(Note: This is the second in a series of posts describing a two-week, 3,710-mile road trip going clockwise from the Boston area up to Québec, out through the Canadian Maritimes, then back down the New England coastline. The series begins here.)
Upon learning that the second leg of our road trip would take my boys and me from Boston to Montréal, a colleague from Burlington advised that the fastest route would be to follow I-93 to I-89. And then he advised that we not go that way, but instead follow the route described here.
After enjoying our evening on Boston’s Charles River Esplanade, making one quick stop in Cambridge to touch John Harvard’s shiny left foot and then another at Lexington to see the Minutemen monument on the Green, we headed west on Route 2, dubbed the Mohawk Trail. We overnighted near Millers Falls before reaching our northward turn, which came the next morning just past I-91 at Shelburne Falls, crossing into Vermont on Route 112.
GREEN MOUNTAIN COUNTRY
Route 112 becomes 110 in Whitingham, the first town of consequence across the state line. We continued to Wilmington, then made the day’s first cut across precisely (if unimaginably) named Green Mountain National Forest on 9, turning again northward not on 7 but on 7A, which passes through several charming villages. Lunch was in Manchester at Sam’s Wood-Fired Pizza Co., memories of their Neapolitan-style pizza and hand-crafted root beer causing my mouth to water as I type. The town is a refreshing combination of rural ease and modernity, of commerce encroaching timidly on pastoral life, where stately residences are approached on sidewalks of locally-quarried marble.
Speaking of marble: Because I was traveling with three adrenaline-inclined young males, the primary draw to this part of the state was the Norcross-West marble quarry just west of Dorset. This was not out of interest in its marble or its history (it was founded in 1785 as America’s first such quarry and for a couple of centuries provided most of the region’s tombstones), but because today it serves as a massive swimming hole unlike any we’ve ever visited.
The boys had never been to New York, so once we’d dried off from our many Dorset plunges, the opportunity to easily check that box compelled us to dip over the state line at Poultney. We followed 30 north along the shores of lovely lakes Bomoseen and Hortonia, took 73 east through Brandon and its adjacent wildlife refuge swamp, then continued eastward over the pass (for our second crossing of the Green Mountains) to Rochester, where we stopped for treats at the farmers’ market.
The afternoon hour growing late and one essential, top-secret engagement left on the day’s agenda, we hustled up 100 through Waitsfield, where the Lawson Brewery offers foosball, cornhole and similar games to kids who are patiently enduring their parents’ sampling experience. Finally we arrived at Waterbury (and right now you’re thinking, “Wait, why does that name make me feel deep satisfaction sprinkled with a tinge of guilt?”), where I surprised my travel companions by ushering them into the day’s last tour of the Ben & Jerry’s Factory. Even if our windows’ wallpaper throughout the day had not been a breathtaking blur of lush fields and hills, red barns, crystalline streams and lakes, gaudy wildflowers and freshly-stocked honor stands — to say nothing of our unforgettable time at the quarry — this stop alone would have made every mile worthwhile, given the demographic of the entourage. I eventually managed to coax my chunky monkeys back into the car and, well-sated, we lumbered down I-95 toward the sunset and Burlington, where we pitched our tent in the quiet, grassy North Beach Campground.
BURLINGTON AND LAKE CHAMPLAIN
There’s a lot to like about diminutive Burlington. A winding bike path along the waterfront is perfect for rides and walks. The vibrant, pedestrians-only Church Street Marketplace is lined with restaurants and shops. The Fleming Museum houses a fine collection of art. Southwest of town, Shelburne Farms is a 1,400-acre working farm, forest and National Historic Landmark built in the 1890s from the inheritance of Eliza Vanderbilt Webb, youngest child of William Henry and Maria Louisa Vanderbilt. Its vast grounds include a museum, a restaurant and bakery, stables, and an inn with spectacular views.
We opted to spend our morning at Lake Champlain’s North Beach, in anxious anticipation of sighting the lake’s resident monster, Champ. We’ve taken an oath not to disclose whether we in fact spotted the fabled and elusive American Nessie, but the weather board did indicate a “100% chance of Champ,” if that gives you any clue. (My colleague did suggest that we not only watch for Champ, but also “keep an eye on water quality warnings — we get agricultural runoff, so the lake’s not as clean as we might like.”) Brunch included yummy huevos rancheros, mushroom-Gruyere quiche and gingerbread pancakes from Penny Cluse Café, and then we headed north.
CROSSING TO CANADA
We made our way toward the border on U.S. Route 2, rather than on I-89, this at the recommendation of both my colleague and my eldest sister, who said that it was both a much more scenic drive and a considerably less-congested border experience. Not having given 89 a chance I’ll simply have to take their word for it, but suspect that it would be difficult to surpass the Grand Isle’s green carpets of farms and forests rolling to Champlain’s shores.
As for the border crossing just north of tiny Alburg, when we arrived there were five people present: The cheerful guard (who grew progressively less cheerful the longer we lingered for photos at the small granite “Canada / United States” obelisk), and our party of four. Suddenly, everything became French and metric, yet the rural beauty endured until we reached Montréal an hour later.
QUESTIONS FOR READERS
- Where’s the prettiest covered bridge in Vermont?
- Any border-crossing horror stories from anywhere around the globe?
- Other than Netflix & Chill, what’s your favorite Ben & Jerry’s flavor, and why?
WANDERLOOSED 