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The cold stung my nose as soon as I stepped out of the house and into the night. Leaves crunched underfoot as my eyes adjusted to the blackness. I looked up at the stars.
I couldn’t tilt my head back far enough to see them all twinkling above. I was used to seeing few enough to count on one hand, but now my eyes were full of thousands and thousands, spread across the sky like diamonds on black velvet. The faint outline of the Milky Way shined above.
I had arrived at Cloud House, a Coperthwaite-style yurt built by its hosts, earlier that day, bringing with me loungewear from home and groceries from the drive. I came to spend the long weekend in the small town of Woodbury, population 928, in rural north central Vermont.
Autumn seems to sneak up on me every year, and I usually miss the window for booking the picturesque fall trip I had envisioned. But this past June, after two pandemic years holed up in my tiny Upper East Side apartment, I found Cloud House on Airbnb, deliberately avoiding Burlington and the state’s other heavily populated areas, and booked my trip for late October.
I was in search of solitude—true solitude—time uninterrupted by temptations of last-minute drinks invites and the softness of my own couch.
And that’s exactly what I got.
After a six-hour trip up from New York City, passing leaves that faded from vibrant candy colors to earthy purples and rich browns as I drove north, I walked under cozy wooden beams and through late afternoon sunlight streaming through curtainless windows.
The well-stocked kitchen didn't seem like much at first glance, but I would come to appreciate it after spending the weekend making low-key dinners with the cast-iron skillets and copper-bottomed pots; using the oils and condiments neatly lining the pantry shelves; and brewing delicious coffee with the French press.
I kept the provided old-school radio tuned to 101.7 WCVT, a local oldies station that played songs reminiscent of drives in my dad’s truck as a kid, while I cooked and amused myself with books, crossword puzzles, and solo Yahtzee.
The bed was hidden behind the half-wall where the dining table and its charmingly mismatched chairs sat. The fluffy duvet on the full bed invites you immediately to sprawl on it, which of course, I did.
Above the bed was a bookshelf with an impressive scope of titles, filled with fiction both familiar (The Time Traveler’s Wife) and obscure (Train Dreams), DIY how-to books (Build It Better Yourself, The Solar House), and various guidebooks to the state and its teeming system of trails and nature preserves.
I spent one afternoon at Barr Hill Natural Area in Greensboro, hiking along the self-guided trail loop with dizzying views of the southern Green Mountains. I’d missed peak Vermont foliage, but the deep reds and browns inspired their own beauty, especially against the cornflower blue sky—and because the leaf-chasing crowd was now sitting home in New York and Boston, I got it all to myself.
Nearby Hardwick—home of Front Seat Coffee, which makes an excellent Americano—has a few “backyard” trails tucked away, where I found myself delighted by a small brook and colorful lending library.
Back in Woodbury, I wandered the land outside the yurt, taking in what color remained on the trees, as well as the hosts’ in-progress DIY projects—a vintage Airstream parked nearby, an old tool shed, and the foundation for a new yurt.
Would their new house have the same simplicity? Would tchotchkes—postcards, carved spoons, a framed butterfly—line its window ledges? Would the bathroom be lined with the same emerald tiles?
I hope so. I would book another weekend there in a heartbeat.
