I'm sitting at a bend in the Rock River in Southern Vermont. The river is only about 30 feet wide here, but just deep enough to create an ideal swimming hole with its own little sandy beach. The water is so clear here you can see the bottom through six feet of water. A giant rectangular wedge of granite the size of a large house straddles the river. One piece is on one side, and another smaller piece is on the other side of the river. The two boulders are 50 feet apart, but it is clear that they are two parts of what was once a single gigantic piece of stone. The two open ends obviously would fit like interlocking puzzle pieces if you could push them together.
There are thousands of rocks around here covering the bed of the river named for them. Round boulders of various sizes and shades of beige are strewn across the landscape covering the riverbed, but there is nothing else resembling the broken black granite wedge anywhere in sight. It seems out of place, like the dark monolith in the movie "2001: A Space Odyssey." Its presence raises questions. What formed this giant hunk of granite? And what enormous forced could have broken it into two gigantic pieces spread 50 feet apart? What kind of force could do that? And what was it?
The serenity of the present landscape overlays evidence of tumultuous events in times past.
In many of the beautiful and fascinating places I have traveled I have been accompanied by a tour guide who has a deep knowledge of the place. Usually these tour guides are naturalists, trained in some branch of natural science, and familiar with other sciences insofar as they relate to that specific environment. I can imagine what such a tour guide might say in terms of possible deductions about what kinds of volcanic upheaval might have left such a giant hunk of granite shattered into two pieces on either side of the river.
But there are no tour guides here. There is no market to sustain the profession here. It's a place without a name. Or perhaps it does have a name, but if it does, there is no one to tell me what it is, no sign to identify it. It's not identified on the map. It's not a tourist attraction. It does not appear in brochures and travel guides. There is no crowd of tourists staring at this river as it flows down from the Green Mountains, joins the West River and eventually flows into the Connecticut River. Only me.
Down below at the point where the Rock River flows into the West River there is a swimming hole that is so popular it attracts people from all over. There's a large parking area along Highway 30 to accommodate the visitors, whose license plates reveal their diverse origins. But up here, a mile or so upriver, there is no one in sight.
The trees stand tall, proud and silent, except for the soft swishing sound created by the breeze that causes the treetops to sway gently. The sky is perfectly clear and deep blue. It is late spring when the melting snow from the mountains fills the river with clear, rushing water. The vegetation is lush and rich from generous rainfall. At this northern latitude the swings from the deep cold of winter to the long days of summer are wide. The change from summer to winter is drastic, so spring is a time when the life forms that are dormant or missing in winter come roaring back with the force of an avalanche. It's exhilarating to experience it.
You can still see the raw, naked earth where the river bank was gouged out by the river during the storm called Irene a few years ago. The hurricane was so severe and the floods so gigantic and furious they took large chunks of the bank with them and changed the shape of the river.
That storm left this part of the world a different place when it was gone. People who lived along the river lost property to the river. Some of the historic wooden bridges were washed away. Some of the houses near the river were reduced to piles of sticks. It was a demonstration of the kinds of gigantic and lethal forces nature can churn up when it is of a mind to.
But today it is all peace and serenity. All of nature seems to be in harmony, even though under the surface calm there are plenty of animals serving as meals for other animals as the strife of nature continues full force in all its myriad dramas and subplots.
Perhaps this place is not really spectacular enough to be a tourist attraction. It's too understated, too ordinary. There is no center of attraction, no staggering mountain peak, or ancient city ruins to draw people from afar to gaze spellbound.
And yet if you pay close attention, if you really look and listen, it is all here. All of nature is here. And though there may be no lions or elephants, nature here is as spectacular as it is in the savannahs of Africa.
And one thing I won't have to worry about as I sit here today is being bombarded by a crowd of tourists. No one knows about this place, apparently. This is a place without a name. And I am grateful that there are still so many unknown places in the world. Today this place feels like it was made specially for me.
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