Vermont Was Gonna Be So Chill. And Then…

I started this trip riding high. Left from South Jersey, where my fiancé was working for the summer, and headed north with a car full of snacks, camera gear, and one too many pairs of socks.

First stop: the Meadow Cabin in Windham. Dreamy. Picture-perfect. I met the sweetest couple who showed me around their land, from the chickens to their ceremony site tucked into the hillside like a secret garden. I was in my element. Then came the chase. Me vs. the rainclouds. Spoiler: rain won. But I did get a rainbow at Hidden Orchard tent site and felt like that was nature’s way of saying “you tried.”

Then came Palm Beach. Which sounds fancy, but let me tell you, it was on the other side of a stream with a washed-out bridge and a gamble attached. I read the listing. I knew a few trucks had made it across, and I also knew a few had not. Guess which club I joined. The stream looked rocky, my confidence was at an all-time high, so I gave it a go. Bad idea. Worse idea? Trying to angle it so I wouldn’t get stuck on either bank. That brilliant plan resulted in my truck sinking, sideways, water up to the windows. Had to climb out like a wet raccoon. Miraculously, a woman appeared. (An angel? Unclear.) Her husband had a tractor, and within the hour, I was rescued, humbled, and cooking Mexican street corn rice on a camp stove like nothing ever happened.

Next day, I headed to Huntress Haven in Chelsea, which honestly healed my soul a bit. Miken, the host, was this earthy, lovely human who toured me around on an ATV, introduced me to her goats, and taught me to make cordage from dandelion stems like it was a totally normal Tuesday. I milked a goat. I almost cried. Vermont was magic again.

And then, BonnieDoon Manor. Holy shit. This glamping site is the gold standard. Their place was pristine, the bed was plush, and their Aussie accents made every fireside convo better. I wanted to live there. But duty called (aka more listings to photograph), so I made my way to Maple Mamas.

Here’s where Vermont said, “Oh, you thought you were done being humbled?” I was gifted a golf cart to explore the woods. Amazing. Yoga on the deck. Love it. Found an old car and a stream, vibing. Then I crested a hill and saw The Puddle. It was long, but I was feeling lucky. Made it through. Yelled. Fist-pumped. But the next hill was vertical. Tried it anyway. Didn’t work. Slid back down. Turned my ass around and faced the puddle once again. Battled the cart in the mud like a gremlin for an hour. Phone dead. Hot. Late. Classic. Eventually hiked out, got to service, called my host who just laughed and said, “Honey, if that’s the worst thing that happens today, you’re in great shape.” Vermont kindness. 10/10.

I had two more stops before “The Incident.” One was a Sunrise Cabin straight out of a postcard. Sunrise looked like Hawaii. Last one was a maple farm glamping tent, The Regatta 360, I bought so much maple stuff I could’ve opened a stand. Felt like I was back on track.

Until my truck broke down. Halfway to meet my friend in Northern Vermont. Pulled off, tried to stay calm. Called around. Enter: Duprey Auto. A man, a myth, a menace. He looked at the truck, said he’d fix it in two days. Then proceeded to load it onto his truck in a way that made my soul leave my body. No tow rope, just two pieces of plywood from his truck (no joke.) Screeches. Cracks. I should’ve known. But I handed him the keys. I wanted to believe.

Days passed. Calls got weird. Then silent. Eventually found out Duprey was infamous. I showed up at his house (yes, his house), woke him up at noon, and towed my truck to some actual angels in overalls who tried their best, but the transmission and transfer case were toast, presumably from getting caught in the stream and our attempts to get out (once again against my better judgement.) So I got a rental. Gritted my teeth. Kept going – because the trip wasn’t over. 

And there’s more to tell. But for now, that’s enough mud, maple, and mayhem for one post.