Growing up

I've been in Vermont these past few days, reliving the experiences and places that made me who I am today. My parents live in a small village in Vermont on the Connecticut River, and the schools I went to from age 4 to 17 are within a five-minute drive of their house. On Saturday, we went up to my grade school, and my brother and I went rambling through the trails where we both learned to ski, descriptively named things like "stonewall trail" and "the ravine trail". Everything seems much smaller than it did then, but we remembered many of the soggy spots to avoid, the places where the trails intersected, and the contours of the places that were most fun to ski.

The next day we went to the high school, a blend of fierce academics, fiercer art, and a busy farm, all concentrated around this classic dairy barn. The annual autumn festival was on, so it was a non-stop conversation the whole day with fellow alums, old teachers, and other people I hadn't seen in years. This school has been around since the 30's and is a steady provider of surprisingly talented alums, ranging from opera singers and well-known actors to academics. Whenever I return for a visit I'm astounded that this used to be my daily view from the parking lot, and that I was allowed to be so immersed in everything- to visit the pig shed during a free period, and then go skiing on the fabled trails that have produced so many Olympic-quality skiers.

After a full day there, I headed north along the most scenic interstates I know, rtes 91 to 89 that wind along the Connecticut River and then west over the spine of the Green Mountains to Burlington. My close friend A, whom I met the second day of college orientation, just bought a house in the Winooski River valley up there, and I had to see her and it. It's a classic old Vermont house, with sloping wood floors, funny corners in the upstairs rooms, and a porch swing out front. I arrived at dusk, in time for homemade pesto on pasta and a welcoming leg-rub from their gray tabbycat.

The next day we were up early (jet-lag is fun coming this direction) to drive a little more than a dozen miles upstream on the Winooski River, where we set up two inflatable kayaks and put in for a day of drifting, paddling, talking, and lunching on the little islands in the center of this shallow, smooth river. The day was clear and the cool burned off quickly for perfect weather. There was an occasional breeze that sent trails of maple leaves from the trees, sprinkling the water with color. Ones that had fallen slightly earlier hung suspended under the water's surface like insects in amber, backed by the clear pebbled bottom of the river. We passed through the occasional rapids that squeezed next to smooth rock outcroppings, drifted below pastures and crops redolent with the scent of cow manure, and everywhere, the frenzy of fall lit up the landscape.

We came ashore finally just below the house, and carried the kayaks along the road home. Our feet were muddy and my shoulders a bit sore from the paddling, but it had been a worthy day. This morning everyone had to go to work, so I took the leisurely way home along a road that passes through village after village, each one a cluster of 18th century houses crowding up against the narrow road. Vermont is laced with these places, tucked among the hills, rows of farmhouses, Victorian municipal buildings, grand old barns, and lots of woodpiles. I forgot how quietly majestic this landscape is, all fuzzy with trees, and hiding the views coyly behind the bends in the road and the stands of maples. It's perfect for slow exploration, and any skinny road on the map is sure to reward with great views. For example, I chose to end my drive home along rte 121, an Iceland-worthy road that looked and sounded important but ended up being an unpopulated dirt road through the sugarbush. Perfect.