Wish I Were Here: The Vermont Summer Bucket List 

There's no getting around it: 2023 has been a cruel summer — hat tip to Bananarama. Even before historic flooding washed out a good chunk of the state last month, the season's early going was marked by weird cool stretches, uncomfortable heat waves, beach closures from cyanobacteria (or worse) and asthma-triggering smoke from the Canadian wildfires.

Granted, the fires have made for some epic sunsets, but they also regularly cast Vermont and the Northeast in an eerie haze that makes it easier than ever to envision the apocalypse — and to imagine it might not be so far off, especially in light of the recent dire climate crisis reports.

Oh, and did we mention the floods?

While there are far more important things to worry about than experiencing a bummer summer — rebuilding your life after epic flooding, for one — it's hard not to feel let down. Vermonters wait all freaking year to take advantage of what basically amounts to 10 weeks of ideal weather. When we're robbed of that, we take it personally.

For example, the other day, all I wanted to do after work was take my dog to cool off at our favorite secluded spot on the lake — I had been daydreaming about it all afternoon. But when we got there, the water was dark and murky — and worse, smelly. There was no way I was letting either of us in that mire.

Typically, by this point in the summer I've swum in Lake Champlain or Bristol Falls or Lake Dunmore dozens of times. This year, I can count the number on one hand. I know I'm not alone, and that's genuinely depressing. Seasonal affective disorder is supposed to happen in January, not July, right?

There's reason for hope, though. We have at least one solid month of summer left — more, if you go by meteorological summer. If the climate crisis has any upside, it's an extended warm season. In short, there's still time to salvage some good in this summer of our discontent.

To that end, we present the Vermont Summer Bucket List.

Earlier this summer, mostly before the floods, Seven Days staffers fanned out across the state — and one state line — to check items off their summer bucket lists. We defined those lists broadly: They could contain summery Vermont things our writers had always wanted to do but hadn't, such as fly fishing, tubing or visiting a notorious racetrack. Also fair game were activities that we felt we had to do each year to make the summer complete, such as visiting a swimming hole or taking the ferry to New York State for dinner.

This list and the experiences therein aren't meant to be a comprehensive guide — for that, you could search "Staytripper" at sevendaysvt.com to dig up our pandemic-era Vermont guide. One great thing about summer in Vermont is that there are endless ways to spend it. So, while we hope the following vignettes might hip you to new experiences, the real goal of this package of stories is to prove a point:

Summer ain't over yet.

Whatever your own summer bucket list contains, whether it's learning to paddleboard or seeing Barbie at the drive-in or camping off the grid, use these stories as inspiration to get out there, check off some items and shake away those summer blues.

Say, do you see a red leaf in that tree?

— Dan Bolles

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Zen and the Art of Fly-Fishing

Reel relaxation on the Browns River

"The lazy days of summer" are a crock — at least if you are an adult with a job. That goes double if you have kids for whom you feel obliged to create magical memories of lazy summer days. In the years when my sons were little, I felt that pressure. Even now that they are long grown, I still feel pressure.

Who can swing lazily in a hammock when the garden needs to be weeded or the deck scrubbed? It's light until 8:30 p.m.; don't waste a second.

I needed some summer zen. Fast.

Or make that slow.

What could sing more of lazy summer days than standing with your feet in a cool, clear, sun-dappled river, fluidly arcing a fly rod through the air as wildlife flits, swoops and splashes around you?

Last summer, I went out on the Browns River with Jamie Eisenberg of Underhill-based Eisenberg's Fly Fix for an article about fly-fishing's role in her journey to sobriety. She knew every shadowy riverbank and could identify the larval stage of mayflies and caddis flies that clung to the rocks we turned over. Jamie found peace on the river.

"It helps me stay in the moment," she said at the time.

Back then, Jamie carried a rod and I carried my reporter's notebook. This year, I thought I'd try a rod myself.

My husband's Finnish grandfather was a serious fly-fisherman, and we have his rods, reels and flies. To say I'm not a natural sportswoman is an understatement, but I do love being outside in nature. Perhaps this would be a sport we could enjoy together as a couple.

A guided foray on the river with Eisenberg's Fly Fix runs $50 per hour per person, or $80 per hour for two people. We also needed fishing licenses, which cost as little as $11 for a Vermont resident three-day license. Jamie provided us with rods, flies, wading boots, booties and endlessly patient guidance. Fly-fishing is a sport of finesse and persistence, Jamie told us as we tried our first casts in the large, treeless backyard of her neighbor. "Fly-casting is a gentle act," she said. "It takes energy, not force."

Jamie practices catch-and-release, meaning she rarely keeps fish to eat. She uses barbless hooks, holding the glistening creatures momentarily in her net and thanking them before releasing the fish back into the water.

Over the three or so hours we spent on the river, neither my husband, Mark, nor I managed to catch or release anything other than some rocks and branches in which our flies became lodged.

Several times, Jamie gently noted that it looked like I was throwing a baseball rather than casting. I have never successfully thrown a baseball, either.

Mark and I did both experience the tease of strikes on our lines, and I felt a flutter of excitement when it appeared I'd duped a fish into thinking my fly was an actual fly. Despite frustration at my inability to quickly master basic casting, I still relished being on the water and learning from Jamie how to read the river and pay attention to the nature around us.

Of one of my final efforts, Jamie observed, "Your cast was a little hinky, but it worked." Earlier during our expedition, she had noted, "It's like golf. It takes a lifetime to get your stroke."

At least with fly-fishing, you're supposed to land in the water.

— Melissa Pasanen

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Take the Plunge

Finding sweet relief from the heat (and other troubles) at Honey Hollow in Bolton

Here's a hot tip for everyone navigating this particular stage of the climate crisis: The air quality isn't as bad when you're floating in a stream deep in the forest — provided, of course, the climate crisis hasn't turned said stream into a raging river, as recent flooding did so many Vermont waterways.

When I was assigned, in early summer, to visit a swimming hole, I was excited; that's one of my absolute favorite activities. And then I was promptly dismayed by the forecast: rain every day until my deadline, except for July 1, when the air-quality index was hovering around an unhealthy 150 thanks to Canadian wildfires. (Of course, it didn't actually end up raining every day, but that's on me for trusting weather predictions in the Champlain Valley.) Faced with the prospect of either swimming during a thunderstorm or taking a dunk with my KN95 on, I chose the latter.

My wife, Rachel, and I packed up our Crosstrek, talked our friend Jill into coming with us, and drove toward Bolton and the Honey Hollow Trail. The mountains were covered in that dank, yellow haze that we're all familiar with by now, and every time I got a whiff of air my chest got tighter — an actual respiratory reaction? My clinical anxiety? The world may never know. Even so, we parked at the trailhead and, cheered by the sight of butterflies flitting around, seemingly unbothered, began hiking to where the trail meets Preston Brook.

With every step into the woods, breathing got easier. I knew that trees help clear air pollutants, but I didn't know how dramatic the difference would be. By the time we reached Bolton's lesser-known swimming hole, the world around me felt almost normal. There were only two other people nearby, and they were a ways downstream. It was perfect; we wasted no time diving in.

The water was cold, but not as cold as I had expected that early in the summer. Preston Brook gurgles gently over rocks and a handful of petite waterfalls to create a collection of pools that are about belly-deep and perfect for pretending you're a mermaid. We scrambled up boulders; we ate cherries and spat the pits across the gorge; I sat in the cool water and enjoyed the sunlight on my face, even though it was partially dimmed by smoke.

Some days, it feels impossible to spend time in nature, given its ever-more-rapid deterioration. The air's too bad, or the lake is full of bacteria, or it's too hot and only getting hotter. It's easy to retreat into the air conditioning and imagine myself separate from the warming planet. But sitting at that swimming hole, surrounded by trees and butterflies doing their best, I felt more at one with nature than ever. The Earth is suffering; it's also beautiful, and fighting tooth and nail to survive.

So here's another hot tip: Visit a swimming hole this summer — please, only when it's safe to do so — and remember what we're supposed to be fighting for. And then call Bernie and ask how that Green New Deal's coming.

— Emily Hamilton

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Dreamboat

Riding the ferry from Charlotte to Essex, N.Y.

The last time I went boating must have been 35 years ago. My girlfriends and I sashayed down to the Burlington waterfront toting swimsuits, snacks and sunscreen, a gaggle of twentysomething hotties out for a day on Lake Champlain.

Nancy said she could sail.

We rented a little boat at the Community Boathouse Marina and set out. After we circled in the inner harbor for some time, a boathouse staffer tried to help us by yelling instructions from the dock. "Pull on the jib!" he shouted.

"Pull on the jib!" Nancy directed us.

"What's the jib?" Julia replied.

Hapless — but cute! — we continued to circle. The earnest dockworker boarded a boat, motored out, tossed us a rope and towed us in.

I never have learned to sail, and yet, living in Burlington, summers don't feel complete if I don't get out on the water. The crew I trust to get me there is Lake Champlain Transportation. A longtime favorite outing for my family is walking onto the Charlotte ferry and riding over to Essex, N.Y., for dinner outside at the Old Dock House Restaurant & Marina, followed by ice cream at Essex Ice Cream Café. We've entertained out-of-town guests the same way, taking them "boating" and then spending an entire enjoyable evening within two blocks of the ferry dock.

Of course, there's more to see: Art galleries, charming shops, a community theater, Belden Noble Memorial Library, and Maron Fraser Beggs Memorial Park and playground are all within strolling distance. Essex is believed to have one of the most intact ensembles of pre-Civil War buildings in the country, and the entire village is on the National Register of Historic Places.

My daughter and I ventured back to explore last month on a sweltering Thursday. We pushed the speed limit trying to make the noon ferry and parked the car, relieved to see the arriving ferry still unloading. Toting swimsuits, sunglasses and sunscreen (sound familiar?), we speed walked to the ticket booth.

As soon as we stepped on board, we were on vacation. Grace, now the twentysomething, headed upstairs, out of the sun, to sit and read. I, the bon vivant, headed to the bow to feel the breeze, watch the sunlight dive into the waves and daydream. I could be staring into the Atlantic from the deck of a luxury ocean liner, sailing from the boot of Italy to Greece or traversing Lake Champlain on a smooth, steady ferry, which was perfect for this July day.

The Old Dock's red buildings grew larger as we approached. Foot passengers disembarked before cars, and Grace and I walked straight to the restaurant. We added our name to the waiting list, then set out to wander. Artists & Revolutionaries, an eco-conscious clothing store next to the Old Dock, looked enticing. But the Hudson Valley-based company's Essex store is open only on Friday and Saturday afternoons, so I have a reason to come back.

Around the corner, Pink Pig Café and boutique was closed, too, as was Village Gallery, down the street. Essex was sleepy on this sultry afternoon.

But Neighborhood Nest was open, and we had a great chat with Jill Piper and her mother, Barbara Page, who have sold "art and antiques and everything flowers" in an 1839 building for 28 years. They recommended the new trails at Essex Quarry Trail and Nature Preserve, just half a mile south. And they gave us a brochure visitors use to take a self-guided architectural tour.

Both options were open after we finished eating, but the air was heavy and sweet, and we were lulled into leisure. Grace sank into a chair at the library with her book, and I wandered Main Street, appreciating the brick, stone and clapboard structures wrapped in lush gardens.

I didn't get to Elm Street — home to more historic buildings — and I only had time for a quick look inside the Adirondack Art Association gallery before it was time to board the ferry for the too-short, 22-minute ride back to reality.

— Mary Ann Lickteig

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Summer Trek

Beaming down to Ticonderoga's Star Trek Original Series Set Tour

There was no doubt about where the owner of the white Prius had gone. The car, parked outside a supermarket-turned-studio set in Ticonderoga, N.Y., sported the United Federation of Planets insignia on the hood, a legendary starship registry number — NCC-1701 — on its rear quarter panels, and a bumper sticker that read, "Back off! This vehicle has phasers and photon torpedoes."

Naturally, the driver of the trekked-out Toyota-turned-Star Fleet shuttlecraft was at the Star Trek Original Series Set Tour. If you're a Trekkie and haven't visited the "Star Trek" set just 90 minutes from Burlington, consider setting a course there this summer.

The North Country attraction is largely the work of James Cawley, a 56-year-old Ticonderoga native and "Star Trek" superfan. In the 1990s, when the actor and Elvis Presley impersonator was working in Los Angeles on the production of "Star Trek: The Next Generation," he befriended William Ware Theiss, a costume designer on the original 1960s TV series, which launched one of the most profitable franchises in Hollywood history.

Theiss gave Cawley a gift that, by rights, probably should have ended up in the Smithsonian Institution: the original blueprints that Desilu Productions used to create the starship Enterprise sets, including its bridge, transporter room, sick bay, conference room, captain's quarters, hallways and engine room.

Starting in the early 2000s, Cawley and other "Star Trek" fans re-created those sets using historical production photos and screen captures from the original episodes. Over 15 years, they rebuilt the USS Enterprise with meticulous attention to detail, using such period-accurate materials as the original carpeting and chairs.

Cawley and friends then used the set to film "Star Trek" fan episodes of their own, with new characters and storylines based on those of the show's creator, Gene Roddenberry. All their efforts have been sanctioned and licensed by CBS, the franchise owner.

In 2015, Cawley opened the sets to the public for the first of many Trekonderoga conventions; daily tours followed. The sets are so recognizable that it's common for die-hard Trekkies to weep upon entering the bridge or transporter room — even without the iconic swoosh sound of the doors opening and closing.

The annual Trekonderoga events have featured such original cast members as Nichelle Nichols (Lt. Uhura), George Takei (Lt. Sulu), Walter Koenig (Ensign Chekhov) and, most recently, William Shatner. The 92-year-old actor who portrayed Capt. James T. Kirk in the original series and subsequent movies — and the only one to have made an actual trip to space — made a repeat visit in early July.

My own bucket list includes meeting the stars of "Star Trek: The Next Generation," particularly the one who made my last name famous: Sir Patrick Stewart, aka Capt. Jean-Luc Picard. (When asked, I tell people that, yes, I am related to the 24th-century Star Fleet legend: He's my great-great-great grandson.)

Alas, the British actor and knight has announced no plans to visit Ticonderoga. Come August, however, three of his fellow "Next Generation" stars are scheduled to appear: actors Jonathan Frakes, who played Cmdr. Will Riker; John de Lancie, who regularly guest-starred as the superior life form Q; and Brent Spiner, aka Lt. Cmdr. Data. As Spiner gave life to arguably the most famous android in cinematic history — sheath your light sabers, Star Wars nerds — I'm curious about his views on Data's AI ancestor, ChatGPT.

Daily tours start at $23 for adults and increase considerably in cost for the Trekonderoga events, especially those involving the stars. For instance, purchasing the "Brent Spiner all-inclusive package" — in which the actor provides a personal tour, autograph, photograph and chat on the bridge — means setting your phaser to a stunning $1,170.

So live long and (cough) prosper.

— Ken Picard

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Sleepaway Glamp

Elevated camping in Craftsbury

It took me 15 summers of living in Vermont to admit that I hate camping.

Don't get me wrong. I love traipsing around in the woods. I love washing my face in a cold stream. I really love s'mores.

What I don't like so much is the endless food and gear prep, the bugs, and the general grubbiness of the whole endeavor.

But glamping — camping with comforts such as beds and electricity — is something I've always wanted to try. As luck would have it, there's an ideal place that offers it just an hour and a half from my Chittenden County home: Craftsbury Farmhouse.

Opened in 2019 by three sisters who grew up on the property, the business offers three tents for glamping, two indoor suites, a stylish yet casual restaurant and a wellness center with a café.

Finding ourselves alone for five nights while our teenagers were at sleepaway summer programs, my husband, Jeff, and I decided to give glamping a whirl. We booked one of the tents for the last Thursday in June, at $125 for the night.

We left for Craftsbury a little after 4 p.m. On the drive, I momentarily panicked about forgetting a pillow, but then remembered the tent came with a fully dressed bed — pillows and all.

We pulled up to the farmhouse around 6 p.m. and found a binder for Glamping Tent #1 hanging on the side of the building, as promised in a detailed email we'd received the day before. The three weatherproof canvas tents are situated at the top of a steep, grassy hill behind the farmhouse. Each has its own firepit, chairs and picnic table.

Behind the tent's two layers of zip-up doors, the room was just as it appeared in the pictures: a cozy-looking bed flanked by apple-crate side tables with small fans, plus a pair of chairs, each piled with a set of towels.

We dropped our minimal luggage and descended the hill to Blackbird Bistro, open 5 to 9 p.m., Thursday through Sunday. It was hazy outside, so we sat indoors, but the restaurant has a screened-in deck as well as a gravel patio with picnic tables. An eclectic playlist featuring Salt-N-Pepa and Aerosmith created a festive mood as we sipped our icy, maple-sweetened margaritas. The fried pickle chips with creamy dipping sauce were a standout, though the menu had something for everyone — from smash burgers to a Niçoise salad.

Post-dinner, we followed a short path from the front of the property to a deck overlooking a babbling creek. For good measure, I scooped up some water and splashed it on my face.

The night was still young, so we took advantage of the hot tub, located on another screened-in porch and connected to a small room with a bathroom and a shower. Since we were the only glampers that night, we had the area, known as "the Pine Slab," all to ourselves.

Blissed out and clean, we headed back to our tent, where buttery-soft sheets awaited. We slept soundly and awoke to a foggy morning and chirping birds.

It wasn't hard to roll out of bed knowing there was caffeine and sustenance to be had at Whetstone Wellness + Café, attached to the farmhouse and open 7 a.m. to 3 p.m., Wednesday through Friday, and 7 a.m. to noon on Saturday.

I ordered a latte and a Golden Hour smoothie, which resembled and tasted like pumpkin pie. On the way out, I purchased a bottle of Into the Woods herbal body oil, made by Craftsbury company Bee Love Herbals. It was a small attempt to hold on to that glamping glow just a little bit longer.

— Alison Novak

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Hell on Wheels

Days of thunder (and dust) at Devil's Bowl Speedway

You hear it before you see it.

Cruising south with the windows down on Route 22A in West Haven, past verdant farmlands and forests bathed in late-day sun, you hear the serene majesty of rural Vermont broken by a low rumble. The tremorous din swells as you glide closer over the easy rise and fall of the blacktop. Just before a gentle bend in the road, bright light that doesn't belong in this pastoral setting erupts on the horizon as the rumble becomes a roar.

And then, there it is, the last exit on the Highway to Hell: Devil's Bowl Speedway.

Catching car races at Devil's Bowl — the self-proclaimed "fastest dirt track in New England" — has been on my Vermont bucket list since I was 12 years old, when my family settled here. I've never followed NASCAR, but having grown up going to stock car races and demolition derbies with my dad, I do get a kick out of motorsports. The Devil's Bowl and its rowdy reputation have held their allure for three decades.

I've been told by friends who live there that on clear nights you can hear the races in Orwell, 10 miles north. That tracks with words of caution I received from a typically mild-mannered colleague who grimaced when he learned I'd be going to Devil's Bowl on assignment.

"Ugh!" he responded with visceral revulsion. "It's loud; there's dust everywhere. That place is hell on Earth."

As I imagine heaven to be, hell is subjective. My colleague's description of Devil's Bowl wasn't wrong — close to dead-on, in fact. But on my first trip to the race track, over the Fourth of July weekend, I found it to be a hell of a good time, noise and grime be damned.

Accompanied by my go-to adventure buddy, Jeremy, I pulled into the expansive grass parking lot and found a spot for my tiny Mazda between two jacked-up trucks. As we made our way to the gate, I turned to my friend.

"Remember, Jeremy," I said, gazing out at the sea of Rams and F-150s, "we parked next to a pickup."

Approaching the ticket booth, we passed a sign that screamed "Warning!" in bright red letters and alerted us to the potential for "serious injury to spectators from flying track debris." By accepting our seat, it read, we were "accepting the risk."

Fortunately, we didn't end up concussed by airborne tires or fenders. But perhaps the sign should also have warned of the possibility of black lung disease.

Taking in the smell of fried food mingled with exhaust and cigarette smoke, we found seats on the far end of the long metal bleachers, near turn four of the quarter-mile oval track, just as the second race was lining up. Classic rock blared from a loudspeaker while an announcer introduced the racers in order of position. Haze hung over the track — an unwanted import from Canada, I assumed, thinking of the wildfires.

Our neighbors in the stands represented several generations: families with young kids clad in noise-canceling headphones; teenagers gossiping and giggling over their phones and ignoring the races; an older, defiantly shirtless, beer-bellied gentleman chugging a Bud Light tall boy. Many spectators sported American flag shirts emblazoned with patriotic slogans of various tastes. And several people, I noted, wore N95 masks.

That struck me as odd, given the outdoor setting and the relative remove from the darkest days of the pandemic. But moments later, I would understand.

The racers began their warm-up laps, keeping their places in line while weaving to get a feel for the traction on the track — or so a gentleman behind us explained to his seatmate. After a few laps, the green flag dropped, and the cars were off with a thunderous, ear-splitting roar. I reached into my pocket and pulled out earplugs, glad I had remembered to bring them.

Coming out of the first set of turns, the racers accelerated into a straightaway. Then — and this is the coolest part — the cars drifted, Fast & Furious-style, sliding through turns three and four, where our seats were, before gunning it into another straightaway.

In the process, they kicked up a massive cloud of dirt from the track that drifted directly toward us, as slow and relentless as John Carpenter's malevolent fog. It was so thick you could barely make out the cars on the track, just 100 or so feet away. When the cloud reached the stands, I shielded my face, but I could still hear the tinkle of dust hitting the metal bleachers.

Ohhhhh, I thought, smiling at a masked couple, who nodded back with knowing shrugs. When the dust settled, I looked down to find my clothes covered in grit, along with the top of my open beer can. (FYI: Devil's Bowl is BYOB.) Chuckling, I wiped off the can, cheers-ed Jeremy and took a sandy slug. Clearly, enjoying Devil's Bowl meant embracing the chaos.

The races turned out to be wildly entertaining. Within minutes of the race's start, one car careened off the second turn, the first of many drivers who had a hard time staying on the track that night. (Fortunately, they were all OK.) I overheard the fan behind us explaining that the track was running dry and fast, which makes for slippery conditions — think of a dirt road when it hasn't rained in a while. It's ghoulish to root for wrecks, but the unpredictability of the track added an undeniably thrilling element.

Some malign auto racing as a nonsport whose competitors do little more than turn left. But, when you're up close and personal, the skill and strategy involved become evident even to a novice fan.

At Devil's Bowl, the drivers' methods of navigating turns seem to be the key to victory. They can take the lower, shorter line at the bottom of the track, but they'll lose speed. Or they can slingshot high around the turn, maintaining speed but covering more distance.

On this night, the latter tack proved to be a winning formula. Also vital was the drivers' skill in threading the scrum of impossibly bunched cars at starts and during caution laps after crashes. Fans who pay attention — and maybe wear masks — will find far more going on than just people driving in circles.

With ringing ears and caked in dirt, Jeremy and I bade farewell to Devil's Bowl before the last race and the fireworks display. I've no doubt I made the drive home in record time.

— D.B.

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Screen Time

Outdoor movie night at the Tillerman in Bristol

My Vermont bucket list is long, and due to a personality quirk known as JOMO — joy of missing out — I check things off it very slowly. As excited as I am to hit the road for new adventures, especially in summer, I derive equal (and guilt-free) pleasure from canceling all plans. Give me a book to read on my front porch any day.

But there's a flip side to JOMO, one I was reminded of when I dragged myself and a couple of friends out of town to a Thursday movie night at the Tillerman in Bristol. Tucked away off Route 116, in a quiet green clearing several miles from much of anything else, the 1797 farmhouse inn and restaurant feels like an escape hatch out of everyday life. I gave in to a different kind of JOMO — the joy of missing out on the daily grind and the routines that sometimes need shaking up — and, for a couple of hours, had the time of my life.

OK, OK, that's a bit of an exaggeration — but one befitting the evening's outdoor flick: Dirty Dancing. If you've seen the 1987 romantic drama/dance film, you know the song I'm referencing.

The Tillerman replaced Mary's Restaurant and the Inn at Baldwin Creek in 2021. This is the first summer it has offered movie nights, and they begin with a riddle. Licensing restrictions forbid the inn from advertising movie screenings by title, so co-owner Jason Kirmse writes descriptive teasers instead. Dirty Dancing's was easy to crack: "In this film set in the 1960s, a young woman named Baby experiences a transformative vacation with her family. Intrigued by a charismatic dance instructor, she defies societal norms to pursue her love for dance."

What's better than watching Baby (Jennifer Grey) and Johnny Castle (Patrick Swayze) fall in love and practice their subversive dance moves to songs such as "Hungry Eyes"? Watching on a big screen in front of an idyllic red barn as crickets chirp, fog rolls in and stars emerge overhead.

Bonus points if you arrive before the 8 p.m. show time to dine on the patio. Chef Justin Wright's fire-kissed menu tastes like summer. My table swooned over a luxurious wedge salad with juicy strawberries and copious amounts of Bayley Hazen Blue cheese, followed by a wood-fired pizza topped with broccoli rabe, scallions, garlic scapes, mozzarella and citrusy Agrumato.

We finished just in time to mosey over to the courtyard and catch the movie. To the right of a dozen or so white Adirondack chairs stood an adorable concession stand, complete with a red popcorn machine, a few baked goods and a simple drinks menu: beer, cider, wine, canned Barr Hill Gin & Tonic, and Bristol-made Savouré soda. As we set up our folding chairs and nuzzled into our blankets, Kirmse lit a bonfire behind us.

The Tillerman draws crowds for its live music by the barn on Wednesdays, but Kirmse said the new movie night "hasn't really caught on yet." Dirty Dancing had an audience of roughly 18 people, larger than the showing for the previous weeks' films: Ratatouille and The Royal Tenenbaums.

This JOMO journalist strongly urges you not to miss out.

— Carolyn Fox

Movie night continues every Thursday, 8 p.m., through September 21 at the Tillerman in Bristol. Held inside the barn in the event of rain. Free; donations accepted. Reservations recommended for the restaurant.

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Winning the Lottery

Scones at Shirley Jackson's former home in North Bennington

Autumn may be spooky season, but summer has its own chilling side, as anyone who's read Shirley Jackson's short story "The Lottery" can attest. "The morning of June 27th was clear and sunny," the 1948 story opens, before launching into the description of a quaint solstice ritual in a bucolic village that could easily be Jackson's onetime home of North Bennington. As any schoolchild knows, the purpose of this lottery is to ensure a good harvest, and there will be blood.

Jackson died in 1965, but her posthumous career is on an upswing, with many modern writers claiming her as a formative influence. While there is no museum devoted to the author — yet — visitors to North Bennington can see some of her haunts. At the town's annual celebration of Shirley Jackson Day, observed on the closest Saturday to the summer solstice, you won't witness any public stonings, only public readings of Jackson's work.

But you don't have to come in June to get a glimpse inside one of two houses in the small college town where Jackson lived with her husband, literary critic Stanley Edgar Hyman, and their four children. The stately Victorian at 66 Main Street is now home to Moon Scones, a micro-bakery run by one of the house's current occupants, Wendy June Marie.

Marie grew up in Chicago with an Italian immigrant grandfather whose homemade breads inspired her, she told the Bennington Banner in January. A retired teacher, she honed her pastry skills in Paris. Now, Saturdays from 8 a.m. to noon, she sells delicious scones in flavors such as almond paste and lemon-poppyseed from a bakery case at the foot of the stairway that leads to Jackson's former writing room. (For a full tour of the house, watch my sister, Eva Sollberger's, 2019 video "Stuck in Vermont: Shirley Jackson's Haunts in North Bennington.")

Marie makes her pastries with maple sugar from Glastenview Maple Farm in Shaftsbury. You can also preorder them for Sunday pickup, but why miss a chance to gawk at the stairs' vintage newel post and one of Jackson's many cat figurines? Marie said she gets regular visits from "Shirley people," and she hopes to turn part of the home into an Airbnb where guests can drink in the atmosphere.

When I took the short walk to the house from the town center, North Bennington was rainy, verdant and populated with outdoor sculptures that complemented its red-brick Victorian train station. The Left Bank, a downtown gallery and community space, has an annual Jackson-themed exhibit that closed on July 26 this year.

Bookish pilgrims who are headed back to northern Vermont should be sure to budget several hours for browsing in Northshire Bookstore in Manchester Center, a bustling book paradise complete with an archway made of tomes and a full-service café. It's hard to imagine a better rainy-day haven. I bought two volumes from the impressive horror section, hoping Jackson would have approved.

— Margot Harrison

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Current Affairs

Soaring down the Mad River by the seat of my tube

I showed up for the noon shuttle to my Mad River tubing trip at 11:59 a.m. because, I guess, I like to live dangerously.

The 1991 van (so vintage that it had ashtrays inside) was revving its engine in the driveway. In a scramble, I lurched out of my car along with my tubing companion, fellow Seven Days intern Katie Futterman. The ponytailed guide generously waited, and we boarded the van.

Actually, it might be a stretch to call him a "guide." Paying $38 to Waitsfield's Clearwater Sports for a river tubing experience buys drop-off, pickup and a tube to keep you busy in between. (A cheaper Clearwater option is to rent tubes for $22 and arrange your own adventure.) By way of instructions, the "guide" only shouted "Get off at the second bridge!" and drove away.

Equipped with this directive, a red canvas-covered inner tube and nothing else at all, I waded into the water, hoisted myself into my flotation device and began to make my way down the river on a trip that was, by turns, mellow and exhilarating.

On Clearwater's online menu of kayak tours and paddleboard yoga classes, the Mad River tubing adventure is billed as a "relaxing" float in a comfortable inflatable tube. The site promises "plenty of smooth stretches for some sunbathing."

This is mostly true: The bulk of my pre-flood voyage involved slowly spiraling on an oh-so-gentle current. And I definitely got a sunburn. Sometimes, though, I had to paddle and kick to keep things moving. In the worst stretches, I hoisted the bottom half of my body out of the tube and crab-walked forward.

Once in a while, there were more lively sections with unpredictable zigzags of rapids. During these intervals, I caught a small, delicious dose of adrenaline. The ratio of gliding to scooching to soaring is, as I understand it, variable based on weather conditions. As of press time, Clearwater is still offering tubing following the July flood, though it urges caution and requires that renters wear life jackets.

The river made for a surprisingly social environment. Katie and I met a posse visiting from Massachusetts on a bachelor party excursion. The guys furnished us with Natty Lights from a cooler float that they'd also rented from Clearwater and joined us when we tucked our tubes on a rock, climbed onto a platform beside Waitsfield's covered bridge and jumped into the water. (I'm usually quite afraid of heights, but an intrepid 5-year-old took the leap right before I did, so I couldn't back down.)

The trip went faster than I'd expected — about two and a half hours — and before I knew it, my tube was at the route's end, the promised "second bridge." Our ponytailed chaperone was waiting. I was the first to arrive, which I decided was a testament to my superior aptitude for extreme sports. Disrupting my ego trip, the driver informed me that, in my haste to catch the van, I'd left my car running. I found this news embarrassing but sort of funny. When they pulled ashore, the bachelors found it hysterical.

The perfect end to our day on the water was a lunch stop at Canteen Creemee — a three-minute drive from Clearwater in my poor, neglected Subaru. The counter-service destination in a Waitsfield strip mall serves a globally inspired menu of summery bites, such as fried chicken sandwiches and spicy elote, along with a solid menu of classic creemees and toppings — exactly what you want to eat in a wet swimsuit.

On the sticky-fingered drive home, I reflected on the adventure. Could I offer a wholesale endorsement of Clearwater's tubing tour as the essential way to experience the Mad River? Probably not. Next time, I'd happily join the many folks splashing, tubeless, in the shallows. But on that day, I was glad to have spun past them in a big floating doughnut with a fleet of new friends.

— Abigail Sylvor Greenberg

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Meditative Morning

Waking up with Yoga on the Dock at the Community Sailing Center

I'm not really an early riser. I love mornings, but I usually love sleep more. That said, I've found one thing that's worth almost better than bed is Yoga on the Dock.

At 7 a.m., six days a week, the Community Sailing Center on the Burlington waterfront opens to participants of this yoga class, which is offered by the Greater Burlington YMCA. They meet on the wood-slatted dock that juts into Lake Champlain and face the Adirondacks as they stretch into downward-facing dogs and sun salutations.

On a misty morning in July, I headed down to secure a spot on the dock. It was humid, but a breeze off the lake kept the air cool. Some yogis pulled on an extra layer against the chill. When the sun broke through the low clouds, I could see the outline of the New York mountains.

Yoga on the Dock is a purely serene experience. As I sat with my legs crossed on my mat and waited for class to start, all I could hear was the slap of water against the dock, the cries of seagulls and the singsong of birds. It made for a perfect meditative soundtrack.

Instructor Nicci Micco began by telling us to "find that spot that allows you to settle into the body, into the mind." She talked about the "power of a pause" — of taking moments periodically during the day to stop, breathe and turn inward to notice your frame of mind and body.

Valuable advice.

Yoga on the Dock began as an offering of Evolution Physical Therapy & Yoga, a beloved Burlington studio that closed last year. The Y picked up the popular class with many of the same instructors, offering it free to members and to the general public for $15 per class or $120 for a 10-class pass. When it's rainy or overly windy, classes take place on a covered outdoor patio at the sailing center.

Yoga on the Dock is a basic class for all skill levels. The instructors tend to keep the flow easy, not overly energetic or strenuous. It's a soothing way to start the day.

The swaying dock makes the balance poses particularly challenging. Even the standing lunge of Warrior 1 required concentration, and I still had trouble staying upright. Wobbling is OK, though: Yoga is all about acceptance.

Micco's voice carried just fine to the back row of the crowded dock. As the class moved into Warrior 2, turning to face south, she walked up the dock and around the group to check everyone's form.

The session's highlight came during savasana, the corpse pose of complete stillness, which is the finale of most yoga classes. The chop of the lake gently rocked the dock as I lay with my eyes closed, listening to sloshing water and the birds, feeling the breeze across my skin.

The practice of yoga emphasizes gratitude. As I finished the class, I felt lucky to live in Burlington, near a beautiful body of water, in a community that appreciates it. I was grateful for Yoga on the Dock. And I was glad that I got up early and skipped those extra hours of sleep.

— Carolyn Shapiro