Who Knew?

Creaky of knees after the four-hour drive to Vermont, I eased my legs out of the car and stepped onto the marble sidewalk. Wait… What? Marble? Yes. Dorset offered surprises literally from the moment we set foot. 

When traveling, Dave and I seek accommodations with a historic feel, with a sense of place. Established in 1796, The Dorset Inn was exactly what we hoped for. The entrance and mantels were festooned with pumpkins, gourds, and cornstalks - the oranges, russets, and reds of October - and a cozy blaze in the living room fireplace welcomed us. We checked in, located our room, unpacked our bags, and set out to explore the town.

The sun was still warm, and the scents of earth and smoke enveloped us. We shuffled along through leaves crisped and colorful and marveled at the marble beneath our feet. Each slab was different, some smooth and white, others veined with swirls of blue-gray and green. How was it that Michelangelo’s favored medium was so common here as to be used for this mundane but friendly purpose of connecting neighbors? 

Well. On our way to the inn, we had passed signs for the “Historic Marble Trail” and planned to hike there. Several days after our arrival, we sought information at the Dorset Historical Society. It turned out that Dorset had been a major marble source providing material for the Jefferson Memorial, the U.S. Supreme Court building, and the New York Public Library among others. Who knew? The docent gave us a map and directions to the trail and mentioned that we might also enjoy a hike – “not too challenging” – through the woods and up the mountain to the sites of several defunct quarries. One, the Gettysburg Quarry, was so named having provided the marble for many of the headstones for those who fell in that Civil War battle.

It was a lovely day, open for whatever called to us, and warm enough for jeans and a light sweatshirt. We drove to what we hoped was the small parking area the docent had indicated and set off.

Recently, our granddaughter Eleanor has begun collecting stones, so we kept an eye out for pieces of quartz, shards of mica, and chunks of marble as we walked, enjoying the scatter of bright leaves and the sense of adventure. As the trail angled ever upward, and our handfuls of Eleanor-might-like-these rocks grew heavier, we wondered if we were on the right trail and just how far up our destination might be. I doffed my sweatshirt and tied it around my waist and wondered, as I often do on hikes, why I’d not thought to bring water. 

The incline increased. That docent was young; her sense of “not so challenging” clearly differed from ours. More than once we said, “We’ll go up to that tree, and if we don’t spot the quarry, we’ll head back.” And yet, we pressed on.

I was ahead of Dave and had just indicated the most recent target for our turn-back moment when the ground leveled out… and a white-gray monolith rose before me.  Oh wow. Dangling on a rope from its summit, a young man named Joe sought toeholds as his friend up top encouraged him. 

That will never be my sport. 

A pool of dark water encircled the base of the cliff, ripples from every tiny stone dislodged by young Joe’s searching toe reflected in shimmers on the marble face. Thick, metal cords, rusty and twisted, remnants of former industry, twined about massive cast-off slabs. Where now was mostly silence, there once rang the shouts of men and the clang of chisels against stone. 

We had come to Dorset seeking fall foliage, fun evenings in an 18^th century tavern, and open days. The quarry was more than we could have imagined, and yet… there was still more.