The Views Above the Surface

I once heard William Sloane Coffin (then Senior Minister of New York's Riverside Church) get off a cheap, but incredibly clever shot at TV preacher and Moral Majority founder Jerry Falwell: "Deep down, he's shallow."

I thought of that line in a completely different and unrelated context yesterday. We had set off on a sweeping drive to explore at least a part of what Yankee Magazine had dubbed "New England's Most Scenic Drive" -- Vermont Route 100. Because we arrived in Vermont at the tail end of the foliage season, Innkeepers Dave and Jane recommended the southern portion of the route as having a higher likelihood of color. Setting off, then, about mid-morning, we headed west, picking up 100 near Ludlow and turning south. Passing through Weston and later Jamaica, we eventually came upon Mount Snow, one of the major snow skiing areas in the state. We escaped the highway for a while and explored the area -- a ghost town of sorts this time of year; the empty lodge, the frozen chair lifts. Back on the road, we headed as far down as Wilmington before cutting east toward Brattleboro.

I hardly feel qualified to argue with Yankee Magazine -- and who knows what Route 100 might have looked like a few weeks earlier -- but the second half of the trip was what made the excursion worthwhile, beginning with Brattleboro. Our hosts had described it as a "hippie" kind of town, and walking around the quaint village it did, indeed, offer its share of hemp clothing stores, quirky shops selling all manner of pipes, and artist enclaves. Time for lunch, we hunted down the recommended option: The Riverview Cafe, located on the banks of the Connecticut River. Warmer temperatures and a mostly sunny sky made it possible to eat outside, on the deck looking out over the water. It was breathtaking.

And it was then we noticed how low the bridge hung over the water, and how limiting that would be for any water-borne traffic. Looking more closely, then, we observed how shallow was the crystal clear water -- at least a third of the way across from our side of the river. It struck me as odd: this spectacular river, scenic in every way; broad and long, it looked at this point like an eastern version of the Mighty Mississippi, which is surely why our minds had drifted to barges navigating up and down the way. But the comparison, it turns out -- at least along this portion of the river -- is veneer; all appearance, all on the surface.

Or to say it that other way, "deep down, it's shallow."

I don't want to be too judgmental; we did, after all, see only a tiny portion of a long and significant river. And it was beautiful. Take none of that away from it. And maybe at its absolute center the river floor drops to the earth's core. But I'm guessing there is a reason why no one hesitated to span it with a low slung bridge.

And I couldn't help but think of the various people I have met through the years about whom the same things could be said. Wide. Long. Good reputation. Scenically beautiful and picturesque. And deceptively shallow.

Driving north out of town, we headed back toward the Inn, through Newfane where all the buildings are painted black and white, through Grafton where we walked in the woods and once again bought some award winning cheese, into Chester where we gratefully found a gas station, and soon thereafter, home.

Scenically richer, and in my own way deeper than when we had started out.