down, the young waitress behind the counter barks at us, “We’re closed! You
have to leave.” Wes points out that the
doors were still open, she shouts, “You have to leave!” We ask if there is someplace nearby. Nobody answers. This is not an auspicious welcome.
The layout of the towns and villages is quite confusing and
dense, but we make our way to a coffee shop and call our accommodations. It had been quite difficult to get a room on
this holiday weekend. After many calls,
we were able to get the last room in the hotel that serves the Dartmouth Hitchcock
Hospital. We have to cross freeways
again and wind our way around to find this out of the way lodging. The room was bit worn at the edges
(especially for its high price), but young Indian desk clerk was friendly. There were no services, so Wes and I set out
walking to the closest convenience store.
Bleah. Gas station dinner for us.
Just as we were coming back, we crossed an uncomfortable
scene in the lobby. Three senior citizens,
one man and two women, were seeking lodging for the more slender, care worn
woman. She had to receive medical
services at adjacent hospital and had no car.
The three pled with the desk clerk, but the motel was full. He asked, “What shall we do? Where will we stay?” Some desk clerks would have called around to
see if anyone had any openings. Some
lodgers who saw this might have offered their room. But this night, neither
did, and the trio went out into the cold night.
No room at this inn.
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posted from Centennial, WY
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