Radio Free Vermont

by Bill McKibben

  “Well then, let me ask you one more question. Why did you tell your mother that you were in my house?” asked Sylvia, in a voice icy calm.

  “That was my mother?” asked Vern. “My mother hasn’t driven in five years.”

  “That was not your mother, though it would have been nice to send you home with her if it had been,” said Sylvia. “That was someone your mother told your whereabouts to, which leads me, quick thinker that I am, to believe you may have told your mother first.”

  “Well,” said Vern. “Yes. I mean, my mother is ninety-six. I couldn’t just walk away without any explanation. So that first afternoon, while we were running, I stopped at a pay phone, of which there are damned few left, and gave her a call. But you don’t know my mother—she’s the toughest woman I ever met. She wouldn’t tell a soul.”

  “Oh well, in that case never mind,” said Sylvia. “Except why was there someone at my door asking for you, and the reason she was asking for you was because your mother had led her to believe you might be found here?”

  “Uh, who was it?” asked Perry. “Like, was she the police?”

  “That seems to me a reasonable guess,” said Sylvia. “Which is why we’d better be thinking about where we’re going, like, right now.”

  “We?” asked Vern.

  “You don’t think I’m going to let Perry abscond with a fugitive who doesn’t know not to tell his mother his hideout, do you?” said Sylvia. “Anyway, I’d say there’s a pretty good chance they’ve got me in their card file now, wouldn’t you?”

  “She didn’t say who she was?” asked Vern. “I mean, wouldn’t the police have actually stuck around and looked for us?”

  “Based on my extensive watching of TV, they’re probably waiting for a warrant,” said Sylvia. “Which should take about as long as, oh, a phone call. So maybe we better be going.”

  She was pulling a wedge of cheese and some yogurt out of the fridge and pushing them in a bag when Vern asked again. “She didn’t say anything about who she was? Usually cops like to tell you they’re cops.”

  “Only that her name was ‘Trance,’” said Sylvia. “Which doesn’t even sound real.”

  “Trance?” asked Vern, suddenly beaming and sitting back down. “Trance Harper? She was five-feet-six, a hundred thirty pounds, pure muscle?”

  “She was wearing a coat and I don’t guess weights at the Addison County Field Days,” said Sylvia. “But that sounds about right. This is some friend of yours?”

  “Trance Harper,” said Vern. “You really don’t remember Trance Harper? Perry, where’s that computer? Can you get some video: 2006 Olympics, women’s biathlon, Trance Harper.”

  Perry googled for a minute, till an image flickered on his screen. He held up the laptop, pressed a button, and instantly the image appeared on the flat-screen in the living room, which connected to the kitchen. Perry and Vern settled down on a couch, and Sylvia, still rattled, perched lightly on the arm, the bag of food still dangling from her grip.

  The screen showed figure skaters, a Russian couple in white with sequins, sweeping around the rink to Igor Stravinsky’s Firebird. After a few seconds, though, the voice of announcer Scotty Hamilton broke in. “We don’t usually leave the skating rink during our prime-time coverage, even on an exhibition evening like this when the skaters are just putting on a show. But we have word of some drama up on the biathlon course, and so we’re connecting you to our John Morton. Don’t worry, we’ll be back in the rink before Sasha Cohen debuts her new free program.”

  The picture shifted to two women in Lycra, both on skis, gliding to a halt and then pulling rifles from slings on their backs as they dropped nearly in unison to the ground, lying flat on their stomachs as they sighted the guns. “We’re bringing you these pictures live because there’s the chance here for something we’ve never seen before—an American medal in biathlon,” the commentator was saying. “That’s young Trance Harper there on the ground, next to the veteran German star Uschi Disl. This is their fourth and last shooting stage, and Harper has shot clean—hit all five targets—in each of the three previous rounds. If she cleans again here, then it’s a full-on race to the finish with Disl, the best biathlete in the world.”

  The two guns cracked almost simultaneously, and the screen flashed a pair of hits on the first targets. “This sport is so tough because you have to do two exactly opposite things,” the commentator was saying. “These girls have been skiing at top speed for the last five kilometers, but when they shoot they’ve got to drop their heart rates enough that there’s a chance to squeeze off a bull’s-eye. It’s like trying to drink a quart of whiskey and fill out your tax returns at the same time, or run up a flight of stairs and thread a needle at the top.” Two more sharp reports, two more clean hits.

  “Trance Harper—her real name is Ellen, but they call her Trance for the way she focuses when she’s on course—comes from rural Vermont.” Bang, bang. “Two more hits, these girls are as evenly matched as you can imagine. You haven’t heard of her because biathlon is about the most minor sport in the American pantheon, and she’s in her first Olympics at the age of twenty-six, a late bloomer. She’s only had a few races at the World Cup level.” Bang, and Harper’s target fell. A split second later, the German’s gun fired, and another bull’s-eye. “Only one target left for each, and if they hit them, then it’s a drag race to the finish, one more lap around this five-kilometer course,” the announcer said. “If either one misses, it’s a hundred-meter penalty loop before they leave the range and they can kiss the gold goodbye. You can see some other competitors coming into the range now, but they’re racing for the bronze. This pressure is too much—the hopes of the whole American skiing community riding on her here.”

  The camera zoomed in close on Trance, lying in the snow, sweat on her brow. “That’s her, by the way,” said Sylvia, who had put down the cheese and yogurt and now sat cross-legged on the floor.

  The tip of the American’s gun wavered from side to side. Next to her, a little out of focus, the German fired, and hit—she clambered to her feet, but Harper didn’t seem to notice. She steadied herself, squeezed the trigger, and leaped up with a pump of her fist as the target fell. “She did it,” screamed the announcer. “She’s up and skiing—about five seconds behind Disl leaving the range, with maybe fifteen minutes of racing to catch her.”

  They watched as the pair sprinted out of the range and into the pine-lined course, a gentle snow falling. “What happens?” said Sylvia. “Does she win?”

  Vern didn’t say a thing—he was as reluctant to jinx it as he had been that afternoon in Turin, when he couldn’t bear to watch the live video feed in the finish stadium where he waited. There was no way to explain to these two how impossible the moment was: an American actually threatening to best the Norwegians and the Swedes and the Germans. And not just any American, but Trance.

  “Sometimes there’s a little cat-and-mouse in these situations,” said the broadcaster. “But not here. Disl has been the fastest skier on the World Cup circuit for the last three seasons, and she’s determined to ski away from the American, to shut her down. But Harper doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo—she’s right on her skis.”

  “Those hills are so much steeper than they look,” said Vern, as the pair skittered up an incline. “That’s a mountain they’re climbing, at full speed. It hurts just to watch.”

  “Like many biathletes, Harper is part of the National Guard,” the announcer was saying. “When the Olympics is done, she’s due for a deployment in the Middle East. But right now all she’s thinking about is that finish line, less than a kilometer away.” The two broke out of the woods, and into the stadium, past bleachers lined with flag-waving spectators. Dead even now, they circled a curve and then headed the last two hundred meters for home, pushing with each stride. “I think she’s doing it,” the announcer screamed, and indeed each push seemed to carry Trance
an inch or two farther than the German. She crossed the finish line maybe a foot in front, and crumpled in a heap, with Disl on the snow beside her, gasping for breath. Her teammates poured over the barriers at the edge of the course, and picked her up, unclipping her from the skis, hugging her, a scene of such jubilation that the announcer said not a word, just let the cameras take it in. Harper hugged the German, high-fived her coach, and then trotted toward the edge of the course, looking left and right for someone. When she found him she jumped into his arms, and the camera panned in on a shot of a beaming Vern, before breaking away to show a replay of the finish.

  “Uh, that’s you?” said Perry. “What were you doing there?”

  “Quiet,” said Vern. “This is the best part.” The camera crew had caught up with Trance, still panting, a little film of spittle glistening on her chin. “How does it feel to be the first American, man or woman, ever to win a biathlon medal, and a gold at that?”

  “Um, good,” she said.

  “I love that,” said Vern. “Like, that right there’s the only possible answer. It feels good. I think that was the moment Vermont really fell in love with her. She was the Calvin Coolidge of sports. No thanking-her-lord-and-personal-savior, no I’m-going-to-Disney-World. Just ‘good.’”

  “We’re going back to the rink now, and a night of figure skating,” the commentator was saying. The video ended, and Perry thumbed the screen to sleep; the room darkened.

  “Okay, I kind of remember her. I mean, I pay no attention to sports at all, except of course the racing at Thunder Road, but I remember seeing that answer over and over. Didn’t they use it in a milk commercial?”

  “That’s it,” said Vern. “Booth Brothers Dairy—‘Um, good.’”

  “But what were you doing there?” Perry asked again.

  “Well, when I was young, as I said in that podcast the other day, I was a pretty good biathlete. Not quite good enough, but close. So later, when I was working in radio, I’d coach kids. Just beginners, just on the weekends. Teach them how to ski, show them how to shoot. As soon as they got good, they’d go into a real program with real coaches, but over the years I found a few prospects. No one like Trance, though. She was determined the first time I ever saw her, eight years old, and she just got tougher. Physically, but mentally too.”

  “You were the first person she went looking for,” said Sylvia.

  “Trance didn’t have the easiest time of it,” said Vern. “Her father was a drunk who left. Her mother is a saint—Estelle—but Trance has six brothers and sisters. There wasn’t a lot of time and money. Fran and I made sure that she had equipment and could afford to travel. She was just a little younger than our kids, and she spent lots of time at our house. Fran was too sick to travel when the Olympics came around, but she made me go. Glad I did.”

  The house was quiet, breathing slowly. The tension from the knock on the door, and the tension of watching Trance win the race, had drained away. “I wonder what she wanted here,” said Sylvia. “And I wonder if she’ll come back.”

  “Don’t know about the first,” said Vern. “But as to the second, I don’t imagine she’ll be long. As I say, determined.”

  “Actually, Coach,” said a voice from behind the sofa, “I’ve been here a couple of minutes already.”

  9

  “How did you get in here?” said Sylvia, with some steam in her voice.

  “How are you?” asked Vern, reaching for a hug.

  “Good,” said Trance, returning the embrace, and then she turned to face Sylvia. “I’m sorry. I figured if I knocked on the door again we’d go through the same routine, and since I could see you all through the window that seemed—bad.”

  “You were looking through the windows?” said Sylvia.

  “I was, the same one I just climbed in. I haven’t seen that race in years.”

  “You were good,” said Perry.

  “Trance—this is Perry Alterson. From Burlington. He knows computers,” said Vern. “And this is Sylvia Granger, known mostly as Syl, who owns this house that the three of us have in one way or another invaded.”

  “I really am sorry, and I’ll leave if you want,” said Trance.

  “Not before you tell us how you knew we were here.”

  “Oh. Well, like I said, I asked Vern’s mother, Rose.”

  “And she just told you, ‘My fugitive son is hiding out at 454 Route 28A in Starksboro’?”

  “More or less. She said, ‘I wouldn’t tell anyone else, but I know Vern would want me to tell you,’ and then she did.”

  “Well, that’s pretty airtight security,” said Sylvia.

  “You’ve never met Rose, right?” asked Trance. “Because otherwise you’d know she’s tough. I don’t mean ‘She’s tough for being ninety-six.’ I mean, if she hadn’t wanted me to find out, I wouldn’t have found out. Anyway, she had something she wanted delivered.”

  She loosened one strap on the rucksack that she was carrying, rummaged through a bit, and pulled out a neatly folded triangle of white cloth. “She made it with the other sewing ladies at the home,” said Trance.

  Vern reached out and took the cloth, untucking the edge of the triangle and unfolding it neatly. It was a flag, full-sized, grommeted, ready to raise. On a field of snowy white, the unmistakable silhouette of Camel’s Hump mountain rose in forest green. And that was all, save for the red letters across the top: THE GODS OF THE VALLEYS ARE NOT THE GODS OF THE HILLS.

  “Wow,” said Sylvia.

  “Wow,” said Perry. “But what’s it mean?”

  “You don’t recognize that?” said Vern. “I keep forgetting that grade school has changed a little since my time. That’s Ethan Allen. But the story may take a moment, and perhaps a bottle of beer?”

  Sylvia warmed some dinner for Trance, and poured everyone a glass of Hogback Mountain Brewery’s Railroad Hefeweizen. “Our nearest brewery,” she said. “The house beer.”

  “Cheers,” said Trance, who had taken off her jacket. She wore a tracksuit, and it was clear that though Vern hadn’t seen her for a while, solid muscle was still the rule. “I’m sorry again,” she said to Sylvia. “It wasn’t very polite. And this soup is good.”

  “Not a problem,” said Sylvia quietly. “There’s plenty more soup.”

  “Here’s what you need to know about Ethan Allen,” said Vern. “He was a remarkable man, but he wasn’t exactly a patriot in the Washington mold. He was a common man. Like a lot of other people, he’d bought a piece of land in Vermont—the colonial governor in New Hampshire was making himself a lot of money selling titles. The trouble was, the colonial governor of New York thought everything east of the Connecticut River belonged to him. And he had enough pull to get the king to agree. So the New Hampshire grants were ruled invalid, and New York started reselling the land to speculators.

  “Ethan Allen went to Albany for the great court battle, but it was a put-up job. The judges were puppets; they held that all the people farming Vermont had to buy their land again, this time from the New Yorkers. The next day the attorney general of New York visited with Allen, and told him to go tell his friends to make the best terms they could with their new landlords. His advice came with a veiled apology and a veiled threat: “Might often prevails over right,” he pointed out, with the confidence you’d expect from a representative of the mightiest empire on earth. Ethan Allen looked at him and said, ‘The gods of the valleys are not the gods of the hills, and you shall understand it.’ And he headed home.

  “When he got there, he assembled the Green Mountain Boys—remember, these were men faced with losing their land. And they passed a resolution. I’m quoting from memory here, resolving to protect their land from the New Yorkers ‘by force, as law and justice were denied them.’”

  “So is that us?” Sylvia asked. “By force?”

  “Not too likely,” said Vern. “I mean, I’m an NRA guy s
ince my first deer rifle, and Trance can shoot better than anyone in the state, but something tells me we’re likely to be outgunned. Old Ethan could pretty much fight the New Yorkers even up, and once he’d stolen that one cannon, it was enough to force the British out of Boston. He didn’t have to worry about, oh, I don’t know, helicopters. Or Predator drones. Some lieutenant sitting in the Nevada desert could put a missile down our chimney with a joystick, and then go coach afternoon practice for his daughter’s soccer team. And anyway, our chief strength is that people kind of like us. They think we’re sort of funny, and maybe even a little noble. And I imagine that would end right about the moment we shot someone.”

  “My chimney was just relined,” said Syl. “It cost a fortune.”

  “I’ve got an idea,” said Trance.

  10

  Vern and Trance were wandering the woods behind the farmhouse—a security risk, as Sylvia had pointed out, but as Vern had pointed out in turn, there were risks that went with cabin fever too. They’d struck straight for the small creek that paralleled the driveway, and followed it into a grove of birch and beech, the smooth-skinned bark of the latter pocked and pustuled with the disease that had spread across the Northeast these last decades.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Vern asked.

  “Yep,” said Trance, who wore her warm-up jacket and sneakers.

  “I mean, you’re about the most iconic Vermonter there is—everyone except Sylvia knows Trance Harper. You know you’d need to go underground with us. Your life would change.”

  “My life changed already.”

  “You never really did tell me about Iraq.”

  “There’s not so much to tell. I was in the Guard, and they sent me three times in five years, and then a tour to Afghanistan. It kind of took care of the rest of my twenties.”

  They sat for a minute on an old stone wall, now winding through what looked like primeval forest of shaggy yellow birches. But the ground was pretty flat, and walls don’t get there by themselves; without even thinking, both of them knew this was old sheep meadow, from the days a hundred and fifty years ago when the state had been one large pasture, stretching much higher up the sides of the mountains than this. Back before the Erie Canal had opened the West, and farmers’ sons discovered what topsoil looked like, and Vermont began its long, slow slide. Back when Vermont had three sheep for every person.