Footloose in America: Dixie to New England (49 page)

Right then, a car in the oncoming lane skidded to a stop less than fifty feet from the truck. I said, “You need to move your truck. You’re going to cause a wreck.”

A car behind the truck blew its horn and so did the one stopped in the other lane. The trucker quickly looked both ways, shook his finger again and yelled, “You ain’t seen the last of me!”

He clambered back into the cab, ground a few gears, then with black smoke spewing up out both exhaust pipes, the truck roared away. I never saw him again.

That night, after we crawled into the tent, Patricia said “That trucker scared me. I really thought he was going to try to hurt you. Were you scared?”

“Not really. I just figured he was having a bad day. What he needs to do is slow down and take a few days off at Santanoni. He’d feel a lot better.”

Down for the night
.

CHAPTER 20

I
NTO
N
EW
E
NGLAND

W
E CROSSED LAKE CHAMPLAIN INTO
New England on the Ticonderoga Ferry. It’s been in operation since 1759 – making it one of America’s oldest businesses. Captain Larry told us, “Della’s the first mule we’ve ever toted across.”

Like the ferry we crossed the Mississippi on, this one also was a barge powered by a tugboat attached to the side of it. Larry and his family had been running the “Ti-ferry” for fifteen years, so maybe it was the first time
they
took a mule across. But in the past 244 years, other operators must have hauled a bunch of them. And like the captain of the Hickman Ferry on the Mississippi, Captain Larry refused to take our fare.

But unlike our ride across the Mississippi, we were not the only ones on this boat. The Ti-ferry had fifteen parking spaces and they were all full. And unlike the previous ferry, Della didn’t slip on the ramp or the deck of this one. She just strolled on board like she did it every day.

At first, I’m not sure Della knew we were on a boat. She probably thought we were just stuck in traffic–like back in Buffalo or Cincinnati. But when the tug revved up, and the barge began to move,
that
got her attention. Her ears went rigid, and she almost knocked me over with her head when it turned toward the tow boat. She didn’t seem scared, just concerned.

I don’t think Della realized what was going on, until we got out into the lake. As she watched a pleasure boat go by, it was like she got it. “I’m
on a boat.” She relaxed and seemed to enjoy the rest of the ride. Especially when two passengers brought her apples.

The moment our feet touched Vermont, everything seemed different. It felt softer. Things were not so abrupt as back in New York. Instead of rising up into peaks, like the Adirondacks, the Green Mountains were round in the sky. Vermont felt soft and supple.

“Excuse me. Could I pet your mule?”

She was the first person to walk up and say something to us in New England. We had just disembarked the ferry at Larabees Point. A dairy farm was nearby, and she walked out of one of the barns dressed in tight blue jeans and knee-high rubber work-boots. In her mid-teens, she had delicate features and light red hair pulled back in a bun. She exuded the kind of wholesomeness you would expect from a milkmaid in Vermont.

However, the best part was her accent. I had heard the Vermont accent before–but to have it come from her, there on the shore of Lake Champlain, was truly sweet. Vowels were rounder in Vermont. They involved more of the mouth, not spit from the tip of the tongue. Words rolled about the palate before they were spoken. Yes, we really were in New England.

Highway 74 took us up out of the Champlain Valley, past dairy farms with fields of alfalfa and corn. Some hillsides were covered with apple trees in well-kept orchards with neat stacks of bins ready for the harvest. It was on that road that I first saw a farm with the barns attached to the house. Enclosed walkways connected them, so in the winter farmers didn’t have to wade through the snow. We saw this all across New England.

That route took us through the hamlets of Shoreham and West Cornwall. Quiet little places with tall church steeples and tidy white Victorian homes, most of which had either black wrought-iron or white picket fences around them.

Then we came to Middlebury, which was chartered in 1761. It was a beautiful bustling little city with steep streets and quaint old stone and
brick buildings that housed charming shops, eateries and inns. In the center of Middlebury, Otter Creek flowed over a waterfall. And as we walked across the stone bridge above it, a man wearing waders was down in the rapids fly fishing. Downtown also had a park with a wooden bandstand where people lounged under ancient oaks and maples in the middle of Monday afternoon. While we walked through Middlebury, I felt like we had arrived at the heart of New England.

“Yeah, but it ain’t got no soul.” His voice had a smoker’s rattle to it. He wore farmer’s overalls, a dingy red cap and sat on a stool halfway down the bar. “Middlebury used to be a real town. But not no more.”

We had stopped at Two Brother’s Tavern for an afternoon beer. They had fifteen different brands on tap, most of which I’d never heard of. We got one of the local brews.

I asked, “What do you mean, it’s not a real town?”

He motioned toward the front windows. “Look out there. See all those people?”

Right then the windows framed a constant flow of humanity. They were people of all ages. Some with camera’s slung around their neck and dipper-bags on their shoulders. Others wore day packs on their backs and hiking boots on their feet.

He blurted, “None of them live here! I’ve been here all my life, and I don’t know a one of them. They’re all tourists. Strangers. They come here to see ‘Quaint New England.’ Well, guess what, they’re ruining it!”

Patricia said, “A pretty place just naturally attracts tourists.”

Slamming his mug down, beer erupted from its top and splashed down onto the bar as he declared, “Well, they’ve ruined this town!”

He grabbed a fist full of bar napkins and began to sop up the mess, as he grumbled, “Used to be, you could walk up this street and buy a pair of work jeans. But not no more. Now, if you want a three dollar postcard, by God, they’ve all got ‘em.” He grunted as he lifted his mug. “That’s not a real town. That’s a tourist trap!”

Patricia gasped for air before she yelled, “I don’t think she can do it.”

We were on the side of Sand Hill in the Green Mountains below Ripton, and all of us were breathing hard. Della’s sides heaved and her legs quaked as she leaned uphill. Patricia had just put the wood blocks behind the back wheels so Della didn’t have to hold the weight of the cart as she rested.

During the past two days we’d heard how steep Sand Hill was. But it was the only way to get up the mountain to Robert Frost’s cabin. The hill was less than a mile from our camp in East Middlebury. So I biked to the base to see how steep it was. It didn’t look like anything the Big Sis couldn’t handle. And she did get up that part just fine. It was the next turn that stopped her. The pitch of the turn, the sudden grade change, it was too much. I could feel it in my legs too.

This was our second attempt. The first time we backed down to a wide level spot beside the road. After a few minutes rest, Della leaped into the pull. She charged up the hill but stopped in the same place. So rather than back down, Patricia put the blocks behind the wheels so we all could rest.

Between breaths, I said, “This is what we’ll do. Leave the blocks where they are. You take off the brake and we’ll start from here.”

“What if she still can’t do it, then what?”

The night before, we had camped behind the East Middlebury Library. Most of the neighbors paid us a visit, and all of them said if we needed help, to let them know. So we had those alternatives available.

I said, “Then, we’ll turn around, go back down and get help.”

While we stood on the slope resting, the Middlebury River roared through the gorge below us. At that spot the river fell in turbulent white water down through huge boulders. It was such a dramatic falls that I can’t imagine anyone trying to kayak it. The sound was so intense I had to yell to Patricia so she could hear. “Get ready!”

My voice echoed off the rocks. “Come up, Big Sis! That’s my girl! That’s my girl! You can do it, Della! I know you can!”

She lunged up the hill. The cart’s front wheels came off the road and it lurched forward about a dozen feet. Then Della began to slip. She struggled
for traction as sparks flew out from under her shoes. The cart began to pull her back down the hill. Then the left rear tire rolled into one of the wooden blocks. That made the cart jackknife out into the middle of the road.

Patricia screamed, “No!”

Both of the right tires were off the pavement and the cart looked like it was about to tip over. While Della continued to skid backwards, the cart teetered further toward disaster.

I yanked Della’s head to the right. “This way, girl!”

When she hopped that direction, the momentum brought the wheels back down onto the highway. Now both she and the cart were perpendicular to the slope. That stopped the cart from rolling over, but it had us across both lanes of traffic. We already had two cars stopped–one in each direction. Something had to give.