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cow farm that births a calf every 12 hours. Several times during our tour Kirk, a genial man in his forties, apologized to me (the trespasser) for taking up so much of my time. He certainly was not the mega-farm owner I expected to encounter. Vermont farmers have two options: “go big” (buy more cows) or leave the business. Before Kirk was born his father set up a dairy farm on the property, and until 1999 they ran it as a small farm with around 100 cows. The entire business was family owned and operated. But as Kirk described, small farms are hard to keep out of debt, and increasing farm size is the only effective means of boosting revenue. Nowadays, the 500 cows produce over 30,000 gallons of milk per-day. But gone are the days when the Lanphear family milked all the cows themselves. Kirk employs five people from outside the family, including three Mexican migrant farmworkers. The farm also utilizes a state of the art milking parlor, and a barn that automatically cleans itself eight times a day. Kirk admits he is a farming anomaly. Very rarely can a single-family owner independently maintain a farm of his size. And as I learned traveling the Northeastern Kingdom (NEK), if you’re not as lucky as Kirk, the region has very little to offer by way of employment. There is no industry in the area. That is, no industry, until you hit Stowe. Compared to the NEK, Stowe feels like a fairy tale—and it is. Instantly, images of rural poverty are replaced with the idyllic Vermont village. Stowe is Vermont’s postcard. It is the picture of quaint beauty. It symbolizes every suburbanite’s image of rustic rural simplicity. It represents a place where folks from New Jersey and Massachusetts can forget the doldrums of life next to a strip mall. But as you drive Route
100 from Stowe to Ludlow, a stretch of highway lined with ski resorts and second homes, you sense something eerie. You begin to notice that the more travelers try to use Vermont to get “back to nature,” the more the state resembles exactly where they came from. And while Vermont’s visitors believe Stowe to be the epitome of a pastoral village, in reality it’s nothing more than an architect’s vision. The real “villages” of Vermont, which you see in between the ski resorts, bear no resemblance to these touristic ski towns. Yet behind the ritzy villages and the ailing economy are the people that live here year round. To out-of-staters, Vermont is stereotyped as a bastion of granola-eating hippies spread through a state of cow farmers. But as I traveled down Route 100, I learned that one can’t typify the state. There is no single Vermont. During my travels I interviewed over forty people and discovered the only unifying trait was a willingness to share their story. There aren’t many places where a farmer will find trespassers, and instead of grabbing his gun, will take them on an hour and a half tour of his land. Or a business owner will stop her work for over an hour on some idle Thursday to regale her visitors with old stories of life growing up in Vermont. Sure, the landscape of the state is changing, but one aspect holds fast—despite the cold winters and the even harsher economy, Vermonters are a kind bunch with characters as varying as the seasons.
Rudy Michael, sells firewood and “stuff like that,” Plymouth
Eastman “Eastie” Long, maple syrup maker, Fayston
Kirk Lanphear, owner of Lanphear Farm, Morrisville
Kevin Dumas, runs Missisquoi Lanes Bowling Alley, Lowell
Adam Greshin, co-owner of Sugarbush Ski Resort, Waitsfield
Dan Hescock, fire warden/mechanic, Wardsboro
Hank Schwartz, master glassblower, Jamaica
Dennis “D” Vadnais, tavern owner, Granville 7