Wandering Home

by Bill McKibben

  ALSO IN THE CROWN JOURNEYS SERIES

  Land’s End: A Walk in Provincetown

  by Michael Cunningham

  After the Dance: A Walk Through Carnival in

  Jacmel, Haiti by Edwidge Dandicat

  City of the Soul: A Walk in Rome

  by William Murray

  Washington Schlepped Here: Walking in the Nation’s

  Capital by Christopher Buckley

  Hallowed Ground: A Walk at Gettysburg

  by James M. McPherson

  Fugitives and Refugees: A Walk in Portland, Oregon

  by Chuck Palahniuk

  Blues City: A Walk in Oakland

  by Ishmael Reed

  Time and Tide: A Walk Through Nantucket

  by Frank Conroy

  Lost in My Own Backyard: A Walk in Yellowstone

  National Park by Tim Cahill

  Never a City So Real: A Walk in Chicago

  by Alex Kotlowitz

  The Great Psychedelic Armadillo Picnic:

  A “Walk” in Austinby Kinky Friedman

  Time’s Magpie: A Walk in Prague

  by Myla Goldberg

  ALSO BY BILL MCKIBBEN

  Enough

  Long Distance

  Hundred Dollar Holiday

  Maybe One

  Hope, Human and Wild

  The Comforting Whirlwind

  The Age of Missing Information

  The End of Nature

  A LONG WALK ACROSS

  AMERICA’S MOST HOPEFUL LANDSCAPE:

  VERMONT’S CHAMPLAIN VALLEY AND

  NEW YORK’S ADIRONDACKS

  For Nick, Jackie, Gary, and Kathy on the west,

  and John, Rita, Warren, and Barry in the east

  MY MOOD WAS DARKER THAN IT SHOULD HAVE been for the start of a journey. For one thing, I had packed too heavy; the stove, the pad, the water filter, the tent that would make my camp theoretically comfortable, were for the moment making my shoulders actually sore and my knees actually ache. And I hiked in a cloud—no views, just a soggy mist. The trail—Vermont’s Long Trail—ran up and down like a giant’s EKG, farther than my rather too cursory glance at the map had led me to expect. I’d taken an easy fall romp with a daypack along this path the year before, and remembered dimly that a field of ferns marked the approach of camp—now, heavy-laden, I walked through just such a fern field ten times in the course of the afternoon, each time more certain that this must be the one. But no, and no, and no, and no. Not until dinnertime, with ten solid hours of walking behind me, did I arrive, sore-footed, calf-cramped, and more than a little uncertain about the weeks of walking that lay ahead, at a small lean-to 750 feet beneath the summit of Mount Abraham, Vermont’s third-highest peak.

  I sprawled out on top of my sleeping bag and commenced infusing sandwiches into my system. As I proceeded, the fog started to clear, and with it my funk. So I dug an extra layer from my pack and decided, after several moment’s hesitation, that I still had energy enough for the 20-minute climb to the top of the peak and the sunset view. It was, as it turned out, one of the better decisions of my life.

  Mount Abraham—Mount Abe to its neighbors—commands a 360-degree view. South and north, the narrow ridge of the Green Mountains stretches off toward Killington and Camel’s Hump respectively. To the east, the vista stretches easily across Vermont, barely fifty miles wide at this point, and into New Hampshire’s White Mountains—on a clear day you can make out Mount Washington. But most times, and especially tonight, the western vista demands the most attention. Lake Champlain lies in the middle distance, gleaming like a sheet of gold foil in the late sun. It runs 125 miles from south of Ticonderoga to north of the Canadian border. Fourteen miles wide at its broadest, 400 feet deep at its deepest, Champlain is America’s sixth-largest lake. (Not Great, but great.) Behind it, the jumbled High Peaks of the Adirondacks rise hard and fast, 5,000 feet above the lake—as fast and as far as the Wasatch above Salt Lake or the Rockies over Boulder. And in the foreground spreads the broad and fertile Vermont valley that lies between the Greens and the lakeshore.

  Tonight a scrim of rain clouds advanced toward me, a gauzy curtain of gray that only made the lake and mountains behind gleam the shinier. It was clearly about to rain, but the worst of it seemed set to pass just north and south; a slight gap in the line headed toward my perch on Mount Abe. Hearing no thunder, I stayed put, and sure enough, the cloud washed up over me. For a few moments, even as the world turned gray, I could still make out the reflecting mirror of the lake; finally it too vanished and all was gloom. But then, even more quickly than it had descended, the cloud swept through, and behind it the world was created fresh. No scrim now, just the fields, the lake, the peaks. When a double rainbow suddenly appeared, it was almost too much—a Disney overdose of glory. But then a rainbow pillar rose straight into the southern sky, and east of that a vaporous twin appeared, and then a kind of rainbow cloud to the north. Soon seven rainbows at once. Then the sun reached just the right angle so that the mist whipping up the face of the peak flashed into clouds of color as it washed over me: a rose cloud, a cloud of green. And always behind it the same line of lake, the same jag of mountain. All at once it struck me, struck me hard, that this was one of those few scenes I would replay in my mind when I someday lay dying.

  When I lay living, too—for the territory revealed this evening, the view west from this pinnacle, was the turf of my adult life. To the south I could see the Vermont mountain town of Ripton, set at 1,500 feet, hard against the western spine of the Greens. I’d stepped off this morning from my house there, which we built a few years back, on land once owned by Robert Frost. A quarter-mile through the woods I’d passed the writing cabin where he’d spent his last thirty summers, stocking our cupboard of Yankee imagery with his woodsmen and hill-farmers and sleigh drivers. Now that New Hampshire’s Old Man of the Mountain has crashed into granite smithereens, surely Frost’s white-haired, craggy visage is New England’s most iconic face.

  But to the distant west I could see, or so I told myself, Crane Mountain, the peak in whose shadow I’d spent most of my adult life. Forget New England—Crane lies smack in the center of New York’s vast Adirondack wilderness. I have a house there, too, also set at 1,500 feet, and it was where I was bound on this walk. Seventy miles, perhaps, as the crow flies, but a couple of hundred on my planned route, which unfolded below me in the dazzling dusk.

  I’ve not moved far in my life. But fairly few people have had the chance to know both sides of this lake with any real closeness. Anyone with the good fortune to own two houses would logically have one at the beach and one in the mountains, or one in the city and one in the country—I know that. But I’ve not been able to drag myself away from this small corner of the planet. To me, this country on either side of Lake Champlain, though it has no name and appears on no map as a single unit, constitutes one of the world’s few great regions, a place more complete, and more full of future promise, than any other spot in the American atlas.

  This region (Adimont? The Verandacks?) includes the fertile farms and small woodlots directly beneath me in the Champlain Valley, where a new generation of settlers is trying to figure out new ways to responsibly inhabit the land—ways to farm and log and invest that enrich in the fullest sense of the word. It encompasses the fine small city of Burlington to the north. And across the lake it is made whole by the matchless eastern wilderness of the Adirondacks, the largest park in the lower forty-eight, 6 million acres, bigger than Glacier, Grand Canyon, Yellowstone, and Yosemite combined. At the risk of hyperbole and chauvinism, let me state it plainly: in my experience, the world contains no finer blend of soil and rock and water and forest than that found in this scene laid out before me—a few just as fine, perhaps, but none finer. And
no place where the essential human skills—cooperation, husbandry, restraint—offer more possibility for competent and graceful inhabitation, for working out the answers to the questions that the planet is posing in this age of ecological pinch and social fray.

  My walk will carry me across this range of mountains—this range of possibilities. I’ll go through the back roads of the Champlain Valley and the high passes of the Adirondacks, and through the plans and dreams and accomplishments of loggers and farmers and economists and biologists. I can see most of my route laid out before me tonight as the rainbows fade in the last light, and—sore calves be damned—I can’t wait to dive in. Tired as I am, sleep takes a while to come.

  In the flatter light of midmorning (for, once asleep, I slept), the view is still beautiful, but more daunting. Though to me this wide expanse looks so like a whole, that’s only because unlikely circumstance has let me know all of it with some intimacy. For most of the residents of either side, the lake divides it neatly into two very different kingdoms of the imagination. Champlain acts as the border between Vermont and New York, which is not like the border between, say, Connecticut and Massachusetts, or Kansas and Nebraska. This line is rarely crossed. Partly that’s because most places you need to take a ferry, but much more because the ferry connects two different states of mind. On one side you stand in “New England,” and you can still feel the ocean at your back, and maybe even Olde England beyond that. To a New Englander, Boston is the city—the radio mast a couple of peaks north from Mount Abe carries the Red Sox out across this valley on a summer eve. New England comes with as many icons as Holland—even here, 140 miles from saltwater, the lobster somehow still seems native. The towns tend toward neatness, gathering themselves around white churches—Congregational churches, governing themselves without the aid of bishops or the overly active intervention of the Holy Spirit. And town halls, with their March rite of town meeting—of good, crisp self-governance. It is a tidy place, New England.

  Whereas, across the lake, the unruliness of the rest of America begins. Looking west from the top of Mount Abe, you look West. For a long time, New Englanders averted their eyes. Mount Marcy, New York, the region’s tallest peak, shows up clearly even from the valley towns of Addison County, which were settled in the 1600s. But not until 1834, with Lewis and Clark home for a generation from the Pacific, did a white man bother to go climb it, and he came from downstate New York. Even now, the hikers and climbers of Vermont are more likely to stick to their narrow and relatively crowded mountain trails than to venture to the Adirondacks (there you’re far more likely to meet adventurous Quebecois, who have crossed an honest-to-God border for their day’s outing). A few years ago, conservationists seeking public support to protect a broad swath of land from Maine to the Great Lakes, commissioned focus groups in Boston, Vermont, and New Hampshire. Testing different formulations, they found that participants didn’t want New England to be lumped in with anything New York or even “Northeastern.” New England was “serene,” “bucolic.” “Everything is so elegant,” said one Boston woman. “It’s a very classic place to live.”

  Indeed they are right to perceive a difference. Cross the lake and you leave behind the neat town green with the bandstand in favor of a more Appalachian look: Methodists and Baptists and Catholics. No one goes to a town meeting—political power and patronage tend to pass on dynastically. There’s poverty on both sides of the lake, but somehow it looks rawer on the Adirondack shore, the trailers more numerous and nearer the main road. Boston is suddenly no closer than Detroit. Vermont, too, seems distant, all the way across the lake, a mythical land of Saab-driving, goat-cheese-eating Democrats. The Adirondacks are higher, colder, and wilder—people have lived here for fewer centuries in fewer numbers, and have never been able to make farming work for long. And so, over time, huge chunks have been left to rewild themselves, till in places it approaches the primeval.

  YET IT SEEMS to me they belong together, this Champlain Valley of Vermont and this great Adirondack woods. Every bird guide, every alumni association, every corporate sales office considers one shore New England and the other the “mid-Atlantic.” But if you stand on top of Mount Abe and huck west, your gob will find its way into the lake and then north into the mighty St. Lawrence—a fur-trading river, flowing out into the bergy Atlantic north at the tip of the Gaspé Peninsula. Wild country. This crest of the Green Mountains is the last upwelling of the coastal geology, the last fold pushed up the colliding plates of the Atlantic shore; on its western slope you face the geology of midcontinent, the Canadian Shield. Once you’ve started down into the Champlain Valley, you really have begun the journey west.

  They have so much to teach each other, these two sides: New Englanders have learned a great deal, mostly through trial and error, about how to successfully inhabit a land, experiments that continue to this day; and Adirondackers, often against their will, have learned as much about how to leave land alone. The distinction is easy to overdraw—Vermont, too, has stopped farming many of its acres, seen a smaller-scale reversion to the wild. The Adirondacks have seen an influx of tourists and retirees from the overdeveloped world to the south. And yet their dual personalities remain surprisingly intact—though roughly the same size as Vermont, the Adirondacks have one-fifth the population, with all that implies. And those two casts of mind, those two sets of skills, are rare, complementary, and extremely useful as we enter this strained century. In most places real husbandry and real wilderness are both disappearing, melted away by the economic sun of industrial efficiency and consumer ease. But neither side of Lake Champlain is yet thoroughly suburbanized, and so these two shores offer some countercultural ideas about what might be, and some poignant reminders about how we once lived.

  The sun is high, starting to bear down harder as the morning ebbs. And that’s enough airy mountaintop speculation for an entire volume. Time now, on aching calves, to descend the Battell trail down toward civilization. Time to begin the walk west.

  LINCOLN, THE TOWN that lies beneath Mount Abe, may be the most picturesque in Vermont (if you needed to remake The Sound of Music, you could do it here), and among the most isolated. The only road east, a dirt track that climbs steeply through a mountain gap, is closed half the year by snow. The rest of the time, what traffic there is funnels to the west through another narrow gap on the route I’m walking today.

  It’s hot, and my lope has turned into a meander. I pass the Weed Farm, a little herb nursery presided over by my daughter’s fourth-grade teacher and his partner, who gives my daughter piano lessons. Just down the hill there’s the general store, the town library, the white clapboard community church—you might as well be walking through an LL Bean catalog. It’s Ur–New England, with all the community virtues that implies: when the New Haven River flooded a few springs ago, it surged through the tiny local library. Almost all the books were lost—every last one of the picture books, down on the low shelves for the kids. But half the town showed up shovel out the mud and fork the piles of soggy fiction into hay wagons for burial. And when local author Chris Bohjalian told the story in the Boston Globe magazine, Reader’s Digest picked it up as a picturesque example of rural life; soon cartons of new books were arriving from across the country. Everyone in town gave what they could; now there’s a handsome new library, a little farther from the river. This spring’s fundraiser: a raffle where you have to guess the birth date, weight, and sex of the first lamb born this season.

  Such intense charm carries its own dangers, of course. As I walk, my eye keeps returning to a hilltop overlooking the town, where some outlander has cleared a patch and then, as if from a spaceship, plunked down a “home” huge enough to be a junior high school. You can see it from everywhere, the first of many graphic reminders along my route that the scale of this region—herb farms, piano teaching, general stores, little libraries—coexist uneasily with the high-octane national economy, and that hence the values and practices of community come inevitably up against the hy
perindividualism of our time, the hyperindividualism that thinks nothing of ruining everyone else’s view with a house four times too large for any conceivable purpose. I can feel myself starting to heat up from the inside—this is a sermon I’ve preached before, and once it gets rolling it’s hard to stop—so I find a shallow pool in the New Haven River and lie down for a good cold soak.

  My destination tonight is the larger town of Bristol, most of the way down to the valley floor. The last mile or so, the road descends through a tight draw between the Bristol Cliffs wilderness and the towering bluff wall that locals call Deer Leap; since there’s only room for the road and the river, I thread my way along the shoulder in the heat, counting Subarus. (Subarus are to Vermont what bicycles were once to Beijing, so nearly ubiquitous that it’s impossible to recognize your neighbor by his vehicle. The supermarket parking lot might as well be a Subaru dealership.) As the state road turns toward town, it passes an enormous boulder, what a geologist would call an erratic, left here by the departing glaciers. On it someone long ago carved the Lord’s Prayer—apparently because the teamsters tended to use less-than-Christian language as they maneuvered their loads around this tight curve. It’s a pleasure to be walking by instead of driving, slow enough to savor the rhythm of the familiar words.

  And a greater pleasure to be taking my pack off on the broad side porch of John and Rita Elder’s maple-shaded Bristol home, to sit down on their porch swing and unlace my boots. I stretch for a few moments before I knock, close my eyes and savor the sense of, as Isaac Newton would say, a body coming to rest. This was not my home, of course, but I knew the Elders would make me feel like it was—anyway, arriving on foot gives one a slight proprietary sense. It’s not like arriving in the car for a dinner party. On foot you arrive late or early, without excuse, and settle into whatever conversation is under way. It took you a while to get there, so you’re obviously going to stay awhile. It feels like visiting in an older sense of the word, and you bring with you the news of the road, not the news you heard on All Things Considered.