Prior to Covid, we had a very active trail running group, aka “Tuesday Night on the TAM” which met almost every week for an early evening run on the Trail Around Middlebury, as well as other adventurous trail runs on the weekends. Then Covid, combined with several stalwart members moving away, and yeah, my injuries, catalyzed the gradual disappearance of this group as a regular get-together. Fortunately, my fellow “aging but agile” friends, some of whom are also dealing with their own physical challenges, as well as not getting any younger, have been getting together with me on walks of increasing distance and challenge this summer! Hence, the title of this post, as six of us got together for a walk up Robert Frost Rd, (Forest service 396) to the Homer Willard Farm, Robert Frost Cabin, and continuing further on one of the Rikert trails a little bit deeper into the forest.

We started our walk at the Robert Frost picnic area on Rt 125, between the village of Ripton and Breadloaf, walking up the dirt road. We could have driven this half-mile long road, but I wanted to test my legs on the gentle climb, and nobody seemed to complain! As we reached the top of the road, we came to the Homer Noble farmhouse, which was built in the early 1800’s, and is on the National Register of Historic Places. Clothes and towels hanging on the clothesline showed that someone, probably a lucky faculty member from the nearby Breadloaf School of English, was living there during the summer. Properties like this just don’t show up on Air BnB.

Walking up behind the farmhouse, we came to the reason for this idyllic spot’s significance, the Robert Frost Cabin, where the famed poet spent his summers from 1939 until his death in 1963.

While tours of the cabin are only open to scholars and faculty, and I am guessing that they don’t mean merely curious retired chemistry faculty, we were only able to peer into the windows, and see an easy chair parked in front of a fireplace, making a near-perfect literary scene. Well, except for the lack of books in the room.

I’ve always wondered what Frost’s relationship to Homer Noble might have been. I had formed a mental picture of a kindly old farmer who invited the famous poet to home cooked meals, but looking for background on the farm and its owner, I came across a cool document (thank you Google) which described the property’s inclusion in the National Register, created in 1978, typewriter-generated, typos, and all! Frost doesn’t seem to have lived here the same time of the Nobles, purchasing the farm in 1940, and allowing his personal assistant and her husband to live in the farmhouse. While he cooked many of his own meals in the cabin, there was a string from the farmhouse to the cabin, with a bell on the cabin side, to call Frost to dinner when he did dine in the farmhouse. One final tidbit on Frost which I found amusing… despite his long association with New England, he was actually a snowbird in his later years, wintering in Florida! I feel betrayed.

From here “The Band” continued up the wide trail behind the farm (which serves as a ski trail for the Rikert Ski Touring Center during winter months) first passing through a Red Pine forest which had the feel of a planted forest until the pine trees subsided leading to a more typical mixed forest. The conversation was good, and even the gimpy among us felt pretty good so we kept going until we got to two trails diverging in a not quite yellow wood. Much to my chagrin, I recently learned that the famous Frost poem that I am alluding to, “The Road Not Taken” has been misinterpreted by countless readers (myself included) as an ode to individuality, but in reality was a jab at one of Frost’s friends who was prone to indecisiveness, because ultimately the path chosen didn’t make any difference!

Due to my past runs and ski forays into this part of the forest, I knew these two paths very well. The right path, indicated by the sign as leading to “The Blue Bed House“, once indeed led to an old house, that before my time apparently housed a blue bed, but is now completely collapsed. The left fork, labeled more generically as “Old Farm Road”, eventually ends where it meets up with Wagon Wheel Rd, a dead end road out of Ripton. The terminus of the Wagon Wheel Rd. was the location of a tavern of rough repute (long before my time!) known as… “The Wagon Wheel“. I set my own directional quandry aside for the time being, deciding that it was a good time to choose neither road, and retrace our steps, as my legs were starting to tire, even with the assistance of hiking poles.

Good conversation continued with The Band as we headed back to our cars waiting at the bottom of the hill in the parking lot, and the most generous of the Garmin watches among us (none of them mine) measured the walk as 2.9 miles, the farthest I have walked in years without my walker. Thanks to my friends for joining me on my journey of recovery! We may be getting older, but at least we’re getting _______ (insert your favorite descriptor).