Postcards from the Ledge

The first half of the trip was over, having spent our time along the Connecticut coast, revisiting places from Terry’s youth before heading to Boston to dive into early American history and toss bales of tea into the bay as a gesture of rebellion. Big city lights. Cobblestone streets underfoot. And don’t forget the scrumptious crab cakes and lobster rolls.

From here, the trip would slow down as we headed into the mountains of New Hampshire and Vermont, leaving space for unplanned stops and tranquil moments. Small towns invited lingering, even as a Nor’easter was closing in. We had six days in front of us for hiking, biking, leaf-peeping—and with any luck the weather would cooperate. Be that as it may, the ambiguity had its own charm, from gold-leaf trails to rain tapping on a cabin roof. We were equipped for anything. Bring it on!

h h h

Franconia, New Hampshire

On the morning of Day 6, we departed Boston and drove north up I-93 into the White Mountains of New Hampshire. Here the land feels wide open, with more lakes and rivers than people. In the early 1700s, it was a wild frontier where settlers struggled to survive and become self-reliant and tough as nails. New Hampshire would later become the first colony to declare independence from Great Britain.

Our home for the first three nights would be a cabin outside the wooded hamlet of Franconia, where the roads narrow and the world is hushed. The White Mountains stole our hearts the first day, glowing at sunset beyond the cabin’s living room windows—though for the remainder of our stay, the peaks would be shrouded in clouds. A short walk from the cabin stood Robert Frost’s old farmhouse, perched on the hillside with a sweeping view. It felt right that the legendary poet chose this corner of New Hampshire, where simplicity and solitude still reign.

Celebrated poets aside, Franconia is also deemed the birthplace of alpine skiing in the USA, imported from Europe in the 1920s. The nation’s first ski school opened here in 1929, followed by the first professional ski patrol in 1938. What’s more, skiing legend Bode Miller grew up here in an off-grid log cabin, cutting his teeth on Cannon Mountain’s icy slopes soon after he could strap on skis. From that rough, remote childhood to becoming the most successful male alpine ski racer in U.S. history, his story mirrors Franconia’s persona: understated, tough, and more impressive up close.

From our cabin, there was plenty to explore. Country roads meandered through the fall colors to nearby Woodstock, Lincoln, Sugar Hill—small towns with white-steepled churches, general stores, and cafés where hot coffee hits the spot on a rainy afternoon. Roadside stands and village markets overflowed with pumpkins and cornstalks, reminding us that Halloween was coming. I got lost in a labyrinth of rooms at The Christmas Loft in Woodstock. (Yes, lost. It’s an 11,000 sq-ft. maze of holiday decorations.) But what stayed with us most was the Kancamagus Highway, where scenic overlooks framed misty mountains and amber-hued valleys through the heart of the White Mountains. Indeed, every drive felt like a precious adventure.

Our cabin in the woods in Franconia.

The historical Robert Frost Place. A short stroll from our cabin.

Robert Frost (1874–1963) is considered one of the greatest American poets of all time.
Known for his realistic portrayals of rural New England, conversational style, and philosophical
depth, he was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry an unprecedented four times.

The view of the White Mountains from Robert Frost's front porch.

New Hampshire backroad.

Sugar Hill Community Church

The Christmas Loft in Woodstock.
It's easy to get lost here.

Jabberin' Jack

NEW ENGLAND-SPEAK

A “Northeaster” is one of those East Coast storms that I watch on the TV news at home: gray seas; rain; waves pounding a lighthouse; flooding. What I didn’t picture was a storm that would also correct my pronunciation.

When we first arrived in Fairfield, I noticed that the local news was forecasting a “Nor’easter” on the horizon.

“So, this Nor’easter everyone’s talking about,” I said to Terry, “Is that the same as a Northeaster?”

Terry rolled her eyes. “It’s Nor’easter, not Northeaster,” she corrected me.

The clipped sound and the dropping of the “th” are not accidents—that’s how the word lives here in New England. And it’s pronounced “nor-EAST-r." Two and a half syllables.

I frequently butchered town names as well. I’d sound them out from the road signs, and Terry would roll her eyes. Take New Haven for example. Terry pronounces it “na-HAVE-n.” One word.

So, I was starting to get it. When in Rome…

Misty Trails and Covered Bridges

Going to the top of Mount Washington had been high on our list for this trip. At 6,288 feet, it’s the highest peak in the White Mountains as well as the highest point east of the Mississippi River. We would take the tram up, enjoy the spectacular views, then hike back down—but erratic weather dashed those plans. And so, with the high country socked in, we sought worthy hikes down in the valleys.

The Flume Gorge Trail was our first stop. The trail climbs up through a narrow chasm of cascading waterfalls, where granite walls rise straight up, beaded with moisture and moss and hanging ferns. The route also crosses two historic covered bridges (there are 58 in New Hampshire), their worn planks humming with the Pemigewasset River below.

Next was the Bald Mountain Trail, across from the Cannon Mountain ski resort, a more raw, exposed kind of beautiful. The damp, rocky trail was slippery, and every step had to be deliberate as we traversed in and out of the mist. Even without the summit panorama view, the shifting fog gave the hike its own surreal eminence.

The next day we jumped on the Swift River Trail for a short ramble that felt more like threading a needle between storms. The goal was to reach the Albany Covered Bridge before the rain. The path followed the river where it rushes over boulders and swirls into eddies until the rustic bridge comes into view. After snapping photographs, we took an unhurried stroll across to the other side. Only the sounds of nature here. That’s when the first real raindrops began to fall, ushering us back to the trailhead before the downpour.

Better weather would have been nice, but there’s a unique magic in showing up anyway and enjoying the day on its own terms (that’s why they make rain parkas). Who cares that some of the trails are muddy? If you stick with it, you begin to see the beauty in all of Mother Nature’s moods. And besides: when you get back to the cabin, you can make a fire and enjoy a mug of Irish coffee.

Flume Covered Bridge - 1886

Flume Gorge Trail

Flume Gorge Trail

Sentinel Pine Covered Bridge - 1939

Swift River

Albany Covered Bridge - 1858

Bald Mountain Trail

Boulder-hopping section of Bald Mountain Trail. Wet and slippery.

Wine-thirty at the cabin with late-afternoon showers outside.
Comfy cozy.

Land of Maple Syrup

Present-day Vermont was once the wild frontier of New France. But after the French and Indian Wars, France ceded the land to Great Britain, and a colony began to take shape. Ethan Allen and the Green Mountain Boys became Revolutionary War heroes. After independence, Vermont formally joined the United States—the first state admitted after the original thirteen. Also of note: the spring-loaded clothespin was invented in Vermont in 1853, the very same clothespin design in use today. Ingenuity. From militias to everyday innovation, Vermont is as Americana as you can get.

Vermont also has bragging rights when it comes to premium maple syrup. The state produces about 3 million gallons a year—over half the USA supply—but what really sets it apart is how that syrup is made. Most of it comes from small, traditional multi-generational farms, where techniques and maple groves are passed down like heirlooms. In stark contrast, large commercial operations in Quebec, Canada produce over 17 million gallons annually, dominating the market and setting global prices (the OPEC of maple syrup). Their focus is volume, scale, and keeping the supply chain running. So, there you have it: David vs Goliath.

Once we left Franconia and drove into Vermont, our first stop was a maple farm. Morse Farm & Maple Sugarworks sits three miles outside Montpelier in pastoral countryside of open fields, maple-covered hills, and rustic barns; a place that feels woven into the land. The Morse family’s ancestors settled in Central Vermont in the 1790s and learned the art of maple-tapping from the indigenous Abenakis, something they still treat with great pride and respect. Inside the gift shop, we browsed shelves of syrup in every amber shade, maple candies, and maple cookies—heck, maple everything. Sampling the various syrups was surprisingly eye-opening, with flavors shifting with the season, the boiling process, and various tricks of the trade. There’s a lot of chemistry going on.

Before leaving, we hiked a visitors’ trail into the maple grove behind the farm. The hills were laced with clear plastic tubing, a collection network that taps into each tree trunk, drawing the sap out, drop by drop. Not glamorous, but practical. It takes forty gallons of sap to make one gallon of premium syrup. The Morses know their trees like longtime neighbors, and care for them meticulously through the tapping, boiling, and bottling process. It feels less like an industry than a lasting relationship between a family and its land—and we left with syrup that carried a piece of that history.

Vermont state capitol in Montpelier.

Morse Maple Farm

Farmer Ron

An evaporator is used to heat maple tree sap and reduce it to syrup.

Sampling the varieties of maple syrup.

A network of plastic tapping lines deliver sap to a collection point.

Every maple tree is tapped.

Came across these old tapping buckets on a hike near
Stowe. They're probably close to a century old.

Stowe, Vermont

Day 9. With the Nor’easter in the rear-view mirror, Vermont greeted us with mostly sunny skies, making the day feel like a clean slate. Stowe would be our home for the next three nights, a small town tucked into the autumn splendor of the Green Mountains, as picturesque as any postcard. We checked into our clean but modest motel with just the basics—a reminder that we were here to be outside, not in the room. We even had time for a quick hike up Cady Hill with late-afternoon light slanting through the maple jungle. By the time we returned to the car, the temperature had dipped considerably. And we were hungry. A cozy tavern with dim lights and wooden beams solved that problem, and over dinner and drinks, we planned for tomorrow. I think I’m gonna like this town.

Stowe was not always the polished four-season resort town it is today. It was a colonial outpost in the 18th century, where hearty pioneers hacked an agrarian life out of the wilderness. Later, dairy farming brought more settlers and the community bloomed into a charming hamlet, which in turn attracted a new genre of folks—holiday travelers. The defining moment came in 1870, when a carriage road was built to the summit of Mount Mansfield (4,393 ft)—Vermont’s highest peak—opening the area to outdoor tourism and signaling that Stowe could become a destination, not just a place to pass through.

The first alpine ski trails on Mount Mansfield opened in the 1930s, making Stowe one of the nation’s earliest ski areas. After World War II, more trails, rope tows, and chairlifts were added, a ski culture bloomed, and the town transformed into a winter resort where visitors chased fresh powder and mountain air. Alpine ski racer, Billy Kidd, grew up here and became a sensation in the 1960s when skiing went mainstream. His silver medal in the 1964 Winter Olympics put Stowe on the map, linking the town to Olympic-level talent, not just scenery.

Also of note, the Von Trapp family—the inspiration for the classic movie “The Sound of Music”—settled in Stowe in 1942 after fleeing Nazi Germany. It is said that the area reminded them of their Bavarian homeland. They built a hillside lodge that drew winter skiers and summer hikers, a family operation that is still in business today, though on a much larger scale. We ate dinner there one night. Excellent.

Downtown Stowe

Cady Hill offers hiking and mtn-biking right in town.

Mountain-biker descending Bear's Trail on Cady Hill.

BICYCLES AND MORE COVERED BRIDGES

Cycling is another big part of Stowe’s outdoor culture. There are bicycles everywhere. Road cycling offers rolling farmland, country roads, and some strenuous hill climbs. At the same time, the town has become a premier mountain-biking mecca, with over 50 miles of excellent singletrack trails, plus plenty of gravel paths that thread through woods and fields.

Terry and I rented mountain bikes—hardtails with gravel tires—and rode mostly bike paths and hilly country roads, with some gravel thrown in for good measure. We pedaled up toward Smuggler’s Notch, rolled back through town, and then climbed into the hills where the views open and the air felt extra crisp. One of the highlights was hunting down the historic covered bridges. There are 99 of them in the state, the highest concentration in the country, and they gave our rides a storybook charm—a time capsule that you could ride through. With its covered bridges, hill climbs, winding bike paths, and varied routes, Stowe is a terrific place to ride.

Gold Brook Covered Bridge - 1844

Gold Brook Covered Bridge

Red Covered Bridge - 1896

Brookdale Covered Bridge - 1964

Brookdale Covered Bridge

Downhill run back into town

Back to Fairfield

Our New England adventure was drawing to a close, though it still hadn’t quite sunk in. We returned to Fairfield, Connecticut, where it had all begun, and stayed with Mike and his family one last time.

That evening, Mike’s wife, Hazel, cooked a scrumptious Korean meal for dinner, with Mike at the helm of the barbeque grill and daughter Joon acting as chef’s assistant. We gathered around the table, plates full, and before long the wine and conversation flowed. Stories mingled with laughter, and time seemed to slow down in that trouble-free way it does when you’re exactly where you belong. With family.

The next morning, Terry and I joined Mike and his dogs for another four-mile hike around Lake Mohagen. The trail felt familiar, but the landscape had shifted to more fall colors than two weeks ago. Trees that had been mostly green were now lit up in reds, oranges, and golds, as if they’d been saving their best for last. Leaves crunched underfoot, the lake was placid as a mirror, and the temps vacillated from cool in the shade to warm in the sun. It was a perfect day. It was also a beautiful end to a wonderful trip—a comforting feeling of having beheld and savored what we came for.