Epic journey through Vermont and New York (in case you forgot) . . .
Road Trip continued: I roll into Middlebury, Vermont, about two hours ahead of my worst-case scenario schedule. So far my driving plan has been reasonably straightforward, and I still have both cell phone GPS and an old TomTom GPS system making sure I'm going where I belong.
All is right with the world for now.
My first Middlebury stop is the American Legion Post, where there is what Roadside Attractions website calls "Jet on a Stick." Middlebury was one of the Legion's first ever organizations, starting in 1919, but not at its current location. The A-4 Skyhawk jet was procured through a Marine who flew A-4s during the Vietnam War. My first reaction when I get out of the car is, "This is frakking cool!" The plane is on loan from both the Marine Corps Air Station and the US Naval Museum, and it has been "on a stick" for nearly twenty-five years. I think it's amazing, so I snap about a dozen photos.
My next stop is the Middlebury Art Museum. It's free and small enough to breeze through relatively quickly. It doesn't seem like much from the outside, but the very first thing I see is a small sculpture by Rodin. There's an Andy Warhol print, and an ancient Egyptian sarcophagus from about 664 BCE to 343 BCE. The top floor is inundated with ginormous papier-mache puppets. It takes me about twenty minutes to get through.
I glance at my phone and realize that I have time to fit in the UVM Morgan Horse Farm today. This is amazing! Until . . . it's not. Suddenly and without warning, pomp, nor fanfare, I entirely lose cell, internet, and all GPS.
Even though I have rudimentary maps printed out, I cannot see the names of streets. That's all right. I'm an intelligent woman. I can follow street signs as well as anyone else. Except . . . Middlebury doesn't believe in clear street signs that point in the correct directions. Remember when I mentioned printed maps last week and wrote for readers to
hold that thought?
Well, now is the beginning of the Great Middlebury Map Fiasco of 2024.
I know that the Morgan Horse Farm is less than four miles away, and I know the general direction, but the streets go to nowhere, or they have similar names, or they go only one way, or the signs point left and right and up and down all at the same time. I circle the area in my car for almost an hour, and drive miles and miles and miles out of my way and in giant geometric directions. An oval here, a square there, and, oh, look, I've just completed a dodecahedron. I ask a nice young couple for directions, but they're not locals. I ask another older couple, but they don't speak English, and my Spanish far exceeds my French. Finally, I see a young girl walking a dog. She directs me across the very cool Pulp Mill Covered Bridge, and I finally see a sign for the stables.
When I arrive at 2:43, I know there is one more tour at 3:00. There are some horses in the paddocks, but honestly, it is so bloody hot outside that the poor animals probably should be in the shade. Despite there being several cars at the facility, I am the only one signed up for a tour. I feel silly, and I explain to the young guide that I'm happy to wander around; they can keep my small tour fee as a donation. But, no, I get a private tour with a friendly apprentice, who apologizes because the horses have indeed been brought inside, which prevents decent photos. So, she walks me through the barn to meet the horses, and we talk about my limited but sufficient familiarity with the lineage and physical qualities of the Morgan horse breed.
Finally, I know the place will be closing soon, so I say my thanks. Oh, no, though, we are not quite finished. Annalise is heading to the foaling barn. Would I like to come meet the foals? Holy crap, yes, I would! We walk to the far barn where she swings the paddock gates wide open and invites me to walk across the huge empty (and poop-less -- absolutely spotless) area. She then invites me into the specialty building and introduces me to all six foals and mares and tells me each one's story.
It. Is. Phenomenal.
I head back to town, check into my hotel, then shower the entire steaming day off. Other than the door to my room being finicky (I open it once to check in and once when I leave so I don't get locked out), the only two flies are that the wi-fi is spotty so I am still in Cell Hell, and I forgot to bring stamps for the postcards. Luckily, there's a post office nearby that I can hit on my way out of town. Besides, I circled Middlebury so many times today, I am familiar enough with the town to find my own way.
Or, so I innocently believe. Next installment: You can't get there from here.
