Last year, between my enjoying Australia and Europe, Vermont’s Gov. Peter Shumlin said, “You’ve never visited Vermont.”
I said, “Where is it?”
South of Canada, north of Massachusetts, across the river from upstate Plattsburgh, five-hour drive from Manhattan, one hour by JetBlue — ringed by the Green Mountains — is Vermont. I am now in it. Ver’s French for green, Mont means mountain.
Stowe has 2,500 permanent citizens. Although my apartment building has more, it also has world-class dog-friendly hotels. With me checking into the AIG-built Stowe Mountain Lodge — whose spa does maple sugar scrubs and whose Solstice restaurant does homegrown mint tea — was a black Lab and teacup Chihuahua. Their rooms have dog beds, dog bowls, dog foods and come with walkers, sitters and nannies.
My windows, near a fireplace, overlooked breathtaking 4,396-foot Mount Mansfield. At 7 a.m., snowbirds schussed down and snowmakers manufactured white stuff by blowing water into the frigid air. Vermonters called the below zero “negative 25.” Lotsa luck. I don’t even go onto my own NYC terrace when the temperature plummets to 40.
Conversations were: “Skiing?”. . . “No, seeing.”. . . “Snowboarding”. . . “No, sitting.”. . . “Tobogganing?”. . . “No, reading.” “Skating?”. . . “Hon, I can barely walk.” . . . “Going up on the ski lift?”. . . “Elevators I go up in.”
Stowe Mountain Lodge also features a heated pool outdoors. They close it when the weather goes below zero. Yeah. Nice, I thought.
The hallways are a mixture. Layers of sweaters, fur hats, fur boots, fur vests, fur boas, fur gloves, fur earmuffs, wool face coverings, wool scarves, mingle with 7-foot giant male skiers whose unmanicured hoofs in flip-flops and furry naked legs hang out of the sauna’s knee-length terry robes.
The state has 600,000 people. More marble and maples and Christmas trees that truck to New York in December than humans. Gorgeous four-lane highways boast four vehicles. A traffic jam is one pickup truck a half-mile away. No lights on the highway. No homesteads either. If your car’s brights fail, it’s through the woods to Little Red Riding Hood’s grandma — or they’ll find you come spring.
Also no billboards mar the landscape, courtesy of a law introduced by 74-year-old Johannes von Trapp, son of Baroness Maria Von Trapp who died in ’87, who sold her life story’s rights for $9,000 in 1949 and whom Julie Andrews immortalized in “The Sound of Music.” His children Sam, Kristina and Kristina’s husband, Walter, own 2,500 acres, farm their own vegetables, chickens, eggs, cattle, forestry, brew their own Trapp Family Brewery’s 50,000 barrels of Trapp Lager and operate their fabulous 96-room Trapp Family Lodge plus 100 condos, many owned by New Yorkers.
Locals have fierce rightly pride in their state. It’s polite, friendly, stress-free, everyone helping everyone. Like America used to be. Many, coming to Vermont to settle, were born elsewhere.
A p.r. lady I met is from Boston, tourist rep from Florida, waiter from Scotland, manicurist whose life is in Martha’s Vineyard. Take the Stoweflake Mountain Resort. Owner Chuck Baraw, a licensed pilot and balloonist who takes guests up for a ride and swore to me: “It’s just like a parachute,” is from Hartford. Wife’s family’s in Syracuse. The driver, who had to pre-warm the car so it started is from New York.
Known for maples, marble and cheese, also moose and bears, Vermont’s income is from tourism. Next, manufacturing. Fourth is farming.
This weekend was also Winter Carnival and the 13th annual Nationally Sanctioned Ice Carving Competition at Spruce Peak Plaza. Forget itsy rinky-dink sculptures hovering over chopped liver at a bar mitzvah. We’re talking giant blocks of ice hauled from Pennsylvania. Electric saws break pieces, ice glue connects parts. Seams are smoothed over by adding water. With gloves thicker than half our senators, contestants labor four hours in frigid Arctic air for the $1,500 prize.
Meltdown parties begin 9 p.m. Nightcaps are at the Rusty Nail.
It’s dog-sledding, ice skating, ice climbing, sledding, snowshoes, the longest 2,160-foot drop, 485 skiable acres, 116 trails, the world’s highest 6,330-foot chairlift, and at least 333 inches annual snowfall. Ski Magazine calls it the No. 1 resort in the eastern US. Yankee Magazine labels it 2012’s No. 1 winter destination.
There’s tree logging, summertime’s swimming, kayaking, boating, mountain biking, rock climbing, 3,000 acres of Smuggler’s Notch State Park hiking, arts and crafts. Burlington, the nearby big airport town, has small local restaurants, wine shops, beer tasting, old-style hardware stores where the owner actually gives you personal attention. You can find bookstores with 10 percent off if you can quote a famous literary line or lessons on how to knit a sweater at Six Loose Ladies.
It’s charming. It’s small town. It’s friendly. It’s innocent.
I thank Vermont’s Gov. Peter Shumlin. And I couldn’t have loved it more unless it was in New York.