Tourist Town – JP Vallières

September 11, 2026

Woodsville, Vermont was a small town some fifty miles north of Burlington. Some people nowhere near Woodsville might refer to it as Cold Country. During an earlier era it was home to a prosperous logging community with loads of timber to chop down, stack, load on a flatbed, and haul; later to be treated and processed at the paper mill. If you weren’t out in the woods you were more than likely in the factory on the assembly line or pushing papers in an office. It has been said that people were pleasant back then both men and women; the children were often found skipping to school with book bags or heading down to the river with fishing poles and tackle boxes. There was the lake where families would go on weekends when the summer days were too hot to do anything but wade in the water, maybe a beer in hand and a pair of sunglasses shielding your eyes as you watched your children jump off the floating dock, making those exuberant splashes in the water. Woodsville was known as fine a place as any to raise a family and live amongst good and morally sound folk.

But in the middle of the twentieth century the factory burned to the ground. There were a few rumors as to what caused the catastrophe. One of the rumors had to do with a misplaced gasoline canteen, a flying spark that must have torpedoed from the metal gears of one of the industrial mechanisms. All of the machinery ran on some version of fuel and great precautions were taken to keep catalysts and such away from the oil and flammable materials. One other rumor, the more accepted rumor, was that a local Indian started the burning from his pipe resin spilling out, causing a smoldering that spread and thus became the calamity. Probably when he was drunk on corn whiskey. The Indian’s name was Sam Bristol. Bristol denied the allegations but was still looked upon with great speculation from the white folks and even his own kind. There was never a shred of solid proof of either scenario, but people were looking to place blame to make themselves feel better about losing their livelihoods. Someone had to pay. And why not blame an Indian?

In the end Woodsville citizens were sent scrambling to make ends meet. The ones who stayed in Woodsville lived in a state of “perpetual barbaric ruin”, whatever that meant, while the more reasonable folks packed up and moved to the dreadful southern city. There they settled for much less interesting work as laborers in warehouses or various shipping departments of large businesses that were renowned for dishing out diminutive pay checks. What other choices did the old residents of Woodsville have? It appears life can be one thing and then all of a sudden take a downward turn before we understand how good we really had it.

However, after many decades of strife and tribulations, it appears, for some at least, that life can do the opposite of ruin. It can reach down and dig us up and out of the muck and mire and quickly replace those bad days like a fresh coat of paint on an old barn. That’s surely the case with Woodsville, Vermont. In more recent years this town has seen a truly remarkable and thriving uptake in revitalization via outdoor tourism and some good old fashioned hard work from the local die-hards. Once known for its barroom brawls, shady corners, and desolate residents it was now spoken from nonlocals quite pleasantly as a dwelling known for its Bed and Breakfasts’, lakeside tourisms, colorful history, and a place to recreate in the winter months: skiing for many and ice climbing for the real adventure types.

As for the locals they mostly worked for Russ Tate’s large dairy farm, a real operation as anyone who knew anything about a good dairy would say. Others worked at the local school as teachers and administrators, janitors and maintenance men. There was the landfill not too far from town (but not too close either). Bill Knight and his three brothers made a fine living building tiny houses that could be wheeled around by any v8 engine man could buy. Although, the locals never saw the point of purchasing a tiny house. What’s the difference between a tiny house and a fifth wheel motor home anyhow? Well, Bill and his brothers would say it was the architecture. The time spent on the details. The cedar siding. The little windows and the skylights. The porches that wrapped all the way around. Bill nor any of his brothers wouldn’t put it quite like this, but there was an artistic variance. Sort of like the difference between that feller Picasso and a picture you might see hanging in a Walmart bathroom. Both can be appealing to the eye, but only one can wake our desperate souls when we need it most.

Woodsville also had small thriving businesses on the intersecting Main and Church streets, where the only stoplight in town hung from old thick wire. It wasn’t a full stoplight with all three options but a dull yellow blinker that more often than not was mistaken for some forgotten Christmas light. Most folks questioned the necessity of the blinking yellow. Many deemed it an ugly splotch in an otherwise pristine town. A splotch a little too central and noticeable.

Once, Luke Haggerford, the local barber, proceeded to give counsel to Sheriff Buckley concerning the yellow blinking light that intersected Main Street and Church Street.

“George,” said Luke Haggerford. “I believe I have some advice to give you.”

George set his coffee on his desk and rested his newspaper on his lap. “Go on Luke. Get on with it.”

“I shall say, it might be right to be rid of the blinker. I’d say it’s rightly used up electricities hanging there like that.”

Officer Buckley took off his reading glasses, gave a great sigh, as if he were exerting energy unnecessarily and said, “Luke, it’s Vermont’s law to have at least one blinker in a town over one thousand citizens. This issue is out of my jurisdiction therefore out of my mind for consideration entirely.”

Woodsville’s population was twelve hundred and eighty citizens as of the latest consensus.

“That’s unfortunate George.”

“Nothing we can do about it, Luke.”

“Hey George!” said Luke Haggerford, as if he just came up with another brilliant idea.

Officer Buckley put his readers back on and sipped his coffee. “You got to go on now, Luke. I’m reading my paper.”

“Just hoping you were planning on having a town meeting sometime soon.”

“No,” said Officer Buckley. “Nothing too soon.”

“Oh alright! Wouldn’t want to miss it!”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t,” said Officer Buckley, picking up the local sports section of the paper. Looks like the varsity girl’s basketball team beat Lakeland sixty-five to forty. Their star forward led all scorers with twenty-three points. Her name, Adriana Tate. Russ Tate’s only daughter.

And that’s how conversations with the sheriff of Woodsville often went. There wasn’t hardly ever any variation of real crime or distress to fret over. Mostly folks stopping by to make sure he was on top of local disturbances like teenage drag racers or outsiders looking to poach deer on private property. If anything truly ill-behaved were taking place Sheriff Buckley had what you might call an Ace in the Hole. Actually, the entire community knew the true secret of their societal success and aided Buckley when called upon.

You can’t just hope and pray for peace and harmony like in the old days before the mill burned down. You have to have something up our sleeve in case things get grim.

Speaking of the center of town it would be unbecoming not to mention the pillars of local business. One adorable store was Marianne’s Thrift Shop, located across the street from Woodsville Lutheran Church, in a brick building with a large window that shoppers could look into. Often in the summer there were small bookshelves with a sign that proclaimed Beach Reads! written in a nice red calligraphy. She liked books written by authors that had pretty names like Evelyn Winters, Joy Parker Lee, and Polly Anne Minestrone. There were also a few paintings showcased by the local artist, Eliza Bettinger. The paintings were set on pretty easels that had floral carvings on the legs. Eliza was most known for her attractive oil paintings of local storefront windows such as the flower shop – Bonnie’s Boutique; the bakery – Renee’s Bakery; Moorhead’s Café; Audrey’s Old Things, which was an antique shop; the diner known simply as Gram’s, and of course Marianne’s Thrift Shop.

You might say this latter painting by Eliza Bettinger was held in a particular honor. It had depicted Eliza’s own paintings inside the painting of Marianne’s Thrift Shop storefront window. It was a fine joke, everyone said so. Eliza called this particular painting her side hustle.

“Every lady needs a side hustle,” she’d say.

Sure enough some blond braided skier spotted it at the Parade Gallery (the gallery was located in the Lutheran church’s basement) during a mostly windy winter day. Too windy to ski in the braided lady’s opinion, which seemed like a common excuse some out of towners would occasionally come up with. That was the thing with outsiders; they seemed to feel guilty for taking a day off from recreating. But the locals hardly ever recreated beyond taking meanders on the sidewalks. Anyway, the lady who skipped out on the mountain was so smitten by the painting’s charming lustrous particulars that she proved her admiration by shelling out three thousand big ones for it. Eliza used the money to replace the gutters on her old Victorian place that sat out on outer Washington Street. A very nice longstanding street with oak trees shading the sidewalks, making it a lovely place to take a stroll on any calm July afternoon. Everyone approved of Eliza’s purchasing choice. It was a real agreeable thing to do and a truly beneficial way to use her money.

“Artists need to be practical sometimes,” Eliza would say, with a smile and a wink. “We can’t always go around pretending to be free and wise.” And then she’d pull another replica of the thrift shop painting and place it on the easel. A very clever trick.

And there was Martha Whitmore, the owner of Gram’s diner, who was often witnessed drinking coffee straight from a carafe and smoking a cigarette while frying bacon or mixing a malt shake in the back kitchen. Tourists were known to grimace as the unpleasant smell of smoke from Martha’s hand-rolled cigarette drifted and seeped into the drywall, the drop ceiling, and even into the red vinyl covers on the seat cushions. If anyone would complain to a waitress about the disagreeable odor the waitress would blow a bubble, pop it as loud as she could, and then tell them if they didn’t like Martha’s cigarette smell they weren’t ready to partake a proper Gram’s cuisine. Arguing with a waitress at Gram’s would be as pointless as arguing with some foreign culture you happened to stumble across on your latest flamboyant journey. There’s really no place for people to question Martha’s habits.

Further, and please don’t take this as an assaulted attack on your valor and pride, perhaps it’d be wise to hear this next part as more of a friendly warning, a kindly reminder: When visiting Woodsville, Vermont it’d be darn right good of you to be agreeable and gracious just as you’d prefer any guest be in your own home. That’s the finest way we can articulate it, for now. We’ll be sure to get head first into the minutiae a little later, but as mentioned, it’s real important for us to continue to marvel in this municipality’s declarations of tranquility.

There was the old church on the corner, Woodsville Lutheran, led by reverend Jones and his wife, Jeanie. Jeanie was very well liked and was famous for her apple pies and a kindness that seemed to have no end. Reverend Jones was a man of few words. His sermons were shorter than most pastors’ prayers. Once he was asked why he didn’t preach longer. Most every preacher anyone had ever heard before hearing Jones’ homilies were far longer than was necessary. After taking some time to mull over the question, all Reverend Jones could come up with was, “If the Lord gave me more words I’d sure hope I’d use them.” Everyone admired Jones and Jeanie. Not only did they seem to continually have the time for small conversation with their congregation but they were never ones to judge harshly. They even enjoyed the company of Martha Whitmore, owner of Gram’s diner. Many a time Jeanie was spotted on the bridge speaking with Martha while she puffed away on her unfiltered cigarette, occasionally spitting loose tobacco leafs in the creek that ran below.

None of the locals did much skiing and only the big man in town, Russ Tate (the dairy farmer) actually ice climbed. He made sure to go out at least once a week when “conditions were prime”.

He was also quoted during the initial shift to the darker season as saying, with a little too much excitement, “Have you noticed? The days are getting shorter!”

People would roll their eyes at his anticipation, but were good sports about asking him how the ice was forming out on Henry’s Falls, which was the closest frozen waterfall to town. The best ice to climb was when it was all frozen through, thick and with a shade of bright blue. That’s how Russ described it. There was a science behind this, something to do with a wet season striking directly before the Big Chill.

“The more water falling down, and the faster the big chill hits, the deeper I can strike with my tools,” he’d say, practicing his hammering in the air.

The tourist version of adventurers could be spotted a mile away rolling in with those Thule carriers on the tops of their Audi wagons or Subaru Outbacks. They were well liked for their strong vitalities and their generosity to the local businesses. If we had nothing better to do on a cold crisp January afternoon we could always spot them at Moorhead’s Café sipping down the finest Americano north of Boston. Polly Moorhead was from Boston and loved to claim her affinity.

“I roast the beans myself,” she’d say. “Same beans as what I got in Boston.”

No one really knew what Polly meant by this, but it always seemed to impress the skiers and even the more burly looking ice climbers. Seems important to point out that not all ice climbers were big robust men. Actually, most were thin and wiry with wide wondrous eyes. Often they came as couples, the women wearing sleek Arc’teryx parkas and athletic spandex pants that showed a fair portion of muscular thighs and glutes. The local men would have frequented Moorhead’s Café more often simply for the sights if it weren’t for the ice climbers’ reveal of what some referred to as crazy eyes. You could say that’s what some of the lesser articulate folks might describe them as.

“Are they crazy?” a son might ask his mother. “They don’t look right.”

“No,” the mother might say, “just cold and hopped up on adrenaline. Don’t worry. They’re as harmless as any floating butterfly. And if they’re not,” then the mother would put both fists in front of her face and quickly voila! spread them out accompanied with a bright smile. This was a common gesture to depict something vanishing out of thin air.

The kids always laughed when they’d see their pappas and mommas making jokes like this. Sometimes jokes are laughed at because they bring a sense of relief. The joke isn’t necessarily funny, but it does demonstrate confirmation of a secret reality. Woodsville reality, that is.

It was agreed by all who stopped by Woodsville, Vermont that it was a place worth visiting. So quaint, so peaceful, and the prettiest plot of earth in all the universe. If you woke early enough and sat on the lake front and looked to the sunrise you’d probably believe yourself to be on the brightest side of paradise. All that glory with the mighty bass jumping, trees swaying in the breeze, birds of all shapes and sizes soaring above. You’d have a fighting chance to see a herd of deer, maybe a fawn with its mother grazing out there in the fields. There’s no telling what water can attract in northern Vermont.

Anyway, as far as Woodsville was concerned there wasn’t much in the way of traveling beyond its borders of evergreens and wild flower fields. Why go anywhere when everything anyone could dream of was right here: the mountains, the trees, the rivers and lake, and the kind and gentle spirits abiding as neighbors and fellow citizens in life’s journey?

Troubled times were a thing of the past, nearly forgotten.

There was one fella, a tourist, a skier, who had recently got engaged and had a little vacation time planned before he had to tie the knot. His name was Kyle Richi. Kyle was very tall and blond with baby blue eyes and a smile that just about brought all the girls in town gathering and shuffling and whispering to each other. Not only was he a physical specimen he also had a quick wit and was one to capture an audience with his boisterous comedic proclamations spanning the territories of celebrity impersonations, occasionally breaking out into some song, some rock ballad or hip hop parody. Suffice to say Kyle Richi had an uncanny ability of understanding an audience.

One night we held a bonfire in the middle of Russ Tate’s field and Kyle Richi joined us in our ritual singing that we loved to do, even in the winter nights – especially in the winter nights. You could hear our sweet harmonies several miles away. When it got real cold we’d all congregate close together in the nearest silo like we did the night Kyle Richi joined us. You wouldn’t believe how ample the acoustics are in a hollowed out silo. The song just rises up and up to the angels and to the good Lord Himself. We have confidence that He smiles down upon us on such nights. Kyle Richi sang right beside us, and to our delight, knew every word. His voice wasn’t anything extraordinary, but it wasn’t so bad either. Actually when the time came to go up high he had no trouble climbing and reaching what we like to call that heavenly note. His pals weren’t as committed emotionally as him, but they were good sports, making sure to be respectful and polite. They may have hummed some. I saw them swaying a little in the shadows in unison, like monks praying prayers.

At first Kyle didn’t seem to harm anyone or anything. He was surely practicing and knowing and abiding by our law without troubles. Just so we’re clear, our laws, the law of Woodsville that is, aren’t any different than any other town’s decree. But we do have cleaner and quicker ways of disposing bad tendencies. Not to say we don’t give second chances when second chances are due. To the contrary, we’ve given mercy on multiple occasions.

Before I proceed with the dealings of Kyle Richi it would behoove me if I didn’t first give an explanation of one small slice of geographical phenomena and what most would deem an exception to the laws of nature. Some say, a miracle. Most humans on earth are known to be closed minded on such things. But it’s been to our advantage to probe all possibilities; to keep the universe and all its stars and circling planets in mind when embracing a holistic perspective. If we weren’t able to frame this in its correct place in the history of the greater world of worlds, we’d be no better off than those ignorant folks who assume they’re always invited to the party.

Earlier we mentioned Eliza Bettinger’s (the artist) tidy home on Washington Street. She really does have a slice of heaven with big oaks and new gutters and nice outdoor seating arrangement for us to congregate. Well, if you had the notion to pass on by her wonderful abode you’d eventually get yourself out into some real country. Don’t go too far or you’re certain to hit Russ Tate’s dairy farm with fields farther than any eye could see. But for the purposes of our current journey you’ll want to slow down when you see, on your right hand side, a gate blocking off a dirt road.

The road is labelled Bristol Road.

Named after Sam Bristol.

Sam’s the Indian who was wrongfully accused of maliciously burning down the old Woodsville paper mill. Story has it that one day he took his horse out on that dirt path and ambled along on a lonely and darn right depressing meander. Tears fell and mixed with the dirt. Some of the tears were stomped on by the horse, imbedding them deep into that country’s soil. Sam was so sad and so upset with the injustice of it all. He didn’t like being friendless and didn’t think it was fair to be accused of something he would never conceive of doing. You see, Sam Bristol was a gentle kind soul that wouldn’t hurt a firefly nor a pesky mosquito. In Sam’s mind only the High Power was the one who should dictate whether or not something was nourished or struck down with vengeance. Vengeance by fire was no business of Sam Bristol’s.

The more Sam Bristol cried the more the path he rode was awakened. Now, we can’t say we understand the organic engineering or the biology of it all. But we do know now that black holes exist out there in the vastness of outer space. We know black holes are invisible. We know black holes swallow up matter, which is anything that can be seen and has substance and worth.

Would you believe us if we told you that the constructs of the black hole, or something like the constructs of the black hole, had now been created right here in Woodsville, Vermont? We guess it don’t really matter if you believe us or not. Might be best if you don’t believe.

For the sake of the grander scheme we will proceed with this soliloquy as if you were on board with the truth whether it be supernatural, scientific, or some third reality that has nothing to do with neither nature nor fantasy. We prefer this latter opinion, but don’t claim to understand it.

We like to think of it in some aspect as part of a future third awakening.

Anyway, Sam Bristol vanished that day on the path, on the road of new found tears. Him and horse were never seen or heard from again. Some like to think of it as him bitterly cursing the land that betrayed him. Others see it as a poetic blessing. A man who’s been treated the way he had deserves a dramatic exit. You could call it a curse or a blessing. In either case he left his mark on local history. Grief and the suffering can do wonders to the course of history, that’s an undisputed fact.

Since then anyone, anything: man, woman, child, metal, paper, dog, tree, plastic, glass, recyclable, etc would immediately vanish upon breaking the threshold. Even a finger that might slip under the gate, touching the dirt road, would be as good as forcing the entire body through; and then, be gone, forever and always. You’d think the dirt path would get overgrown in only a matter of a spring season. But that’s another aspect no one can quite figure. Vermont’s got more grass than we know what to do with. But the path that Sam rode that day has stayed perfectly flat and carved out, almost inviting. Early on (after several folks and some cattle vanished) we made sure to line both sides with fencing and barbed wire. In time bushes grew over the fencing, shielding from suspecting passerby’s.

Now, there’s nice shrubbery lining the road until it finishes off about a half mile where the river cuts across. We made sure to block of the other end off the road so the entirety was as sealed as a prison chamber.

So, you see?

You can’t just wake up and expect peace and harmony among citizens. There’s got to be a system in place. Something that everyone can be onboard with. As long as everybody is aware of the rules and the nature of the rules then there’s really nothing to discuss other than the final decision. Vote Yay or Nay.

As mentioned the landfill isn’t all that far away from Woodsville, actually it’s only a good ten miles past Tate’s Farm. It’s a good place to work if you need a job, county benefits and all. But we don’t need all our garbage to be hauled way out there. If you’re careful in your rig, and if the coast is clear, you can slip half of it over the gate and watch as it vanishes on impact. Fully gone, all the way.
Sandra Thompson threw a cat up and over the gate. The cat was no good she said, and everyone agreed. It kept breaking into the church and defecating over all the pews. Even once got into the basement and tore into an original Eliza Bettinger landscape.

Bill Knight had a rabid dog he didn’t have the heart to shoot. All he did was open the gate, toss a tennis ball high in the air and watch that old crazed mutt haul off into the mighty unknown. Poof! No shot required. No digging a grave necessary.

It got to the point where every man in Woodsville gave up their firearms for the purpose of ridding ourselves of symbols of war and strife. It was a unanimous decision. Even Sheriff Buckley freed himself of the weight of his sidearm. Why risk an errant bullet flying through the woods when all anyone really needs is togetherness. True equality lives in a true democracy. Woodsville was the only town in America who didn’t have a mayor or even a representative. Everyone came together and everyone voted unanimously. And when a tough decision had to be made with the likes of a no good feller like Kyle Richi, well there you go. Another vote in the voter’s box. Get him out. Leave no trace. Vote Yay.

There he came with his buddies, driving none other than a brand new beamer with a silver Thule case on top. We’d never seen a silver Thule rack before. It was gleaming in the bright sun. They were all hopped up on cocaine and Nintendo or whatever they were into. Nobody knows all their vices and doodads. Some may have suspected that he’d push the lines, but most were bedazzled by his good humor and pretty eyes.

The first couple of days were promising. Everyone sure kept their sights on the new fellas being all ruckus and lively. But we eased in to the week with a hopeful countenance on our shining clear complexions. You see, no one wanted to send a tourist or passerby on the Bristol Road. It’s not an easy thing to decide. We’d much prefer you and everyone else get along with us and simply enjoy the short time you have in Woodsville. It’s such a wonderful place to vacation. And vacations are always too short. They pass us by quicker than a locomotive. The other thing is if too many folks go missing we couldn’t expect to hold up our fabulous reputation. Sure, there’s always going to be the Kyle’s of the world. One less Kyle might be a shock to those nearest to them, but in the grand scheme of things isn’t it nice to slowly shove the more corrupt side of the elite into the black hole, never to be seen or heard from again? Forgotten. Forever.

The day after the bonfire and silo singing was the beginning of the strain.

It was a Saturday and people were milling about on Main Street all bundled up, the snow drifting down softly as if there was nothing better to do than float around all day. You could say the people floated exactly like the flakes in the sky. Together it was a scene of real triumph. Man and nature melodiously moving about their days together, seamlessly, like something you thought you could only hope for in the afterlife. And when you have a real experience with that hope and joy and camaraderie you can’t let it die or hide it under a bushel. No, it has to stay. It has to shine. Sometimes it takes real courage to keep it. Some might say it’s worth sacrificing for.

Russ Tate, the dairy farmer, caught Kyle Richi in a silo with his daughter Adriana Tate. It was during the early hours, milking time, and he thought he may have left a rake in the silo the night prior (often he’d rake out the silo before the singers crowded in). To his horror, not only did he not find his rake; his only daughter was intertwined with a tourist inside a one person sleeping bag. They must have sneaked off in the middle of the night to rendezvous in the silo. This was a truly unfortunate incident. Especially unfortunate for Kyle Richi.

All of Woodsville citizens understood that it was strictly forbidden for any local to have relations of this variety with tourists. Sometime ago it was voted upon unanimously, and it was taught not only by parents and teachers alike, but also by those in the church. Both reverend Jones and Jeanie would weave these parameters during Sunday services, youth group get togethers, and midweek bible studies.

It was especially forbidden for any young man to go anywhere near Russ Tate’s daughter. Ever since Russ’ wife passed away he had been the sole guardian and had already groomed her for another local boy. His name was Gus Knight, Bill Knight’s oldest boy – center on the basketball team – who was perfectly happy to take over the family business of building tiny houses.

When Russ Tate found them he unslung one of his ice axes from his tool belt and went after the tourist like some crazed dog.

“You’re going bye bye, son!” said Russ.

Adriana was crying and begging her papa to put the weapon down. She even shouted out that she loved him.

“I don’t love Gus! I love Kyle! He’s going to take me to the city! I don’t want to live here anymore. Daddy, I hate you! I hate Woodsville!”

It’s important to note Adriana Tate’s standing in town. Simply put, Adriana was the most beloved creature in all of Woodsville. She was the class valedictorian and also happened to be the star basketball player on the varsity team. She had longings to move out of Woodsville, Vermont, early on. She spoke of adventuring down to the big city. New York City, to become some fashion person or Hollywood something, no one knew all the particulars of Adriana’s fanciful dreams. They were supremely relieved when in middle school she seemed to have outgrown her silly, ‘Grass is Greener’ fixations.

But it appeared she had secretly harbored her passions for permanent travels outside her borders, which ended up costing her new boy toy dearly.

Russ dragged Kyle Richi straight to his barn and tied him to a fencepost using baling wire and some horse hide. With Adriana whaling in the passenger seat he drove straight to Sheriff Buckley, demanding a town meeting.

The meeting was nothing to speak of. Like any other that was this clear cut.

Everyone voted, Yay!

Immediately Russ went back to the farm, untied the pathetic creature, helped him up into the bed of his farm truck.

From there the entire town followed Russ (Adriana still blabbering incessantly in the passenger seat) in their snowmobiles and trackers and four wheelers pulling children on sleds. It was a wonderful procession, like a parade. Eliza Bettinger started a song of farewell and everyone joined in. You could hear us singing for miles away. The snow wasn’t falling, but the sun was out shining bright, blue skies everywhere and the snow on the ground glistened.

One of the most beautiful sights is seeing Sam Bristol Road in winter. You’d of thought there was some angel whose sole responsibility was to snowplow that section of earth. As if some old rich folk lived at the end with high ceilings and huge Picasso paintings on the wall. Everyone loved a chance to go out there and just see it for what it was, a majestic and magical place, like something a book might have described, but better. Better because it was all theirs. For this was the secret to their tranquility, their success as a civilization. No one, certainly not the preppy man Kyle Richi, could take that from them. Not now. Not ever.

Soon everyone was crowded around the gate. The singing had subsided. Russ Tate held the frightened young man by his collar in front of the gate. Sheriff Buckley and reverend Jones was on either side. If we listened real close we could hear Adriana still crying. Her cries were evidence of her naiveté, we all agreed.

“Let’s bow our heads,” said reverend Jones.

We bowed our heads. It was wonderful to bow our heads. We couldn’t think of anything that delighted us more.

“Dear Heavenly Father,” said the reverend. “We thank You for giving us the power to do right and to honor Your people. There’s no place like Woodsville.”

“Amen,” said the people.

“We give You this rebellious son and simply ask that You deal with him as You see fit.”

“Amen.”

“Amen indeed,” said reverend Jones, proving once more that he was a man of very few words.

“Amen!” shouted the people.

Then Sheriff Buckley unclipped the key ring off his belt and picked the one meant for the gate. Boy, was it exciting to see, to hear, the gate unlock. We loved to hear him turn the key and hear that slight metallic clink.

And the nice creaking sound as the reverend and the sheriff opened the gate.

“One clap for each step now!” shouted Sheriff Buckley.

They clapped in unison every time Russ pushed Kyle Richi toward the entrance of Sam Bristol Road.

Clap.

And with a last push the sole of Kyle’s boot touched the dirt path and poof!, the boy was gone, forever.

There was always a moment of astonishment immediately afterwards. As if we still didn’t quite believe the miracle would persist after all these decades.

By the end of the ceremony there wasn’t a dry eye in the crowd. It was just so incredibly beautiful to see a man like that simply disappear.

As for Kyle Richi’s friends, it seems important to add, that they were all “gathered” and shoved in, more as an afterthought to the main event than anything else.
Poof! Poof! Poof!

Adriana Tate wasn’t seen in town for a week. Folks were worried about their favorite girl, but also understood that lessons had to be learned if one would want to live a full and practical life in Woodsville.

To everyone’s relief, eventually she came around and started acting like her old genuine article. Big smiles, gentle laugh, and that long clean stride through Main Street as she walked with that tall good boy, Gus Knight, arm in arm.

“Fine seeing you,” said Eliza Bettinger, walking past them.

“Miss Bettinger!” cried Adriana, and gave her a hug and kiss on the cheek. “What would I do without you!”

“Oh, stop,” said Eliza, her cheeks turning rosy, with joy.

Gus Knight insisted on stopping first at Marianne’s Thrift Shop so he could buy her a new Christmas scarf with little green elves sewn on.

“I love you,” said Gus. “And I love your new scarf. Can I kiss you now?”

“Oh,” she said. “Please do.”

Then it was to Audrey’s Old Things, where she picked up a small lamp with green emeralds lining the base. Gus was a good sport and enjoyed carrying the lamp for her.

“Where will you put your lamp, Adriana?”

“Oh Gussy,” she said. “I’m going to put it right next to our bed. On my side so I can read at night while you’re snoring away.”

Gus smiled, apparently liking the idea very much.

The next shop: Bonnie’s Boutique. He bought her twelve red roses.

When they walked out of the flower shop the snow, again, was falling softly, steadily, as if it would never end.

They finished their day together in Moorhead’s Café drinking lattes with a vase of roses and a green lamp on the table.

They decided to write down their future plans in a small notebook:

1. Get married next summer.

2. Build a cabin on Russ Tate’s Farm. On the back acre somewhere near the forest, close to the creek.

3. Combine both businesses. Building tiny houses and milking cows. Gus could oversee the tiny house projects and Adriana could manage the farm.

The following morning was Sunday.

Adriana woke, showered, and prepared herself for church. Although it was very cold she decided to wear a summer dress. Very light and pretty. The cold never bothered her until it got down below zero. This day was in the mid-twenties with sun blazing above. Darn right balmy for Woodsville folk. She did her hair up in a fancy way with cute little curls falling down on either side. There were black high heels in her closet that fit perfect and, after applying a flawless amount of makeup and fragrance gave herself a long steady look in the mirror.

“Your legs look especially pretty today, Adriana,” said Adriana. “I like how low cut your dress is. I believe those breasts have grown very womanly, wouldn’t you say? Eliza says they’ll be good for a baby to suckle someday soon.” And then she laughed.

Russ Tate drove them to church in his farm truck. It was a very pleasant and pretty drive with plentiful views of the countryside. They chatted about how everything looked so impeccable in their town on this fine morning. White everywhere. Field of White. Trees clobbered with snow. Distant hills rolling white over white. The blue sky shown stark in the morning light.

All was well.

The congregants ambled up the church steps. Jeanie was there passing out pamphlets that stated the order of the service. On this morning there were no tourists that Adriana could see. Usually tourists weren’t church types. Usually they were either hungover or preparing for a day on the slopes.

“You look very elegant today,” said Jeanie. Then leaned in with a whisper, “Darn right sexy.”

“Thank you!” said Adriana, smiling broadly. “Hey, Jeanie. Do you think it’d be okay if I read the announcements today?”

“Why sure, Adriana! Sometimes I get so tired of saying all this stuff,” she said, gesturing to the pamphlets in her hand. “I think it might be a good place for you to start. I see big leadership plans in your future. Maybe coach the girls’ basketball team. Lead the youth group in testimonials. Just to start.”

“That sounds glorious,” said Adriana, taking an announcement pamphlet from Jeanie.

Once settled in the pews the reverend took the podium and opened up with a written prayer from the prayer book. Then every stood and sang hymns. Adriana liked holding the hymnal, and made sure to sing especially loud and clear.

“And now I’ll ask Adriana Tate to come up and give this week’s announcements,” said reverend Jones.

Adriana sauntered down the center aisle, her heels striking the floor with each step like heavy knocks on the door. The congregants looked at her amazed; as if she had suddenly matured into a spectacularly stunning woman, right before their eyes.

“Hi guys!” she said.

People waved and giggled. Russ pointed at her as if he were proclaiming, ‘That’s my girl!’

“Well, it looks like we have the final girls’ basketball game this Thursday! I expect you all to be there. Especially you, Gussy!”

More laughter from the congregants. Reverend Jones was beaming.

“Bible study at Moorhead’s Café is cancelled for the week due to the recent espresso debacle (she was referring the espresso machine catching on fire. Interior repairs were scheduled.)”

More laughter from the crowd, even from Polly Moorhead.

“Don’t forget to sign up for the bake sale! We’re raising money to replace the current blinking light.” She pumped her fist. “I think we can all agree that’s it’s about time!”

People clapped.

Sheriff Buckley rolled his eyes, and then smiled softly.

“There’s going to be an Eliza Bettinger art show in the Parade Gallery this Friday. This will be paired with a potluck dinner, also starting at 5:00 pm sharp. We have a lot of people who signed up for side dishes and dessert, but not enough for main dishes. Who’s going to step up and bring the beef?”

Laughter everywhere. She was really rolling now.

“I have it on good authority that Bill Knight has volunteered to lead a group of strapping men to go into the woods and chop down some trees. But we need a few more. Martha is getting low on firewood and you all know we have a lot more winter to go. Come on guys!” she called, turning her hip just so. “Get out there and use those muscles!”

There was laughter, quiet cheers, and one noticeable hoot.

“Okay, one more announcement. Although this one’s not on our pamphlet,” she said, and threw her announcement sheet on the floor. It floated down in great side to side swaying motions until landing softly on Polly Moorhead’s lap. “Reverend Jones, I hope you don’t mind me telling everyone about the dream I had last night.”

“As long as I don’t have to talk,” he said, jokingly.

The congregation had another good laugh.

“Well, last night Sam Bristol visited me in my dream.”

There were oohhs and aahhs.

She waited for the folks to settle in their seats. They were all ears.

“That’s right, the Sam Bristol, the Indian, visited me in my dreams,” she repeated. “I was walking down the road, minding my own business, when all of a sudden I see something out of the corner of my eye. I look and there before me, none other than Sam Bristol on his horse, trotting my way. He so happened to be on his road. Just on the other side of the gate. Well, that gate just opened right up without anyone touching it. I was standing there in awe, seeing that pretty horse and that strong man. He didn’t seem sad at all. And I have to say when the gate opened a wonderful warm breeze washed over me. I have never felt anything so comforting in all my life.”

Some women covered their hearts with their hand as if they had heard the sweetest of words spoken.

“When he got to me he said, ‘Adriana, can I show you something?’ I said, ‘Well, Sam, how do you know my name?’ He said, ‘I know all of your names.’ I said, ‘Well, then. What do you want to show me?’ He said, ‘I want to show you where this road leads people.’ I was frightened. I didn’t want anything to do with Sam Bristol’s road right then. I wanted to run away from Sam Bristol as fast I could. So I said, ‘Sam, I don’t want to disappear.’ That must have been funny to him because he started laughing at me. Not in any mean way, but still I wasn’t in the mood to laugh along.
“‘Adriana,’ said Sam Bristol, ‘You can walk in with me and then you can walk back out.’ I told him I didn’t think that’s the way it worked. No one had ever seen anyone vanish then suddenly reappear. He told me that every living thing that can walk on the road has the choice to walk back out. But no one would ever choose to walk out. I said, ‘Why is that?’ He said, ‘Because it’s too good. It would be crazy not to stay forever.’ I asked him, ‘Sam, what’s so good about it?’ He said, ‘You’ll have to find out for yourself.’”

Adriana paused and looked at the faces of her longstanding neighbors. She really had them now. Everyone was locked in. Everyone wanted to know what happened next.

Adriana proceeded.

“So, there we were. Me and Sam Bristol. I have to say he was the loveliest man I’ve ever seen. His eyes were so kind and his voice so heartfelt and warm. And the heavenly breeze made me feel so good inside. It made me think of when I was just a little girl running through the field of our farm.”

More aahhs.

“I said, ‘Sam Bristol, I’m mighty scared to do a thing like that.’ He said, ‘Don’t be scared, Adriana. I’ll make sure you head right on back to where you came from.’ I asked, ‘Why? You don’t want me to stay with you in paradise?’ He said, ‘I do want you to stay. But not until you go back and tell the rest of your neighbors about this wonderful place. I want to share all the goodness I’ve found. The more the merrier.’

“I was real reluctant. But there was no questioning those kind eyes of his and the way the breeze blew in like watching a summer sunset from pappa’s porch.”

Russ was moved by this. He was spotted wiping a tear from his eye.

“Don’t cry daddy,” she said. “I haven’t got to the good part yet.”

The people chuckled and then went back to listening intently.

“So, there I was with Sam Bristol. He said, ‘Adriana, are you ready?’ I said, ‘As ready as I’ll ever be.’ You should understand that I still was questioning him. But there was something inside me, like a little spirit, maybe the voice of the Lord, urging me to trust. Sometimes all we need to do in a moment like this is trust. Even if it feels as if you’re blind as a bat. Walk forward into the darkness, see what glory awaits on the other side. ‘Would you like to hop up here with me?’ asked Sam Bristol. I said, ‘You got room for me?’ He said, ‘Plenty.’

“I hopped up and grabbed hold of his big chest. Sam Bristol is very strong, I could feel his big chest muscles rippling under his shirt. I was sure glad to have a strong man to hold onto in that moment. Sometimes I think all I need is someone like that to just grasp and never let go. That’s how I felt. I didn’t want to let go of that sweet strong man.

“He said, ‘Time to go.’ I said, ‘If you say so, Sam.’ And held on for dear life, squeezing him with my arms and my thighs. I was like one of those big snakes that wrap themselves around a deer before eating time. I was going to give him everything of mine being as scared as I was.

“We trotted slowly toward the entrance of the road. I didn’t care if he wanted me to press myself against him or not, that’s just what I was going to do. And I have to say, the breeze picked up and became sweet and fragrant, like being in a field full of wild flowers. The closer we got to the entrance the tighter I pulled myself into Sam Bristol. By this point he was humming a sweet song. Something that sounded so familiar, but distant and deep. I wasn’t even sure if I’d ever heard the song before, but it still had a familiarity that comes with the land or the sky or this town. That doesn’t make sense, I know, but that’s how it felt. And I’d know you’d understand what I’m trying to say if you all were with me.

“Anyway, by this point we were inches from the road. There was nothing left to do but hold on tight and wait to see what would happen. Wait to see if what Sam Bristol said was the truth or maybe he had evil designs, setting me up for a big hubabaloo, some dirty trick to get back at all those old townsfolk that wrongly accused him of ruining their livelihoods.”

Adriana took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and paused before going on with her retelling.

The congregation was on the edge of their seats, some of them were literally hanging off the pews, clutching the pew in front of them.

“What happened, Adriana?” asked Eliza Bettinger, almost pleading. “What happened when you vanished?”

“It’s nearly impossible to explain in words. But I’ll do my best. I’ll do whatever it takes. I love you all and I really appreciate reverend Jones allowing me to share all of this with you.”

“We love you, too,” said Jeanie, with such sincerity, it brought a tear to Adriana’s eye.

“Okay, here it goes,” continued Adriana. “I’ll do my best to describe the impossible feeling of entering a new land.”

She took another deep breath.

“There was a light above. It was the sun, I’m sure, but it was soft and warm. Somehow different, in a good way, from the sun we’re used to. There was a mist rising from the clean grass that went far and wide. The mist cooled my skin in a way I had never experienced before. I can’t say I had ever felt this recipe of sensations.

“I immediately let go of Sam Bristol and jumped off his horse. The air, the atmosphere, of the land I was now abiding in was so invigorating I went into a full sprint. Running in circles, laughing, arms held out so wide as if my body was attempting to consume every ounce of vitality and life. Real life. Does that make sense? Real life. That was the sensation I most want you to try to understand. Whatever world I entered in was the world of life. Like going from death to life. I have always loved Woodsville. There’s no greater town on earth.”

“Amen,” shouted some people.

“But I’m telling you right now. Woodsville’s greatest and most precious gift is Sam Bristol Road and where it can take us.”

She paused and scanned the room.

“What else did you see?” said a neighbor.

“Animals talked to me,” she went on.

“Talking animals?” said Gus Knight, with a skeptical tone.

“There was a moose who introduced herself as Ida.”

“This is ridiculous!” cried Bill Knight. “I can’t bring myself to believe it. Sorry, it’s too far-fetched. Adriana, it was only a dream.”

“Let her finish,” said Russ Tate. “What do you mean the animals talked?”

“The animals looked very similar to the animals we see every day,” said Adriana. “But there’s something in their eyes that appeared more humanlike. Once again, it’s nearly impossible to explain.”

“Keep trying!” said Polly Moorhead. “I want to hear it all.”

“So do I!” cried another.

“Me too!”

“Go on,” said the reverend Jones, kindly. “You’re doing just fine, Adriana.”

“Thank you, reverend Jones. This isn’t easy. Ida, the moose, led me to some berry bushes. The bushes were full of blackberries. I ate them and they were the most delicious, juicy, sweet food I had ever tasted. All the while she was telling me about her calves. How proud she was of them and how they had grown up recently and had travelled over the mountains to find their mates. Then we walked to the river and drank from a waterfall. I stuck my head under and got all wet. The water wasn’t cold nor was it warm. It was perfectly pleasant. So pleasant in fact I had an impulse so strong I couldn’t control my next action. I took off my clothes and waded in the river and let the water fall down me. My skin cried out to be touched by this water as if my body was sick before and I didn’t even know it. The water cleansed me even more than any medicine known to man.

“By this point I had forgotten about Sam Bristol. There was only water and berries and my skin to be concerned with. I was feeling so good all I could do was smile and listen to Ida, the moose, speak of her children’s adventures. To my surprise I found Sam Bristol riding his horse, halting on the edge of the river, looking down on me with those kind strong eyes. Instead of Sam speaking it was his horse. The horse asked me if I was ready to go back to Woodsville. By this point I had nearly forgotten about my pretty hometown. I can’t believe I’m admitting this but this might be the most important part of my journey. I was so taken with the new land, the new dimension, whatever you want to call it, that me and my naked body were yearning to search the depths of the place. Search far and wide. I had barely begun my abiding in this true paradise, and now I was being asked to return to a place, this place, like returning to the land of the dead.

“You all know how much I cherish Woodsville. I do. But I have to tell you that this will be the last time any of you see me. As soon as my speech here is over I am heading to Sam Bristol Road, jumping the gate if I have to, and live in that other place, whatever it is, forever and ever. I won’t assume you’d understand, but nonetheless, I needed to tell you what my plans are. It’s been decided. There’s no point in convincing me otherwise.”

The congregation was silent, watching their most favored child on stage, saying, farewell.

“I’m going with you,” said Russ Tate.

“Really?” said Adriana. “You don’t have to, daddy. It’s okay, you can stay here. Someone needs to take care of the farm. Anyway, like Bill Knight said, it might only be a dream I had last night. But to me it was a transportation. No one’s going to convince me otherwise.”

“No way,” he said. “I’m done with all this work. I want to go with you. I want to breathe that air and talk to the moose and clean myself in the river of everlasting life!”

There were some claps and some gasps.

“I’d like to go,” said Eliza Bettinger.

“If you’re going, I’m going,” said Polly Moorhead. “You’re not leaving me here with these bozos!”

Everyone had a good laugh at that.

Martha, owner of Gram’s diner, stood, lit up a cigarette, and said, “Yeah, this sounds like the best plan I’ve heard in over twenty years. Anyway, I’m tired of these tourists!”

“I second that!” some shouted.

“Third!”

“Fourth!”

Five other loyal citizens stood. In a strange unison said, “Yay!” As if it was a vote.

“Yay,” said another.

Gus Knight and his father stood and proclaimed their devotion to Adriana’s journey. Claiming they’d been wanting to get out of the tiny house business anyway.

“I can’t imagine staying back,” said Bill Knight. “Adriana, I’m sorry for questioning you.”

Thirty more stood.

Then fifty.

Sheriff Buckley said he didn’t want to replace that god awful blinker alone.

Everyone cheered. Now all were on their feet. All twelve hundred citizens of Woodsville, Vermont. The room was pulsing with hope of a brighter future.

Jeanie stood and said she would if her husband, reverend Jones, felt it was the Lord’s will.

The folks standing sat down and waited to hear from Jones.

“Well,” said Jones. “Adriana has given us a compelling story. As usual I have very few words to express.”

There were some chuckles.

“But during her retelling I couldn’t help but hear the soft whisper of our Lord telling me to follow this young woman. When the heck did you become a woman, anyhow?”

More chuckles, hopeful giggles, and a hoot hoot!

“I want to go there,” said Jones. “I would like to leave now, forever. Sheriff Buckley will lead us, open the gate, and we can drive in one by one. What do you guys think?”

The crowd stood and cheered and began to chant:

Yay!

“Follow me!” shouted Sheriff Buckley.

And they did, one by one, in their pickups and tractors and four wheelers, all of them proceeding to the righthand turn that would take them to paradise. Out their windows and up to the day’s sky they sang a lovely hymn, in unison; the most beautiful parade there ever was. Tears were dripping into their smiling mouths. Parents squeezing their children in delight. Old folks thanking God for the blessing given to the people of Woodsville, Vermont. Visions of the Indian on his triumphant horse ran over the parade line like a river of joy.

Russ Tate was in the back of the line, driving his farm truck, his beautiful daughter sitting next to him with a smile on her face as big and bright as the shining sun.

Adriana loved seeing the vehicles vanish one by one.

“Oh daddy,” she said. “I feel like I’m dreaming.”

“So do I,” he said, seeming so peaceful, his heavy arm around his little girl. “Do you think they’ll have frozen waterfalls? Do you think I can ice climb there?”

“I guarantee you’ll find the most beautiful pristine frozen icicles in all the universe.”

“Wow,” he said. “It’s sure going to be something, isn’t it?”

“You will not be disappointed,” she said.

They drove slow, one car entering the new world at a time. Bill Knight was in front of them driving a Ford 350. Gus was sitting in the bed of the truck waving and smiling, not taking his eyes off his girlfriend, Adriana. He was holding the green lamp he had bought her earlier that week. Every so often Adriana would blow him kisses.

Right before Gus was going to vanish he covered his heart with his right hand and mouthed the words, I love you.

Adriana just smiled and waved goodbye.

“Daddy,” said Adriana.

“Yes, dear.”

“I’d like to walk through if that’s okay.”

“I think that’s a swell idea!” said Russ, pulling his truck over so that it was on the side of the road.

“Could you get a touch closer so I don’t have to step in a snow bank? Not that it matters. I’ll be feeling perfect in seconds.”

“Of course,” he said, and nudged the nose of the vehicle dangerously close to the entrance of Sam Bristol Road.

They got out and gave each other a hug, and took their time looking back at the town they once called home. From this distance they could see the high cross that crowned their old church. The sun was hitting the cross, making it resemble some distant guiding star.

“It was a wonderful place,” said Russ, crying.

“Woodsville, Vermont,” she whispered. “A complete history.”

“What?” said Russ, taking his arm off her, startled. “What do you mean by history?”

“I mean, we started it. Our people. And now we have decided to close it down. It will never be the same again. History. We did it. We conquered our horrors and risen above. Who can say they’ve done a thing like we have? Who can say they’ve really brought peace and safety to their people like we have?”

“Yeah,” said Russ, as if he were distracted by a new thought. “You think I could bring my ice axes? Will they cross over with me?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“What about the cars? Will they be there, too?”

“We won’t need them. But yes, they will be there.”

Russ walked to the bed of his truck and pulled out two ice axes, now smiling, seeming to be eager to move on.

“Can I carry one?” asked Adriana. “I like the feel of them. I used to pick up your ice axes when I was a little girl and swing them high, pretending I was you scaling an impossible icicle.”

He handed her over one the axes, a proud smirk on his face.

She took it and rubbed the contour of the shaft and tested the pointiness of the tip with her finger.

“Did you sharpen these recently?” she asked.

“Oh yeah,” said Russ. “Just yesterday.”

They stood facing one another, tears in their eyes.

“You were such a wonderful little girl.”

“I’ll always be your little girl, daddy,” and got on her tippy toes and kissed his cheek.

“I guess this is it.”

“Let’s go in together,” she said.

They had only ten or so paces to go. They took their time, keeping their eyes on Sam Bristol Road, so smooth, devoid of snow, a path to the kingdom forevermore.

And then five paces.

Four.

Three.

Two.

Adriana stopped.

“You okay,” he said. “We’re only a half-step away.”

She took a slight step back and placed both hands on the ice axe. Her grip tightened as if she were holding a hockey stick.

“Daddy,” she said, now prodding him gently with tip of the axe. “Are you scared?”

“That tickles,” he said, “Stop that!” He twitched and jerked and giggled his way closer to the edge of the road.

“We’re so close, Daddy. Can you believe it? Soon we’ll be free.” She kept prodding him, closer, all the while making him giggle. His cheeks so red. Everything like Christmas morning: the snow, the breeze. If only there were carolers in the trees singing them off.

“I fucking lied,” she whispered, barely audible, still poking, a little snigger.

“What?” he asked, his boot heels only an inch or two from the road. He dropped his ice axe. “What did you say?”

With dreamy eyes she gave a final firm nudge to his ribs sending him off forever.

Poof!

Adriana stood alone, breathing hard with that sweet aftermath of revenge. Her satisfaction was felt from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. Her strength pulsed through her body. Blood ran smooth and clean through veins and arteries all the way to her lovely beating heart.

She picked up the ice axe that her father dropped and felt the weight of both axes. They were such nice things to hold, real weaponry, like something they used in more primitive times, before cannons or guns.

“Like the days long gone,” she whispered, and smiled.

Then she turned and once more faced her old town. Soon to be a ghost town. The tourists were probably waking up. Looking for a coffee at Moorhead’s Café. Perhaps wanting to purchase something old-fashioned at Marianne’s Thrift Shop or Audrey’s Antiques. Eliza Bettinger’s original paintings were still set up in the church’s basement. Maybe someone was waiting to purchase a still life. Or maybe something’s itching for a bite to eat at Renee’s bakery or Gram’s diner. So many would be ambling up the road that led to the ski resort. It was supposed to be open by now.

She got into the old farm truck and fired up the engine.

The truck had a good rumbling, calming nature. She put it in gear and took her time driving with the windows down feeling the cold clean country air all over her body. There was nothing like the air in this part of the country, so crisp, so clean. She would miss this place, Woodsville, Vermont; she would think of it fondly, especially when she was in the city, at night, with all those bright lights shining through the windows.