The tenth of fifty fictional places to visit in Vermont you won’t find in any travel guide, because even the locals don’t know they don’t exist.

The Man Cave on Humpback Whale Street

Soon after I revealed the location of the Shelburne Tunnel in my previous “Get Lost” article, Ed—the gentleman who tipped me off—gave me a call. Of course, I didn’t answer since I didn’t recognize the number. But when I finally listened to his voicemail three weeks later, I was surprised. In the spirit of radical transparency, I’ve transcribed the entire message.

“Yo, Vermont Universe Guy. This is Ed. I sat next to you at the keto beer cheese tasting at the alpaca farm. You probably think I’m upset you wrote about the tunnel. I’m not. I didn’t realize I was sitting next to a journalist (Ed said ‘journalist’ sarcastically) or I would have told you about a house we’re working on right now. Still can. You’re gonna wanna write about it. Call back and we’ll talk.”

When I returned Ed’s call, he told me to meet him in Newport. He gave no details or explanation, just an address—82 Humpback Whale Street, a concession to a development rule requiring streets to be named after endangered animals.

The drive to Newport was slow, with twisting roads and icy intersections. When I arrived, I was disappointed to see that the house was a McMansion, with four different window styles on the front alone. How Vermont, the state that banned billboards, allows such ugly housing developments is a mystery. Work trucks and a minivan lined the driveway. We were a month past Christmas, but Santa was still chilling on the lawn, embedded in the compacted snow.

Ed greeted me as I got out of my car. “Here’s the deal,” he said. “You gotta pretend you’re one of my crew. That’s the only way I can get you in there.” He handed me a tool belt. “The family’s at home. We’re going to the sub-basement where the dad is. My guys are installing new air ducts.”

“Why is the dad in a sub-basement?” I asked as I quickly followed him. “What’s a sub-basement?”

“It’s the basement under the basement,” Ed said in his gravelly voice. “I built all the homes in this neighborhood, but this one’s special. It’s got a real man cave.”

Ed didn’t elaborate further. He guided me into the house, right past the normal-looking family: Mom and two kids playing Connect Four at the kitchen table. We went down into the fully finished basement and entered a laundry room, where there was an extra-wide spiral staircase.

Ed tiptoed down the iron staircase, but our work boots clanged loudly against the steps. He shushed me when I didn’t follow his lead. The sub-basement was darker, with classical chamber music piped through hidden speakers. A long carpeted hallway with wood-paneled walls stretched before us—an odd feature in a modern home.

Family photos lined the walls. The father, who wasn’t upstairs, appeared in the photos. In some, he was massively obese; in others, he was thin. In one Thanksgiving photo, he occupied an entire side of the table. He was dressed as the Kool-Aid Man for Halloween, but in an Easter egg hunt photo, he was as thin as a rail.

I followed Ed down the hallway. I could hear the slow beep of an EKG machine. At the end of the hall was a large window that looked into another room, reminiscent of a radio station’s fish tank-style setup. Outside the room, built into the wall, was a stack of electronic equipment you’d typically see in a hospital, including the EKG.

“Four beats a minute,” Ed whispered, pointing to the green, bouncing line.

I tried to see what was on the other side of the window, but it was too dark. The kids’ artwork was taped to the glass. “Four beats?” I asked.

“His heart beats four times a minute while he hibernates,” Ed explained, showing me a small monitor above the EKG. On the screen, filmed with a low-light camera, was a man sleeping in the fetal position in a massive bed. The man was a smaller version of himself. By some miracle, of all the humans on earth, the only one with the ability to hibernate did so in a Vermont McMansion.

I had so many questions, but Ed answered no more. He escorted me back to my car. As I drove home, I wondered why the man even hibernated. Bears do it due to a lack of food, but that wasn’t an issue for this dad. There was no reason to stay in bed for three months, then fatten up by eating donuts, ice cream, and hamburgers for the next nine so he could hibernate again. This man missed every Christmas, all those mornings getting the kids ready for school, and shoveling snow during brutally cold winters—just so he could snuggle in the warmth of his man cave. The sacrifice he made was truly heroic.

For the curious, you won’t find 82 Humpback Whale Street on any map anymore since that whale is off the endangered list. The street name has since been changed to 82 Borneo Pygmy Elephant Boulevard.

christopher

Christopher lives in Vermont with his wife, twin boys, border collie and corgi. He has owned a film production company, sold slot machines, and worked for Tony Robbins. He writes in his magical tiny house and sometimes writes in his blog at chrisrodgers.blog

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