The whole idea of the vacation came about without my knowing. One evening, around midnight (because that’s when my dad books these things), a plan was set in motion to visit Vermont; specifically, a questionably named resort called Smuggler’s Notch.

Hearing the name “Smuggler’s Notch” doesn’t, and probably shouldn’t, ring a bell for most readers over 30 and under 18, but for those of us who grew up watching the bungee-corded Nickelodeon game shows of the mid-90s it sends adrenaline pumping through our nostalgic veins. On Legends of the Hidden Temple, the grand prize for answering all of Olmec’s listening comprehension questions, winning the best 2 out of 3 physical challenges, and escaping the Temple with the lost artifact, was an all-expenses-paid trip to Smuggler’s Notch Resort in the mountains overlooking Stowe, Vermont. I can still see it now, as the Harrison-Ford-wannabe host Kirk Fogg screamed at the children emerging victorious from the temple. All of that jumping around. The grabbing of shirts. The clutching of all that bright yellow safety gear. Everyone freaked out when they won a trip to Smuggler’s Notch (whether they knew what it was or not). It was a big sandwich prize far better than the B.K. Knights and Blow-Pops you got for second place.

Fast forward about fifteen years, and my family had made plans to visit that very prize locale (without having to endure the groping of any temple guards). It felt like we were cheating. Like I should at least have to answer a few trivia questions before being allowed to go. I guess that’s what a timeshare and money can get you: a free pass on obstacle course humiliation.

We flew into Boston and then drove three hours to Stowe only to discover the mountainside practically abandoned. Smuggs (that’s locale-speak for Smuggler’s Notch), was also lifeless. Turns out we were here a week before their official Spring/Summer season started. The resort was nearly empty and all of the restaurants and services were running on limited hours or closed altogether. I suddenly felt like Jack Nicholson in The Shining, sent to this secluded mountain hotel as a caretaker. Would I go crazy? Could I possibly have a chance to get some writing done? Did my brother pack his Big Wheel?

None of us went crazy. Instead, we spent much of our time off of the Notch, down in the hamlets nestled in the nearby valleys. I ate a lot of breakfast food coated with various kinds of maple syrup. I tried a bunch of cheese, cider, and ice cream. I waded through shop after shop of country kitsch. If you like bumper stickers about skiing, organic junk, and life being “good,” Vermont is the place to be. And if you have a forest green Suburu Outback, then you will fit right in.

Outside Magic Hat Brewery

The trip wasn’t all craft shops and cheese trays, of course. I did find time to explore local establishments like the Magic Hat Brewery, Ben & Jerry’s, the world’s tallest filing cabinet, the Burlington Jazz Festival, and the neighboring city of Montreal. The final days of the trip were spent on Smugg campus, watching the NHL playoffs and enjoying the splendors of Canadian television (you’ve got to watch the ’80s Canuck drama The Littlest Hobo). I had hoped that maybe we would come across a Temple champion; a rogue member of the Silver Snakes or Purple Parrots just arriving now, some fifteen years later, to claim the ultimate prize. I found no such champion.

Our family vacations have, over the years, either occurred in ultra-touristy landscapes like Orlando or Williamsburg, or big-time cities like Chicago or New York. Regardless of the locale, events usually play out the same: we run around from event to food to event at a breakneck pace until we collectively peter out from exhaustion. Our vacations occasionally feel like we’re contestants on The Amazing Race, except there is no finish line or prize.

Perhaps that’s the trade-off this time: while none of us had to learn about Magellan’s missing telescope, or roll foam boulders up an incline, we were all involved in a race of our own. A race to get in as many things as we could. A race to find activities during the off season. A race to drink the 12-pack of Labatt’s that my brother and I bought at the beginning of the week. I wonder if those Legends champions had similar experiences up here in the mountains. Did they come here with their families? Or were all of the winners bussed up here at one time, forced to mingle and trade tales of evading temple guards and Kirk Fogg’s awkward attempts at a high five? I will never know, no matter how hard I tried to walk in their B.K. Knighted footsteps.