In my wisdom, I left my gloves in my apartment back in Manhattan. The biting cold assaulted my hands as I walked down the gravel road tenderly clutching my camera. Ten minutes earlier, the sun's light had cut through large windows on the converted barn and awoken me, cocooned on the couch. Afraid of disturbing the other sleeping twenty-somethings and excited to explore my foreign surroundings, I dressed quickly and headed to the door.
Sleeping by the door, the family Golden Retriever jumped to his feet and eagerly shook his tail. Without hesitation, I held the door open and followed his bounds out into the early Vermont morning.
The night before, I had packed my things into a rented Penske truck and left my beloved coastal Maine, heading south on 95 towards the rolling hills and farmland of Vermont. Arriving late under the cover of darkness, the bright stars of the moonless light illuminated the silhouettes of barns and the impenetrable darkness of the Vermont woods. When I took a wrong turn on the three-mile dirt road leading to the Durkin farm, a friendly Vermonter, and proud owner of the Dodge Power Wagon pictured in this post, gave me directions better than any iPhone and sent me on my way.
Following the syrup lines, I walked down the road towards a large field, once used by local dairy farmers. In the distance, wisps of smokes emerged from the stone chimney of a 200 year old farm house, signaling the start of the day.
The sun broke the levee of darkness, casting its first shadows of the short November day. Enjoying the early light, I wondered for another twenty minutes before heading back to warm my hands and toes by the fire.
As I arrived back at the farm, the first snowflakes of the day's flurries rode the light winds.
Heating with wood.
Skis of yesterday.