Vermont Scavenger Hunt
Vermont may be small in size, but it’s mighty in memory. Cradled between lakes and ledges, this independent-minded state has long danced to its own rhythm—first as a frontier republic, then as a quiet forge of reform, innovation, and endurance. This is the land where covered bridges outnumber fast-food signs, where granite yields both gravestones and grandeur, and where past and present are stitched together with the strong thread of preservation.
The stories here are carved not only into stone but into forest paths, roadside barns, and the quiet dignity of village greens. They are tales of land-grant visionaries and presidential inheritances, of artists, artisans, and improbable empires of celery tonic and smoking stands. In Vermont, even the round barns are squarely rooted in history, and the smallest towns shelter the largest ideas.
So lace your boots, open your eyes, and let this land reveal itself slowly. Because in Vermont, the details don’t shout—they whisper.
The photos and stories collected here are a fast and fun way to learn the explanations behind the quirks, the traditions and the secrets that make Vermont uniquely Vermont. Where did the Civil War come to Vermont?? Solved. Where was the first practical ski tow in the United States? A mystery no more. Where is the oldest professionally managed forest in America? Identified. What Vermont golf course hosted a United States Amateur Championship? Revealed. Why were the doors built so low on the Taft Lodge” No one knows.
Where birches bent and mowers sighed, A poet wrote and taught beside. In Ripton’s shade he plied his pen, And walked the woods again, again. A farm, a path, a poet’s name— Four Pulitzers in country frame.
One little horse, so strong and neat, Could race and pull and still stay sweet. From Morgan’s farm this breed began— A Yankee steed, not built for glam. Today in Weybridge, proud and sure, Their gentle strength will still endure.
A chapel raised for dogs who’ve gone, With pews and glass where pups live on. The sign says “No dogmas” near the trail, Where joy and fur still wag the tail. In art and bark, this mountain shrine Lets every grieving heart align.
With arches bold and books in tow, This Romanesque began to grow. Though Billings balked at first glance seen, He learned it came from Woburn’s dean. Now readers roam through Richardson’s keep— A fortress where no tales sleep.
From gas to cream, the scoop got sweet, With chunks and puns in every treat. Cows mooed and spoons flew left and right, As tourists swarmed for every bite. Flavors fade but fans stay true— Long live the pint of Phish Food goo.
Here granite speaks with quiet grace, A sculptor’s touch in every place. From local stone and hands once bold, The finest tributes now unfold. In Barre’s hills, where quarriers slept, The tombs are artfully well-kept.