Winter, 2008

The light in the window looked comforting. It was early; another hour until daylight, and cold. Not snowing but feeling like it might start sometime soon and when it did, it would take its time about quitting. One of those winter mornings in Vermont when what you want-need, in fact-is a cup of coffee and another human you can commiserate with while you drink it. I knew that there would be coffee ready in the little store where I had parked on my way somewhere to run some kind of errand. It's that way here. When you fill up or buy a paper, early in the morning, you can also get a cup of coffee and, if you have the time, some agreeable conversation. Sets you right up for the day.

That morning, for some reason, I started thinking about the whole business of coffee and its rituals. The subject was fresh since my daughter had just been home and I had learned a lot-more, probably, than I wanted to know-about her life in one of those wretched eastern cities. I knew the length of her commute and the time it took her to make it. The places where she shopped. The kind of ethnic restaurants where she ate. (Who knew the Ethiopians even had a "cuisine?") I learned about urban golf. A Scandinavian furniture store called Ikea. The price of concert tickets. And I learned about Starbucks. » read more

By Paul Fersen

Thirty years ago I came to Vermont in search of something different, something a bit more adventurous. Having never lived north of South Carolina, a winter in Vermont was quite an adventure, but as it turned out, just the beginning of a long journey. It was only supposed to be for a winter. It turned out to be a lifetime. This past summer and fall, I went looking for a new adventure. I went to Alaska to spend two months "in the bush" as they say working as a guide at a fishing lodge.

While Vermont is still home, it now seems a bit tame, or perhaps it is me that is tame. My first tiny cabin in the National Forest has long been replaced by a much larger home in Dorset with insulation and plumbing that works. The storied and rusty old farm truck replaced by an SUV with heated seats, the woodstove by a gas model and the dirt road, though still dirt, fixed so that mud season is no longer worth mentioning. The adventure replaced by responsibility. » read more

The other day I stopped by the local country store in our town. I had met a new friend and asked her and her husband by for a drink after work so, my mission was to pick up a bottle of wine, some artisan cheese and some smoked salmon. It may be a country store, but we are living in gourmet times; even Vermont country stores have culinary street cred.

I made my selections and went to the counter to check out only to find that I didn't have enough cash to pay for it all. "Oh well," I said to the nice young man behind the counter, "I'll bring the rest of the money by later." Now, I realize that to those of you who are visitors to this part of the world, this may sound strange. In most places, when you buy something, you pay for it, and if you don't have the necessary cash, you go without. Basic rules of commerce. But the owners of the store are close friends and I had gotten away with this kind of deal in the past. This is how we roll in the country; things are not wrapped too terribly tightly. However, the young man behind the counter was a new employee. He didn't know me. He told me he was sorry, and gave me a quick lesson in consumer economics: if I didn't have enough money, I couldn't walk out with the items I wanted. » read more

By Peggy Shinn

Nordic skier Andy Newell has won 
two World Cup medals. 
Is Olympic gold in his future?

It happened in China, of all places. An American cross-country skier stepped onto the World Cup podium, property that the Scandinavians consider theirs. He was a young American too, only 22 years old, and his name was Andy Newell.

Just three weeks after he finished 16th in the sprint race at the 2006 Winter Olympics, Newell, a Stratton Mountain School graduate from Shaftsbury, Vermont, finished an astonishing third in a World Cup sprint in Changchun, China.

"It was crazy," he said. "The race was in a packed soccer stadium, and they brought in snow. It's this huge city, like 7 million people." » read more

In the tiny village of Grafton, just north of Townshend, is well known as the home of the Grafton Cheese Company and the Windham Foundation, which has spent the last forty years restoring many of the buildings including the 1801 inn known today the Old Tavern at Grafton. In this peaceful Vermont village, just a few steps up from its enduring landmark, is an unusual gallery that on a cold early winter afternoon entices the visitor in with a blazing fire and a remarkable collection of bronze sculptures. At first you may think you have come upon a stash of Frederick Remington's cowboys but on closer inspection realize these sculptures in all sizes are Native Americans, specifically Native Americans of the eastern woodlands.

Actually, the sculptor, Jud Hartmann is quite specific about not using the term Native Americans since that includes Indians of the western states that other artists have done. He is the first to concentrate on the eastern tribes, and he describes his work as being of "Indians." » read more

EquinoxBy Susann Washburn

One needn't go back to early-18th-century Flanders to find admiration for the kind of well-padded body the name Peter Paul Rubens conjures up. In Vermont in the last third of the 19th century the Equinox Hotel drew representatives of the moneyed class from eastern and mid-west cities to its elegant mountain venue. Paramount was its sumptuous-if archaic-resort program. » read more

By Peggy Shinn

Kare Anderson
Kåre Andersen is 92 and 
still going strong—downhill

Stratton’s veteran ski instructor Armin Bischofberger didn’t learn to telemark ski in his native Switzerland. He picked it up after he came to the United States in the early 1980s and saw a Norwegian man, then in his mid-60s, carving elegantly on bended knee through the snow.

That Norwegian was Kåre Andersen, who came to the U.S. in 1958 not to bring his country’s sport to an alpine-skiing nation, but to work as a tailor in New Haven, Connecticut. Only on weekends would Kåre (pronounced Corey) drive north to ski, at least until he retired.

Bischofberger remembers watching Kåre, clad in a red sweater and wool knickers, gracefully turning on his skinny skis and decided to give it a try. He asked Kåre if he could borrow his equipment, and Kåre said sure. It probably never occurred to him to say no. » read more