Woman Interrupted… in Vermont
After New Year’s I felt overwhelmed. I had resolutions and the enthusiasm to dive right into them. Or so I thought. Doesn’t a new year always start like this? Ideas of new beginnings, transformations, improvements, goals, ambitions animate the mind like the sprightliest, crispest winter breeze. And every inward motor starts to gear itself up for action, facing that pristine untouched calendar that you just hung up on the wall, mostly for the pretty pictures because now the phone holds most appointments, but still… January stares you in the face with its grid of unfilled days, spotted with the full or the new moons and holidays, its 31 numbers watching you, goading you, asking: how are you really spending your time within our unwritten spaces? And what about all those plans? Where is the first step? You haven’t taken it yet, and we—the days and weeks—see it all and keep count for you.
Some people begin the new year with a vacation or already on vacation. More often than not, it is a planned affair with sights to see, mountains to ski, beaches to worship, and cocktails to ingest. These are the plans to defer other plans, you know, the resolution-infused ones. What better than a planned vacation to still make you feel like you have started a new year “as planned” and to set you already into action? And by action, I mean even beach laziness, because that too is part of the plan. But what if you haven’t made such sweet plans? What if the enthusiasm to take the first steps toward your goals and resolutions fizzled out like that last glass of champagne you forgot on the living room table after bravely staying up till 3 a.m.? And what if, instead of being a launching platform, January were an interruption?
Interruptions come in all forms. The big ones can be tragic, shocking, thought provoking, and sometimes a blessing in disguise. Interruptions are defined as breaks in continuity, and they’re mostly caused by external factors. But what if one day you interrupt yourself? What if you cut off the inner monologue and chattering of external pressures that have burrowed their way inside so deeply that you think they’re an intrinsic part of you? And, if life circumstances permit it, what if you were to go somewhere without a plan, without company, without goals? Just you, shutting the door on the lovely calendar with its blank days’ canvas.
That is exactly what I did. Every year by mid-January I am up and running, diving into my freelance work projects, renewing my gym membership, writing page after page of an essay or an article or a book, and so on… But this year, I left. I didn’t want to be a tourist in a new location so I chose the first familiar, accessible place that came to mind, a place I knew I liked, a place where I could feel the constant heartbeat of the snow season, not the limp pulse of a wannabe winter dragging itself through New York and Westchester. I chose Killington in Vermont.
I have skied the Killington mountains for many years, I know their slopes, some of their wooded trails, their chair lifts and lodges, their snow textures. The Killington snow is a complex and fickle lover, capricious in its buttery smoothness that can turn to turbulent heaviness on a weathery whim or in its playful fluffiness that leads you to a trail of bouldery hardness and twisted moguls, if only to test your spirit. Oh, the Killington snow, an immaculate beauty so deceptive in disguising implacable ice, and so eager to regale you with miles of shimmering diamond dust when the sky turns a blue that can make you cry, and the sun kisses every diamond fleck in sight.
But this time I left my skiing self at home.
I looked at every lodging option I knew in Killington, through Expedia and through the Killington central reservation hub. None had any rooms available in January. “You should have booked in September,” I was told. Of course, here were all those “planned” vacations at work, and I, who did I think I was, calling at the last minute to find a room in the resort where people from over fifty countries own the winter months’ lodging year after year? I was just about to give up on my spur-of-the-moment interruption idea when a photo caught my attention: The Mountain Inn. I had often passed by it on my stays in Killington, the cute rustic unassuming hotel at the base of Killington resort, with two decorative gondola cabins out front and in full view of several of the slopes. I bypassed the Killington central reservation hub and called them directly. Within minutes I had a room, and they promised it would be on the third floor, the top floor.
J.P. Quidore, director of operations at The Mountain Inn
After a four-hour Sunday ride, first on the Taconic parkway where it seemed like mine was the only car on the planet, and then on route 7 N on which I glided into the magic of Vermont, mountainous and hushed by snow, I arrived at The Mountain Inn. At the reception desk I was greeted by the whirlwind of smiles and aroma of freshly baked cookies covered with huge marshmallows… “To absorb the moisture,” I was told in between warm greetings and tail wagging from the dog secured near the reception desk by a gate. “Here people come as guests and leave as friends,” said J.P. Quidore, the director of operations and one of the friendliest and warmest people in Killington, which says a lot because everyone, but absolutely everyone is very hospitable and nice. Here they have time to talk to you, even when there’s a check-in or check-out rush. There is no frenzy, there are no stressful, hurried movements or words. The hotel room is a quaint clean abode in varied tones of gray, white, a touch of red from the coverlet on the bed and bright golden brown from the wood panel at the head of the bed, topped by a photograph of the Vermont mountains in the fall.
Ryan Bremser, head distiller at Killington Distillery
A continental breakfast is included. Pastries, bagels, yogurt, cereal, fruit juices, coffee, and tea invite you every morning into the breakfast room that on one side overlooks Snowshed and Ramshead Header slopes among others. And on the side perpendicular to the mountain view, the eyes can rest on another appealing, intriguing sight: the shiny apparatus of the famous Killington Distillery whose craft spirits have gained a stellar reputation. Ryan Bremser, the head distiller who has worked here since its opening, does everything the distillery requires. He described to me some of the fascinating processes that happen between the big copper-and-stainless container, the pot, and the multi-plated columns that determine a spirit’s level of refinement before it goes into the “spirit safe.” Maple cask bourbon, woodland gin, VTQuila—the Vermont variation of tequila—vodka, white rum, the 4241 blended whiskey series named in honor of Killington peak, at 4241 feet the second highest point in the state… all await the visitor to try them here in The Mountain Inn’s Still on the Mountain bar and restaurant, and to take home from the small shop on the premises. I regretted that I was in a non-drinking phase at that moment, but I hoped that those to whom I would gift some bottles could tell me about what I understood to be the very special tastes of these spirits.
Basmati chicken with avgolemono sauce at Still on the Mountain bar and restaurant
But there were plenty of other special tastes for me to enjoy. The Still on the Mountain chef has crafted a special distillery burger steeped in the house maple bourbon BBQ sauce, rich with Vermont Cabot cheese, and as juicy and satisfying as their lamb burger sprinkled with feta and dill crème wrapped in a pita. Here, the Mediterranean meets Vermont in dishes like sliced fig and goat that includes Vermont prosciutto, and of course, olive oil and rosemary. Then there are the Portuguese mussels steamed with Killington distillery vodka, tortellini with distillery vodka sauce, rack of lamb, basmati chicken with a divine lemon sauce, and why not, a paella de marisco. Baklava for dessert. Tasty, quirky, unexpected, the offerings at Still on the Mountain will make you want to eat your way through the entire menu and back again.
Maple crème brulée with nutmeg and cinnamon at Killington Grand Hotel Preston’s restaurant
I almost sampled the entire menu, yet there were other specialties to try, like the maple crème brulée with nutmeg and cinnamon that carried me to culinary paradise in Preston’s restaurant in the Killington Grand Hotel. And for a quick lunch, besides the clam chowder and the seafood corn chowder at Snowshed and Killington lodges, there was the lovely butternut maple bisque at the Killington Grand’s café. Or the rich and comfortingly cheesy cream of tomato soup at Choices restaurant. And then how could I not venture into Charity’s, the beloved 1887 saloon where its’ famous onion soup winks at you in burnt caramel color once you pierce the golden-brown cheese crust that guards its secrets? Their poutine is not truly Canadian as the cheese is far from curdy and the gravy’s practically MIA. Still the gooey deliciousness of melted cheese and fries make for a soothing meal when you wander in from zero degrees Fahrenheit.
After a few days in Killington, it dawned on me that, among other activities—like walking to the slopes every day and freezing my way in nothing but a bathing suit, flip flops and two towels on the snow-packed stairs leading to the Mountain Inn’s outdoor heated pool—I was in fact eating my way through this entire interruption. Yes, I was also contemplating life, remembering, and praying… In my own way, I was living a miniature variation of Eat, Pray, Love. 12 days instead of 12 months. At first my trip was meant to last five days, from Sunday to Friday. But when I simply couldn’t bring myself to leave Vermont, I asked J.P. whether I could extend my stay for another week. I could, technically, if I avoided the weekend when the hotel was fully booked. So, I would have to go somewhere else between Friday and Sunday. Swiftly, J.P. looked up other hotels in the area; no vacancies. He persisted and found lodging for me twenty miles away, at Kedron Valley Inn in South Woodstock, the only room available for a reasonable price that weekend. I took it.
Woodstock Middle Bridge
The drive to South Woodstock proved spectacular. And slightly terrifying. From Route 4 the GPS took me across Lincoln Covered Bridge on a road by a bubbling river partly frozen, partly agitated. The road before me was narrow, mildly plowed, rising and falling, bordered by majestic evergreens on each side and sprawling expanses of glittering white anchored here and there by the red color of a barn or the brown or dark blue of a house. I clung to the steering wheel unsure of my tires’ relationship with winter, but stunned at the otherworldly beauty that flooded me from every side. The GPS spoke to me like a voice from a distant universe and I just followed trustingly, not seeing a gas station or a store or a person anywhere for miles. Finally, a road called Church Hill brought me to the reassuring opening of an intersection where Kedron Valley Inn reigned as two villas perpendicular to each other, with an Adirondack-style building in the back where my room was supposed to be. Check-in was contactless. An e-mail from the inn had notified me of the room location and the access code I had to plug in at my door.
I had access to the room starting at 3 p.m.. So, there I was two hours early, suddenly realizing that I had no signal on my phone. I couldn’t call, text, e-mail or search anything. I walked into one of the villas. There was no reception desk. No phone. My pastoral awe turned to anxiety. I, who often preach in favor of the benefits of taking time away from phones and Internet, was now completely off the grid and panicked out of my mind. Maybe this was supposed to be the Pray part of my mini Eat, Pray, Love scenario. Complete isolation and silence. Yet my connected self felt I had to tell at least someone where I was, so I jumped back in the car and drove madly in some random direction on Route 4 checking the phone every three seconds for a signal. None to be found. I turned around and drove back to Kedron Valley Inn. At last, I saw a human being, a woman walking with determined steps from one building to another. I pulled up next to her. She understood my panic, took my phone, and connected me to the inn’s Wi-Fi. “You might want to try wireless calling,” she said. I wanted to ask her: ‘Why wouldn’t the person who wrote me the welcome e-mail put this detail in? Why not forewarn the multitasking, connected city people that once they reach the inn, they will find themselves with an incapacitated phone and might, just might freak out?’ But she seemed busy, so I let her go.
Gillingham’s in Woodstock
And thus began the unforeseen two days in the Woodstock area. After sleeping like a baby in a herb-and-honey-scented room of wooden walls, beds, and chairs and a flat-screen TV, a room whose window faced pine branches adorned in snow and icicles, I was ready to roam. The breakfast sandwich of eggs and cheddar cheese at the country store next door filled me with energy and I drove to Woodstock proper, at the recommendation of a good friend who had lived there for almost two decades. I walked all around the village center. I marveled at Gillingham’s, the most incredible miscellaneous country store I had ever seen, where I had to buy maple-flavored popcorn and maple cotton candy in a plastic jar along with honey scented goat-milk soaps. Plus bath salts with juniper and rosemary. To soothe tired athletes’ muscles, the bag said. Well, the only athletic prowess I was manifesting during those days was that of the jaws in different dining locations. But, I thought, those culinary work-outs definitely tired out other muscles, the ones that had to carry me after each meal. So, a juniper and rosemary bath was absolutely called for.
Then I stepped into a glorious exhibit of Vermont landscape photographs at the Focus art gallery, where one of the photographers whose work was on display, Loren Fisher, greeted me warmly. My culinary explorations took me first to the organic and locally sourced, Mon Vert Café, that has the best names for its menu items, like Bean me up, Scotty—their organic black bean burrito—and Gobble it up, the roast Turkey breast with avocado, Cabot cheddar, and Chipotle aioli that makes the tongue zing in its perky spiciness. That evening, Ransom Tavern at Kedron Valley Inn, renowned for their magnificent pizzas, lured me in and I tried the gardener’s pizza, a taste of heaven in fresh roasted butternut squash purée, roasted garlic, three kinds of mushrooms, and fresh arugula. You have to reserve a table in advance, so I had to eat at the bar. The bartender made me a special mocktail: a bubbly aranciata infused with cardamom syrup.
Glass-making at Simon Pearce
The store at Simon Pearce
I was also told that no visit to Woodstock would be complete without a stop at Simon Pearce store and restaurant, where the butternut squash and pumpkin gnocchi with sautéed kale, roasted carrots, caramelized onions, and sage cream sauce knock you off your feet, and the live glassblowing and array of glass products blow your mind. And to top off the Woodstock detour, I stopped at Sugarbush Farm where I sampled three varieties of cheddar, two different grades of maple syrup, and a maple bourbon glaze, while learning how forty gallons of sap from the maple trees are needed to make just one gallon of syrup. The farm’s three goats by the parking lot stared at me when I got back to my car. They were chewing on grass, I was chewing on maple candy. Life was good. And I swear that one of them winked at me.
The path to Killington peak
I left Woodstock enchanted. When I returned to The Mountain Inn, it felt like coming home. For five more days, I resumed my walking, contemplation, and of course flirting with the menu. The Mountain Inn has a private shuttle, and one bright day, the cheerful and amiable driver, Steve, took me to Snowshed so I could catch the shuttle to the Killington gondola and embark on a scenic ride to Killington peak. When I got to the top, I felt as though I’d entered the palace of winter. Evergreens in their white plush coats stood tall, and everywhere I turned hills and mountains rolled toward the horizon in waves of opal and blue. “See that really tall snowcapped mountain?” someone asked me pointing to a ghost of a mountain in the distance. “That’s Mount Washington.” I couldn’t tell if it was real or a mirage, but it was wonderful to think that I could wave at it.
On Killington Mountain
I saw a frozen stairway to the right of the gondola station. As skiers and snowboarders were preparing to launch themselves down the trails, I climbed those stairs. A skier had told me that it’s a little hike to the actual peak of Killington. The top of the stairs placed me in the heart of the palace of winter. Branches thick with snow or delicate like fingers adorned in filigree of white greeted me on both sides of the trail and I climbed higher into the snowy spell until I reached the peak where I turned around over and over breathing in the beauty and the stillness of what lay between me and the horizon. There were no thoughts, no aches, no desires. For several moments, free of mind and emotions, I became stillness itself. I was a rock on that mountain, and in the luminous embrace of snow under a brilliant, relentless sky, I touched the soul of winter.
On Killington peak
Later, I thought that must have been the epitome of the Pray part of my version of Eat, Pray, Love in Vermont. As for the Eat part, well, that never really stopped. And even if I didn’t meet my Javier Bardem who might have first knocked me over with his snowmobile and then melted my heart by the fireplace, the Love part was also present. Love is everywhere in Killington, from the careful nighttime grooming of the slopes to the attentively prepared dishes to the devoted crafting of the spirits and cheeses to the smiles and hospitality at every turn. Love is the love you feel for yourself as a human dealing with the pressures and challenges of life. Here in this snowy, cozy, airy interruption, there is room to recognize that love. There is room for tranquility and for forgiveness of self and others, for making peace with the limitations and agonies of being bound by vulnerable physicality and impermanence. And if that gets too heavy and philosophical, go back to the basics. Eat, walk, engage in winter activities or not, and always, always go to the peak of Killington Mountain.
All photos by Maria-Cristina Necula
