“Tradition, tradition! Tradition!

Tradition, tradition! Tradition!” ~ Tevye, Fiddler on the Roof

After several millennia of civilized life, the world still lacks a good definition of “human.” The interwoven classes of subject matter commonly labeled “humanities” makes some attempt to help us better understand this word. Study of culture, literature, history, or the arts inevitably deepens our understanding of our own “humanity” and grants us an expanded perspective on both the idiosyncrasies and generalities of the human experience. Even amidst the rapidly proliferating collegiate programs aimed towards vocational and technical training, a rich exposure to the humanities remains a central goal of the liberal arts — an educational model of which Middlebury College functions as exemplar. Here we study not just what constitutes humanity but also what it means to be a human. This inquiry runs deep and takes far longer than four years to properly answer, but one facet of such a complex answer evinces itself relatively quickly in one’s time at Middlebury: tradition thrives here, and for good purpose.

Few experiences aptly mark the uniqueness of a Middlebury education like the hallowed hike up Snake Mountain. For some, the hike becomes as ubiquitous as writing a paper or reading a book. For others, the journey only occurs once in their four years here — a fleeting blip on their collegiate radar. For everyone, the trek leaves an indelible mark upon the soul.

The drive there from campus takes less of one’s life than the time necessary to watch a short television show, but the journey presents marvelous splendor unmeasurable in either metric or imperial systems, land touched by the hand of some divine force. You pass rolling hills and fertile farmland. As you travel, your context leaves you in the fiery calm mindset of a dedicated wayfarer. Then, all of a sudden yet exactly when it felt right, you find yourself there.

A small unpaved parking lot marks the point of entry from the bottom of the valley unto the trail. From here, you begin. In a moment’s time you find yourself transported from the semi-developed farmland of the Champlain Valley to a dense maple forest. You can’t help but notice a fundamental change in the ethos of the air that surrounds you. The trail pulses and overflows with life and splendor as your feet carry you higher and higher up the mountain, through the moments. Something about the journey upward, further and faster, unleashes primal sentiment from deep within the trenches of your soul. Your subconscious screams with joy, recognizing this place as timeless. Your fathers, and their fathers born many a year before them, traversed this mountain. Every moment crushes you with the weight of all the Earth’s gravity while concurrently releasing you as you feel your own lightness increase with each step. “Just a few steps further,” you lie to yourself. You push yourself forward like a tank on the battlefield, like the politician on election day, like the lioness inches away from the kill, like the cold and brutal winter on the verge of giving way to the sweetest spring, like the list that goes on far longer than it should have. You press on.

Then, you’re there. You stop and breathe it in. The sublime splendor of omnipresence. The world opens up before you. Lake Champlain might as well be the edge of the universe, and you’ve conquered it. Here we learn the precious lesson: you have to feel small to get the big picture.
Before you know it, it’s time to head down the mountain. You venture back to your car, back to your responsibilities, back to the vagaries of modern life. But, in a certain sense, the mountain never leaves you. That’s the whole point of tradition.

“Hey Boo Boo, let’s go get us a pic-a-nic basket.” ~ Yogi Bear

Summertime refreshes the soul and clears the mind. As daily peak temperatures grow steadily higher in parallel fashion to the ever-lengthening day, how can we help but find ourselves reinvigorated with a newfound sense of childlike wonder? One cannot deny the feeling of universality associated with such a time, the indications of the cycle that binds together all human beings. Paradoxically, each place still carries its special brand of wonder. Fireflies, sunsets stretching into infinity, and trees greener than the pure eyes of a newborn child mark this particular place and time: Vermont summer. Here the forcefulness of our surroundings  lets us feel Persephone fully settling into her mother’s home so very strongly. Every square inch bursts with energy and life; the very Earth we walk on seems to sizzle like your skin after a long day at your favorite lake. Baked and ready to serve; get ‘em while they’re hot!

And this beauty drags us outside, and our old sun bakes us crisp, and our crispness brings us begging– pleading– yearning for sweet liquid relief, a nice dip in the cool water. This yearning drew my peers and I to a fabulous watering hole, a place unrivaled (if not in beauty) in convenience, for a picnic. We set out after work for the Middlebury Lower Dam Park. On the way, we stop by Shaw’s, one of two fabulous supermarkets in Middlebury (not counting the Natural Foods Co-op). The rows and rows of manufactured, processed foods seem normal, even innocent, for now. It won’t be for another half hour or so — by the time we begin our picnic and drown ourselves in the beauty of the untamed —  that we might come to see their artificial nature for what it truly represents. Against all odds, we manage to mitigate the potential invasion of overly processed foods. A wise woman once said, “Opt for freshness, and everything will work out.” The woman would have been proud of our choices that day had she been there (but she lives in a shack deep in the forest). Combining our funds, we purchase strawberries, hummus, quinoa, watermelon, and chips. From here, we head down the street to the park — into another world.

A small yet nimble older woman welcomes us to this oasis and reminds us that alcohol or glass remain strictly prohibited. Assuring her such items have no use to us in our present circumstance, we ramble down a lovely path towards the designated picnic area. Here we stand isolated. Here we stand free. We hear nothing but the myriad sounds of summer — the birds, crickets, frogs, and streams — whirring around us in harmonious splendor. We feel everything, the heartbeats of our seven billion fellow Earthlings sharing this moment in some way. We breathe in the sound of cosmic unity.

Then, before it even really starts, it’s over. The sun begins to set and the relentless drone of things-to-be-done amplifies in the back of our minds from a quiet whisper to a roaring shout. In this way the picnic stands for summer. Both,  viewed properly, present fleeting moments of unmatched joy and life, energy and vigor. The moment is just beginning, but that doesn’t make its ultimate finality any less inevitable.

You blink. Another sunset glides into oblivion; another season rolls by. The water keeps on rolling.