Lake Champlain

Day 1: Burlington To North Hero

I like to think I know Vermont pretty well. My parents have lived there for nearly 15 years, and my husband and I spend each winter crisscrossing the state looking for the best snow and the shortest lift lines. Lake Champlain, however, is a total mystery to me. I've heard that the Champlain Islands--Grand Isle, North Hero, and Isle La Motte--are still relatively undiscovered by leaf-peeping flatlanders. No wonder: I always thought they were part of Canada. I set off with my copilot Moira, a photographer, to find out what they're all about.

Bikers on a break at Alburg Dunes (Moira Haney) [enlarge photo] SEPTEMBER 2006 ISSUE • Table of Contents: September 2006 • Australia: The Great Ocean Walk • Germany Castles • Road Trip: Lake Champlain • Trip Coach: Jamaica • 40 Best Vacations

It's September, so we're prepared for traffic, but the only slowdown on Route 2, the main artery connecting the islands, comes when we're caught behind a tractor. Although we see splotches of gold here and there in the trees, the weather feels more like summer than fall. And that's what we were hoping for: Our plan was to come just a little early to avoid the prices and crowds of peak season.

The village of North Hero isn't much more than a handful of buildings along Route 2. The 1824 county courthouse in particular stands out. Its gilded belfry glints in the sun, and its walls are made of odd reddish-beige stones, sourced from a quarry on nearby Isle La Motte. In small-town Vermont, it's not uncommon for a building to serve more than one purpose, and Hero's Welcome, sure enough, functions as a general store, gift shop, café, and bakery--and the post office is attached. Ignoring the displays of Vermont-made products (maple syrup, pancake mix, salsa, etc.), Moira and I make a beeline for jars of Swedish Fish, Tootsie Rolls, and jawbreakers. We also choose from a list of sandwiches that hangs above the counter. My heart is set on a Trackeur (hickory-smoked ham, Vermont cheddar, tomato, and honey-mustard) and Moira, who doesn't eat meat, orders the Vegetarian Princess (sprouts, cheddar, and hummus). I have to hold back from teasing her.

A mile south of town we discover Four Winds Studio, home of artist Gail McMindes. Gail uses her garage as a showroom for her life-size sculptures of polar bears and ravens. She chisels the ravens out of jet-black limestone found on Isle La Motte. Gail tells us that the variety she uses is known as Radio Black, the same seen on the facade of New York City's Radio City Music Hall. The bears are lovely, and I like running my hands over their cool, smooth backs. I must have that I'm-about-to-pull-out-a-credit-card look in my eye because Moira points out that a) I can't afford a bear--they're priced in the thousands, and b) one won't fit in the trunk of our rental car. I settle for two whimsical pixie ornaments that Gail creates with wire and bits of fabric.

We plan to spend the night at Shore Acres, a low-slung inn with 23 rooms, 19 of which are lakefront. There are tennis courts, a nine-hole golf course, and even a croquet set, but I have my eyes on one of the dozen white Adirondack chairs on the lawn. While Moira takes pictures, I plonk down with my book; next to me, a couple is quietly reading and sharing a bottle of wine, their dog at their feet. I learn they're from Massachusetts and they've been holed up at Shore Acres for a week, barely leaving the property. Looking east across the lake, I can see the jagged peaks of the Green Mountains in the distance. Boats sail past, birds dive for fish, and clouds create interesting shadows on the glassy water.

North Hero House is an inn and restaurant that often serves as a base for trips run by Bike Vermont and VBT Bicycling Vacations. When we arrive for dinner, the place is positively hopping. A local musician strums "Tiny Dancer" on his guitar in the bar area while a dozen farmer-tanned bikers sing along. As I savor pan-roasted chicken breast served in a rich pancetta-and-sage sauce, I overhear a group of 50-somethings crowing about the many miles they've ridden. Only then do I begin to feel pangs of guilt about my sedentary afternoon.

Lodging

Food