Our Trek Back to Stowe

Much can happen in 35 years.

Joe and I had been married a year when we first visited Stowe, Vermont. A friend took us on a trek that stopped at the Home of Franklin D. Roosevelt in Hyde Park, NY; the Grandma Moses Museum in Bennington, Vermont; the now-closed Norman Rockwell Museum in Rutland, Vermont; and the Calvin Coolidge compound in Plymouth Notch. I remember feeling nauseous as we wound our way around, up and down country roads. We saw mountains, we experienced history, and we wallowed in nature.

The culmination of our trip from home in New Jersey was to the Trapp Family Lodge in Stowe. We arrived later in the day, checked into our room, and saw the pinnacle of our trip—the glorious mountains. We opened the doors to our balcony and stepped out to the breathtaking view. It filled the sky. In the morning, the clouds were below us. I remembered meeting one of the relatives of Maria Von Trapp. Our friend was asking questions about what was real and unreal about their depiction in the movie. He said the family was not singing during the escape. That has always stuck with me.

Since our initial visit, I’ve wanted to return. I’ve mentioned it to my husband on many occasions. Trips to visit his parents in Florida, or ventures to the Jersey Shore ensued, but never a return to Stowe. This year, for our anniversary, he decided now was the time. So, 35 years later, we headed north—this time from our home in Delaware.

We’d been on the road most of the day, relieved to finally pull into the lot at the Trapp Family Lodge. We wheeled the luggage through the drizzle and entered the lodge—a stoic man holding the door for us like we were welcomed guests.

The first thing I noticed was the darkness. The dark wood. The dark counters. The smaller-than-remembered lobby. It wasn’t at all the sunny entrance I had in my memory. I brushed it off to fatigue—the long ride. The overcast sky. We took the stairs to the third floor, through the game room, around the narrow halls. We still couldn’t find our room and were fortunate to find a kind worker who directed us.

It was at the end of a long hallway, last door on the left. No key entry. We opened the door and walked inside. It was welcoming. Clean. The bathroom had been updated. The bed was comfortable to sit on. We were quiet. I was feeling lost; my memories of the lodge did not match that of this quiet, Bavarian-styled building. The door to the balcony beckoned and I stepped through. Directly in front of me was the mountain. The majestic mountain, still in its glory, unchanged to my eye, brought comfort.

We unpacked, anxious to go to town and eat at Ranch Camp, a casual restaurant recommended by friends where one can shop for bikes, eat, and drink beers. It was young, updated, fresh. I felt at home. We shared nachos, Brussels sprouts salad, and tacos. I wanted to stay longer. We got a recommendation for breakfast and headed back to the lodge for a rest.

The weather on Saturday was delightful. Folks were out on the bike trails. Families shopped. A birthday party was celebrated at a nearby park. We began the day at the recommended breakfast joint. It was all it was made out to be. We went to some little shops and while I was paying for books, I heard my husband’s distinct voice speaking with some women he had just met. Apparently, they were also Portuguese, and thus ensued conversation about the Azores and Lisbon, the spelling of names, and more. I smiled knowing he had met some of his people.

We headed back to the lodge for a presentation about the von Trapp family given by a staff member, concluding with a chat by Maria’s grandson. I am smitten with anything “The Sound of Music”. To think that this was where Maria and her family had settled gave me more of an appreciation for the history and beauty of the place. We were told that when the von Trapps were looking for a home, they stopped at an old farm. While the Baron was looking at the broken-down buildings, Maria saw the mountains, and said, “This is it!” To think that the mountain was still there, and that she had lived on this land, connected me to her dream.

The grandson asked if we had any questions. I could not bring myself to speak, but if I had, I would have said that I had no questions, but would have thanked him. Thanked him for what? Thanked him for being born into a family that had reached notoriety because of a movie made about his family’s life? To be part of a heritage that had escaped tyranny and made a new life? For being courageous in the face of death? For being an inspiration? Maybe all of the above.

We left to walk the grounds. I remembered 35 years ago, walking the white paper birch lined path to a stone chapel in the woods. There weren’t as many of these trees this time, but enough to remind me that this was indeed the path. We learned from the presentation that one of Maria’s son’s had built the chapel, carrying one huge stone at a time up the hill and erecting the building because of a promise he made to God in a fox-hole during World War II. It took him seven years to complete. I prayed a rosary in that small building, adding my prayers to those of others who had stood on that same ground, surrounded by the same stones, in those same woods.

My husband held my hand as we descended the path, steep, and uneven. Seeing the chapel was one of the things I most-wanted to do.

We wandered back into town where we shopped, walked, and visited a bar that had not yet opened. The proprietor invited us in, poured a beer for Joe and a Pellegrino for me. We spoke about the coronation of King Charles which had happened earlier that day, and other random facts about the Royal Family. She was a wealth of knowledge. We attended Mass at a modern Catholic church where we were welcomed by a lovely woman who treated us like family. On the way out, the priest told us to drive down near the post office to see the trees that had been felled by beavers. He said there were nearly 11 trees that criss-crossed the stream.

We finished the night with dinner at Doc Ponds. A turntable played classic rock and it was loud. But it was alive, and was the reason we opted for dinner in town rather than dinner reservations at the more formal lodge. We returned to the lodge and chatted with the front desk person before sitting in a comfortable space with a view of the mountains. We sat close, looking at the photos we had taken on our phones and reminiscing about our time in Stowe.

While the building had remained relatively unchanged, to my eyes, it was different. The mountain was the same. The drive remained long, yet peaceful and beautiful. There were still no billboards in Vermont. There was also little diversity. The town had grown. Younger, beautiful entrepreneurs had brought their creativity to art galleries, restaurants, and shops. People drove the speed limit. They did not litter.

Early the next morning, we packed up and headed south, anxious to return to Delaware, to our three dogs and one cat. To the place where our daughter and family live. To where our son would be returning from college. To our favorite coffee shop and parks and restaurants.

I was 30 years old the first time we visited Stowe. I am now 65. Much can happen in 35 years. Much has changed, but with it, the ability to regard what has remained. I recognize the contrast. I am not the person I was 35 years ago. I am a new person returning to an old place expecting it to have remained the same while neither of us had. With new eyes, I see what Stowe is now, and I like it. I am reminded that things do not remain the same. The world is fluid. Even that which remains—like that beautiful mountain—changes with the passage of time because the one looking upon it has changed.

The trek back to Stowe wasn’t exactly what I expected, but I like what I experienced both 35 years ago and today.