While some things have changed, the road to Middlebury remains as magical as ever.
By Mara Gorman '93
The first time I traveled up Vermont's Route 30, I was 18, it was August, and the car was absurdly full. I was about to start my first year at Middlebury, and my mother was driving me to Vermont from New Jersey. My entire life, or so it seemed, was crammed into the back seat, every item so heavy with meaning that I couldn't believe the car could hold everything and still move.
My new stuff was piled high—extra-long sheets and comforter and trash can and stacking crates crammed full of books and framed photos—all painstakingly selected.
We took the western route—up the New York State Thruway and then the Northway and across on U.S. Route 4 to Route 30. It was a cloudy day, and I had been up late the night before, so I slept a heavy teenage sleep for most of the drive. But when we hit Route 30, my mother's sighs and exclamations woke me. I gazed out the window as crystalline lake melted into leafy valley and then to golden fields, mountains looming on either side. I remember the cool, green smell, the hay in tidy rolls, a field with a single tree silhouetted against the sky.
Although I wanted to be sophisticated, the fact was that I viewed the world through a prism of extremes and angst that expressed itself in clichés, no matter how genuine the sentiment. I experienced beauty in an over-the-top, gushing way—like Maria at the beginning of The Sound of Music. It was Wordsworth without the poetry.
My reaction to the landscape was suitably grandiose. I was awestruck, enchanted, spellbound. Where am I? I wondered. In spite of the airy language, the landscape touched me on a deep level. Some small part of me realized that I was lucky and blessed to travel this road and to live, even for a short time, in such a beautiful and pristine place, in a world where so many such places are being spoiled. In some way, I felt that the beauty strengthened me, made me better.
Route 30 has changed somewhat over the years. The occasional house has been rehabilitated; the Big D campground has a new sign; and, as everywhere since September 2001, American flags dot the landscape, hanging from newly erected poles or taped to windows. And while some changes are quite dramatic—the hulking science center is now the first building that looms into view as you approach town—the road still twists away like a ribbon; the curves of the land remain the same, as does the expanse of sky; and the small towns still wear comfortable names: Sudbury, Whiting, Shoreham, Cornwall. And I realize that I have not changed, not really. My dreams are more modest, but I am still drawn by the beauty around me to dream. My imagination places me first in a small house by a lake and then in a farmhouse overlooking the Adirondacks and then in the lovely white house with a bright red door, like a smile, on the Sudbury common.
The last time I rode up Route 30, it was August and the car was absurdly full. My three-month-old son dozed in the back seat, accompanied by my flatlander husband. I had the same thrill of recognition, the same excitement at each of the beautiful physical landmarks, the same youthful reverie—What could I learn? What was in store for me? And I continued up Route 30, watching it roll away from me in the rearview mirror.
Mara Gorman '93 lives in Delaware with her husband and son. She has published essays in the literary journals Creative Nonfiction and Center: A Journal for the Literary Arts.