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By MICKI COLBECK

Almost three decades ago my kids and I came to Vermont in search of a better life. My son had come earlier in his old Datsun pickup after college let out, but I needed to pack up our house and finish up what would be my last year of teaching public school art in Missouri. My 11-year-old daughter and I, along with Molly, our black and brown husky; our orange cat Fuzzman; our gerbil Ralph; my Martin guitar, and our tent and camping gear filled our Saturn wagon. Saying goodbye to the old limestone hills along the meandering Mississippi, we headed northeast to Vermont. Deep and forested green mountains lifted high through tectonic orogenies, seemed like the cover of a camping catalogue.

By MICKI COLBECK

Jan. 20, 2025: My sleepy eyes open slowly to look out the frosty window. The view is toward Kibling Hill at 1,950 feet of elevation, and the first thing I see every morning.

By MICKI COLBECK

I have been living in the same small town in Vermont for 27 years. It feels like this is where I was meant to be. I am wondering what does it take to love a place? The first time I came to Vermont, it was winter. A foot of fresh snow had fallen on top...

By MICKI COLBECK

The air felt chilly — jacket weather, with the November sun breaking through just enough to show off the green mosses and wood ferns along the path. A couple chickadees, a nuthatch and a downy woodpecker worked the trees above looking for food. A...

By MICKI COLBECK

The equinox has come— 12 hours of day and 12 of night— as if Vermont were in the tropics. The little brown dogs (LBDs) and I sit on the old velvet couch, which in an earlier life, was red, but has since faded to mauve, and is slouching towards the...

By MICKI COLBECK

Years ago, I lived in southern Missouri, on the ancient, weathered-down, pink granite hills of the St. Francois Mountains. In my extended family were some serious campers and fly fishermen, with well-prepared gear and routines. Southern Missouri is...

By MICKI COLBECK

Why are the orchids here? I park my car along the Class 4 road by a kiosk on Hemenway Road and walk up the trail into our Strafford Town Forest, which had been donated in the 1960s by a local doctor. I feel comforted by the presence of tall old trees...

By MICKI COLBECK

Early on, I noticed that my legs were sturdy like my brother’s — Irish legs, short and strong, close to the ground, better perhaps for digging potatoes and clearing rocks, as my grandparents may have done. While my teenage friends seemed to dance...

By MICKI COLBECK

The two little brown dogs and I crossed over our river, the West Branch of the Ompompanoosuc, a couple of weeks ago for a hike up into the rich woods nearby. We headed uphill to the fir swamp where my favorite liverwort— handsome woolywort grows. How...

By MICKI COLBECK

The dogs and I walk out along the West Branch of the Ompompanoosuc every morning through hayfields and riparian forests. A few days ago, I felt like yelling, “Wake up, wake up,” at every living thing. It looked like the snow might really be gone....

By MICKI COLBECK

The people in the Ompompanoosuc valley used to love their river — good fresh water for gardens and drinking, and a beautiful thing to look upon, but then she changed. She became faster and stronger and destroyed the things people built, who then...

By MICKI COLBECK

It is Imbolc, the time for lambing, seed catalogues, and garden sketches. Groundhogs and bears are stirring. The sun lingers on the western hills, listing just a bit more to the north each afternoon. We are at the halfway point between the longest...