251 or Bust
By Judith Hinds
Harold and Edna invited us over one Saturday evening to watch their slides. “Slides of our journeys in the 251 Club,” Harold said.
The what?
We were 50 years younger than these neighbors, newlyweds fresh out of college, city kids beginning our teaching careers in the rural environment of Hardwick, Vermont. Our cultural education was in its infancy.
The 251 Club, Harold explained, was open to folks who had visited all 251 towns in Vermont and could prove it, with photos taken of some identifying feature in each town. He and Edna, in their VW Bug, had traveled the length and breadth of the state with camera in hand, over a period of many years, culminating in victorious completion of their quest. We didn’t see all 251 slides that night, because at 8:30, Harold announced it was his bedtime and the rest would have to wait for another night.
For reasons I can’t fathom – youthful lack of foresight? priorities elsewhere? distractibility? all of the above? – we did not immediately grab the camera and jump in our Renault to start collecting towns. Oh, how I wish we had.
We could have started by checking off the towns along Routes 5, 2 and 15 on the way from Boston to Hardwick, before I-89 was completed. And then a few along Route 14 on the way to Montpelier to obtain our Vermont registration and licenses. And then several more along Route 15 west to the big city of Burlington. Eventually we found our way up Route 16 to Glover to the Bread and Puppet Theater. In our third year as wannabe Vermonters, we made the acquaintance of Route 7 all the way south to the Massachusetts line, when we moved to Bennington for a year. Next came the Northeast Kingdom, where we (unsuccessfully) interviewed for teaching jobs in Canaan in 1973. The trophy list was growing, if we had been smart enough to keep track. But we weren’t.
Life kept happening. Nearly 20 years passed. In 1987, I started work in my new role as a safety specialist for the Federal Highway Administration, later renamed the Federal Motor Carrier Safety Administration. This job required me to drive all over Vermont to perform safety audits on truck and bus companies engaged in interstate commerce. Why, oh why didn’t it occur to me to pack a camera and keep track of the dozens of charming (and a few less-than-charming) municipalities I passed through, sometimes pausing for lunch or a pit stop? In truth, I had more or less forgotten about the 251 Club by then. If I had remembered, I probably would have thought I didn’t have time to stop and take pictures everywhere I went. I was on government time, after all, in a government vehicle, and I had a schedule to keep.
Some mental home movies still play from those days: the vistas on Route 9 between Bennington and Brattleboro … the sense of discovery and wonder each time I traversed one of the “gaps” across the spine of the Green Mountains (Appalachian Gap, Brandon Gap, etc.) … the kindness of so many mom-and-pop transportation companies whose Vermont neighborliness outweighed their distress at having a “Fed” show up on their doorstep … the general stores here, there, and everywhere that always had a restroom tucked away in a back corner … the Miss Lyndonville Diner (closed down after the 2024 flood) … all of Route 100 from Canada to Massachusetts seen from the back of a friend’s motorcycle … Camel’s Hump from every conceivable angle.
The more I reflect, the larger the album grows.
Another 20 years passed. After I retired, someone mentioned the 251 Club again. Full of regrets, I moped for days about the legion of missed opportunities. A couple of years ago, the subject came up once more. A friend of mine said she didn’t think the club required photographic proof any longer. Really?
I googled it. She was right! The welcome letter I received when I joined states, “There are no membership requirements. There are no rules. There are no records to keep, although many members document their travels…” The welcome packet included an outline map showing town boundaries, and an alphabetical list of the now actually 252 towns and cities (thanks to the split between Essex Junction and Essex Town). Poring over the map and digging into my imperfect memory banks, I determined that I had at one time or another set wheels, if not feet, in 201 of those burgs. Only 51 left! I could do this! A bucket list was born.
Motivated by meeting a new friend who completed her checklist in her 90’s – much of it during Covid! – I’ve been back on the road this year. A day trip to Isle La Motte and another to Vershire filled in the smallest spaces on my map. After that it got a bit more complicated.
A two-day loop with a friend around the southwestern counties netted me 14 more checkmarks and a spirit drunk with color – a hundred shades of green beginning to fade into the rusty spectrum of autumn, the vivid yellow of sunflowers and goldenrod by the acre, blue skies over all. Farms (yes, there are some left!), mountains large and small, trees, trees and more trees. We took the toll road to the top of Mt. Equinox, long a favorite spot of mine, with 360-degree views of New Hampshire, Massachusetts, New York and even Quebec on a clear day. We found our way into the town of Somerset, population 2 humans, 1 reservoir, and approximately a zillion trees. It’s wholly enclosed within the Green Mountain National Forest. I learned that the Forest Service maintains excellent driving conditions on its “FR’s” – forest roads. FR 71 is the magic access to Somerset.
Next came a jaunt to Halifax, on the Massachusetts line near Brattleboro, with a zigzag route returning north through Wilmington, Newfane, Townshend and others. I had my first and only “Omigod, what am I doing here?” moment on Harris Road, leading into the town of Baltimore. The dirt road dwindled to a single lane – minus any signage or other warning – with trees firmly rooted along both sides and no place to go if oncoming traffic appeared. Fortunately, none did. Once I knew for sure I had crossed the boundary into Baltimore, I found a gap in the tree line that allowed me to turn around and head back the way I came. A USPS van appeared behind me and followed me down the hill at a respectful distance. I wondered if the mail carrier has to drive that road every day. Not for the first time, I ruminated on the school bus drivers, EMT’s, delivery people, firefighters, State Troopers, and other folks we depend on to navigate our back roads. They are my heroes.
Somewhere along Route 106 (or was it 103?), I passed two farms only a few miles apart where brand-new barns were being built adjacent to ancient, falling-down barns. I wanted to know the stories behind those decisions. And for the umpteenth time, my mind wandered into speculating about the stories we all have to tell – every person, every town – so many histories. Who built that house way up on that hill, and why? Who decided to raise sheep here rather than cows? Why is that family keeping all those broken-down, nonfunctional cars in their yard? Where do folks work who live miles out in the “boonies?” Whose job is it to plow one-lane Harris Road? The questions are endless. My mind needs a leash.
If I had pondered less and paid attention more, I might have followed my own written directions to include West Windsor on that trip. Oops. Missed it. I would have to go back.
However, before I closed that loop, I had work to do in the Northeast Kingdom. With fewer than a dozen towns left on my list, I mapped out two day-trips, one solo and one with friends who had never been to Canaan. On our joint travel day, we made sure my companions did indeed reach the furthest northeast town in Vermont. We also located the access to Lewis (population either zero or 2 depending on your source), on a private road maintained by the Silvio O. Conte National Wildlife Refuge. Not as wide and inviting as FR 71 in Somerset, but it still beats walking.
On my solo day, I revisited Derby Line, where I’d been numerous times. This time I finally stopped to poke my nose into the famous Haskell Free Library and Opera House, a welcoming venue which straddles the Canada-U.S. border. Signs remind you to exit via the same door through which you entered, to avoid a border violation.
Then I worked my way south along Seymour Lake and Lake Willoughby, returning home via Routes 16 and 14. It felt entirely fitting that I should come back through Hardwick, where my Vermont odyssey started in 1968. On this October day, a lot of leaves had already fallen, but the remaining yellows and golds glowed bright in the sunshine, filling me with inner warmth to last through the coming winter.
So. Back to West Windsor, my personal finish line. A friend who is just beginning her 251 journey accompanied me when I retraced my steps. We had lunch in White River Junction and waved to the southbound Amtrak “Vermonter” as it passed through the depot there. Windsor – where I hadn’t been in decades – and West Windsor were well worth the extra miles down Route 5, across scenic Route 44, and home via Route 12 on another sunny October day. Yay, we did it!
I’ve avoided using the word “beautiful” in this story, though it was often on the tip of my tongue. Not every square inch of Vermont is beautiful, but you can’t go very far without some stunning bit of scenery catching your eye. A ridgeline of Green Mountains watching over an equally green valley. A rocky little river glittering in the sunshine. A particularly graceful tree reaching for the sky. A prototypical New England church spire rising up over a bend in the road. A meadow full of Holsteins.
I know I’ll never be a “real” Vermonter; I wasn’t born here. It does seem to me, though, that folks who’ve accomplished the 251 Club goal should at least be declared honorary Vermonters. Even though I don’t have 251 slides to show for it, I have a rich trove of memories. Every day I thank the universe for lifting me out of my city life and bringing me here. As our state song says, “These green hills and silver waters are my home.”
P.S. Lest any readers think I’m ignoring our neighbor to the north, let me reassure you. I wrote a separate piece about my love affair with Quebec, which the Trading Post kindly published in 2019. Though I chose to put down roots here in Vermont, my heart still resonates with the lands and people on both sides of the “longest undefended border in the world.” May it always be so.