The late humorist and story-teller Marshall Dodge once characterized Maine humor as wacky; New Hampshire’s as slightly acerbic, the result of living on rocky, acid soil; and Vermont’s as ironic and self-deprecating – the effect of living in narrow, confined valleys without any long views.
He thought this made Vermonters feel insignificant, but that it also increased their power of imagination: They knew what was going on in the next valley only by imagining, because it was such an arduous process to get there.
Perhaps that’s why there were so many inventors in rural Vermont: John Deere, Elisha Otis, Samuel Hopkins (possessor of Patent #1, signed by George Washington), Isaac Fischer, Thomas Davenport. Their valleys made them do it.
The state capital is in Montpelier because of a valley. The Winooski River, which bisects Montpelier, is a stream that was there before the uplift of the Green Mountains, some 500 million years ago. As the mountains rose, the stream’s erosive power increased, and it kept pace with the uplift. What’s left today is about the only way to travel easily across the grain of the Green Mountains: the logical place for a capital.
In Europe, medieval towns are perched on hilltops for defense; New World towns were built beside streams, for powering mills. Until steam superseded them, those water mills pumped the life blood of hundreds of northern villages.
Swift streams are by nature located in narrow valleys; they lie in the beds they’ve made for themselves. But narrow valleys have a limited capacity to transport heavy volumes of runoff. Before Irene, there was November 1927 – another event in which that principle was demonstrated dramatically.
A wet October left Vermont saturated. Beaver dams, reservoirs, and streams were banks-full. The hills were less forested than today, so their capacity to retard runoff was diminished. The last tropical storm of the season moved up the East Coast over Halloween. Blocked by the Green Mountains and high pressure to the north, the moisture in the storm condensed and dropped up to nine inches of rain overnight on the headwaters of the White and Winooski rivers.
Existing watercourses and culverts were overwhelmed within hours. Flood waters spread across fields, washed out bridges, and jumped out of riverbeds to cut new channels through the streets of streamside towns. Many homeowners’ first hint of trouble was the roar of their familiar streams, followed by the shifting of their houses. People, livestock, and chickens were swept away or drowned where they were confined. The little village of Gaysville, on the White River, was virtually obliterated.
We’re better warned nowadays of oncoming storms, but we’re still vulnerable to their power. The high-water mark in our Montpelier church was left by the flood of ’27. It’s seven feet above the floor - a potent reminder that a good imagination is a valuable thing to have – especially when the water begins to rise.
This is Willem Lange in Montpelier, and I gotta get back to work.
