A codger sitting on the porch of a general store who tells tourists “You can’t get there from here” is a staple of traditional, apocryphal Maine humor. In the case of Mainers trying to get to Vermont, however, it certainly rings true.
I headed to the Green Mountain State a few weekends ago for a family wedding. My husband, Paul, stayed home to take care of our menagerie, which includes two dogs, four cats, three chickens and assorted fish. I was driving a small red rental car with Maryland plates. Paul and I share a vehicle, so we rent a second one when one of us has to go out of town for an extended period.
I called up my route on my iPhone but knew I’d have to stop along the way, to review my progress. The first part of my journey was simple—I needed to get to I-95, go south of Portsmouth, N.H., and then take a road west.
Needless to say, this being northern New England, a northern New England that has no decent east-west highway, “road” is a simplification. Many roads is more like it. I would travel from two-lane highways to four-lane highways and back to two lanes. The route numbers would change, combine, change again. Eventually, I would end up on hilly, curving mountain roads that seemed like they went on forever.
I started my trip with a great disappointment. The Starbucks at the Kennebunk rest stop had such a long line I couldn’t justify standing in it. I had to make do with an iced tea from the market. I needed more caffeine than that, but accepted my fate.
The interstate leg of my trip was uneventful. I was going south on a Friday, and everyone else in the world was coming into Maine. The northbound traffic was thick as treacle, but I made good time. I hoped all those tourists would be leaving Maine on Sunday, when I would be going north, headed home.
My next stop was at a rest area in Hooksett, N.H. This place interested me because an entire diner (made to look like a retro eatery) took up half the building. A take-out restaurant and store took up the rest of the space. Because this was New Hampshire, a connected building, perhaps even larger than the first, contained a state liquor store.
I have often wondered about the wisdom of placing giant liquor stores just off highways, but this is the state that claims “Live Free or Die.”
I opted for a good-sized cup of coffee.
Although I had never traveled this particular route before, I had been to Concord. The road skirted New Hampshire’s capital and headed toward the state’s largest city, Manchester. I’d never been there, and was impressed by the huge, 19th century Amoskeag cotton mill along the banks of the Merrimack River.
Next was the city of Keene. I got off the road here to get gas. This might have been a mistake, since my iPhone app rerouted me through the downtown district. I believe I went through four rotaries or roundabouts to get back to the highway.
I was getting tired.
In Brattleboro, I stopped at a shopping center that included friendly faces from home—a Hannaford and a Rite Aid. At the drugstore, I bought a big bag of popcorn as well as various toiletries I knew I would be needing.
The route turned local in Brattleboro, and I had to concentrate to keep my bearings. After five hours on the road, my bearings were a bit askew. Somehow I managed to keep on course.
Night was beginning to fall and I worried I wouldn’t reach my destination, Stratton Mountain, before dark. Then, suddenly, I was on a two-lane highway, Vermont Route 4. This would take me to Stratton Mountain Road and my ultimate destination.
Well, easier said than done. In the fading light, I went “over hill, over dale.” I passed a lovely covered bridge. I caught glimpses of pristine villages with their greens and solid white Congregational churches. I wished I had time to enjoy it more, but I was eager to get to the mountain.
There it was. Another four miles or so up the mountain, and I was ready to check in. But I was so tired, I couldn’t find my lodge. I almost left the resort. I’d texted Paul that I had arrived and would call him when I got to my room. I knew he would be worried that it was taking me so long. Finally, I located my lodging and the underground garage where I was to park.
Popcorn was my supper.
The next day revealed that the trip had been worthwhile. After a hearty breakfast at a local café, I headed to the nearby town of Manchester, which is a tourist destination. I enjoyed time at a fabulous bookstore and stopped at a farmstead on the way back, where I visited with goats and bought native peaches. Once back on the mountain, I had time for a swim and a soak in the hot tub.
Then it was time for the wedding. We traveled to the top of the mountain in gondolas. I thought I would be nervous, but it was great fun. The ceremony was held on the “yoga deck,” which had wonderful views.
We all traveled back down for a reception at the Stratton Mountain Club. I ate, I danced, and I enjoyed the company of my family.
The next day, I headed home. The good news was that when I reached hour five of driving, and peak fatigue, I was back in Maine. I knew my way from there.
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