On Joseph Smith, the Upper Valley, and Why I Came to Dartmouth

It is often too easy to forget why one came to this campus, annually transformed by the inexorable march of winter into a den of depression by early October. And yet, one weekend in the fall, I found myself without any buyer’s remorse, filled with only joy that I chose to come here, to this small, freezing campus in the middle of New Hampshire. For the Saturday after my bid night, I got to tour the birthplace of a prophet.

To anyone outside of our college, that previous sentence should sound outrageous. Even if you are a member of the Dartmouth community, you probably find it crazy too. But if there is anything that encapsulates being a student here, it is the fact that this school—not its administration, but its spirit—never forces us to compromise. At what other school in the country can one take graduate business courses three days a week and party even more frequently? Where else can one play a formerly intramural drinking game until 3am on a Monday night and find yourself just one in a crowd? Or, like I did, descend into a fraternity basement for an evening then visit a literal holy site just hours later.

The sublime hilarity of the circumstances surrounding the Saturday morning after my bid night resounded in my head as other Review members and I made our trek to the Joseph Smith Birthplace in Sharon, Vermont. It was our termly “UVAT,” or Upper Valley appreciation trip. Our day began with a ride to the beautiful town of Royalton, a veritable showroom for the Upper Valley and the home of Vermont Law School. There, I eased a spiritual hangover (as a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, AKA the “LDS” or “Mormon” church, I am a teetotaler) while munching on some of the best food the Green Mountains have to offer at Worthy Burger. I myself enjoyed a Fried Chicken Sandwich and devoured my beef tallow fries, and I know my fellow newspapermen (or is it newspaperm*n?) found their orders delectable as well.

However, the experience of eating hipster-grilled burgers was only an amuse-bouche for the fascinating time my friends and I were to have at our final destination. Around 1,500 people call Sharon home, and what a beautiful home it is. Nestled in a valley, it and its neighboring towns seem straight out of the Rockwell canon. The banks of the White River provide a scenic view framing the turn-off to the Birthplace, which lies at the top of a hill.

Once we parked and began to walk around the property, owned by the Church, we noticed faint sounds of choral music. Birthplace staff pipe recordings of the Tabernacle Choir at Temple Square (formerly known as the Mormon Tabernacle Choir) into the forests surrounding the clearing. Call it setting the mood.

If there is any word to describe the Birthplace, it is tranquil. The property features manicured grounds and several Church structures, including a small museum. It turned out that the museum offered tours that day, which we took gleeful advantage of. Our guides were a wonderful pair of nametag-wearing Sister Missionaries—the female equivalents to the clean-cut “Elders” featured throughout pop culture. 

As these missionaries guided my friends through an abridged history of the Smith Family, the Prophet, and the denomination which he built from a rag-tag group of believers, I could not help but appreciate these young women’s passion and faith. It is so rare today to meet people who know what they say to be as true as the ground under their feet or the wind hitting their face.

After our tour, the Review party took some complimentary copies of the Book of Mormon and saw more of the Birthplace. The crown jewel of the site is a granite obelisk commemorating 100 years after the birth of the Prophet. The memorial stands 50 feet tall, with each foot representing a year in Smith’s life. As we perused the obelisk’s base, however, storm clouds appeared. And the Review’s delegation to this holy site had to leave. We found the meaning of this omen unclear. I reminded my friends that the prophet Isaiah utilized rain to symbolize divine blessing, but one of my Catholic friends made the point that the Lord also deployed rain against the Noachite race to chasten them.

But enough about theology. What did I learn from our paper’s little excursion? 

One, the beauty of the Upper Valley is unparalleled. Dartmouth students are blessed beyond words to live among these forests and rivers, sheltered by white mountains. I have ignored my responsibility to take advantage of my surroundings since the beginning of my college years. I know I will not continue to make that mistake. 

Second, the Upper Valley has more history and culture than we students like to admit. We make casual jokes that our college lies in the “middle of nowhere.” But to sincerely believe so is an act of rank ignorance. This is ancient, primeval America—the type of place H.P. Lovecraft said “[m]en of strength and honour fashioned…good, valiant men of our blood who had come from the Blessed Isles across the sea.” So let us respect it as such.While at Dartmouth, we do indeed live in a bubble. And when need be, we can retreat into it. But at other times, we can and should use it as a stepping stone to explore the wealth, historical and spiritual, of this region. Some may deny it, but places have souls, same as men. Unlike any suburb in our country, this valley has a soul. I am beyond grateful that I will be able to experience it so often over my next years here, to visit strange and important places—like the birthplace of a prophet, my Prophet—even after a night of debauchery. And the more I ponder this opportunity that our school has given me, the more I realize…that’s why I came to Dartmouth.