Vermont is nice, sure, but like any beloved show pony, it can become grating. Or rather, America’s preconception of Vermont can feel cloyingly wholesome. All those perfect red barns with their prize-winning cheddar and heirloom apple orchards, full of Subaru-driving, fleece-clad hiker types who will no doubt be returning to bucolic cottages where the aroma of fresh-baked sourdough and the odor of a fresh-ripped fart are indistinguishable. Must be nice to call a utopia “home,” one mutters.
I say this with love and exasperation. While there’s definitely a side of Vermont that bears resemblance to the above maple syrup-coated fantasia, the Green Mountain State is shaggier than most outsiders give it credit for. And nowhere is this funked up side of Vermont on fuller and prouder display than across The Northeast Kingdom.