In northern Vermont, seventy-year-old carpenter Bill Haskins spends his mornings in a small shed behind his house, cutting and sanding reclaimed pine. Each month, he loads a finished bench into his pickup and drives it to a trailhead somewhere in the county.
He installs them quietly. No plaques. No announcements. No signs identifying who built them or why they’re there. Just a clear view of the trees or the stream below. Just a place to rest that wasn’t there before.
Hikers started calling them “Bill’s benches,” though most have never met him. They just recognize the craftsmanship, the consistent design, the fact that these well-built benches keep appearing on trails throughout the county. Someone is doing this. Someone cares enough to build furniture and install it anonymously for strangers to use.
When asked why he does it, Bill shrugs. His answer is characteristically understated: “Figured people could use a place to rest.”
That’s it. No philosophy about community service. No lengthy explanation about why he spends his retirement building benches. Just the simple recognition that hikers get tired, that trails need rest stops, that he has the skills to build them and the time to install them.
So he does.
The photo shows Bill sitting on one of his benches in the woods. Wearing work clothes and a hat. Looking comfortable. The bench is solid, practical, well-constructed—the kind of furniture that will last for years because it was built by someone who knows what they’re doing.
Behind him, autumn leaves cover the ground. The setting is peaceful, isolated, the kind of trail location where a bench makes the difference between resting comfortably and sitting on the ground or a rock.
Bill’s benches aren’t fancy. They’re not artistic statements or elaborate constructions. They’re functional furniture built by a carpenter who understands that sometimes the most valuable thing you can offer is something practical that makes other people’s lives slightly easier.
Each month, he completes another bench. Cuts the reclaimed pine. Sands it smooth. Assembles the pieces. Tests it to make sure it’s sturdy. Then loads it into his pickup and drives somewhere in the county looking for a trail that could use a rest stop.
He doesn’t coordinate with trail organizations. Doesn’t get permits or approvals. Just finds locations where a bench would be useful and installs it. Quietly. Without announcing who built it or expecting recognition.
Hikers discover them and share the locations. “There’s a great bench with a view at mile marker three.” “Someone installed a bench near the stream crossing.” “Bill’s benches are the best—always in the perfect spot.”
Most of these hikers have never met Bill. Don’t know his story. Don’t know that he’s a seventy-year-old carpenter who spends his retirement building furniture for strangers. They just know that someone is making their hiking experiences better by providing places to rest with good views.
That’s enough for Bill. He doesn’t need personal recognition. Doesn’t need hikers to know his name or thank him directly. He just needs to know that people are using the benches, that they’re serving their purpose, that hikers have places to rest that wouldn’t exist without his work.
Reclaimed pine is wood that’s been salvaged from old buildings or structures. It’s environmentally friendly—reusing materials instead of cutting new lumber. It’s also often higher quality than new wood—old-growth pine that’s been seasoning for decades, that’s more stable and durable than fresh lumber.
Bill chooses his materials carefully. Builds each bench to last. Doesn’t cut corners or use inferior construction methods. Because if he’s going to spend his time building furniture, he’s going to build it right.
Each bench probably takes days to complete. Cutting the pieces precisely. Sanding everything smooth so hikers won’t get splinters. Assembling it with proper joinery and hardware. Finishing it to withstand weather. Testing it to ensure it’s safe and stable.
Then comes the installation. Loading the bench into his pickup. Driving to a trailhead. Sometimes hiking a distance to find the right location. Digging holes if necessary. Securing the bench so it won’t shift or tip. Making sure it’s positioned for the best view.
All of this work, done anonymously, for people Bill will never meet.
That’s not just generosity. That’s craftsmanship combined with humility. That’s someone who finds meaning in creating useful things and sharing them without needing personal recognition.
“Figured people could use a place to rest.”
That simple statement reveals Bill’s entire philosophy. He’s not trying to make a statement or build a legacy or get famous for his trail benches. He’s just recognizing a need—hikers need rest stops—and filling it using the skills he has.
He’s a carpenter. He can build benches. Trails need benches. So he builds them and installs them. The logic is straightforward, practical, focused on function rather than recognition.
The hikers who use Bill’s benches probably don’t think much about where they came from. They’re just grateful to have a place to sit, to rest their legs, to enjoy a view without having to sit on the ground or a uncomfortable rock.
But someone built that bench. Someone spent days in a shed behind their house cutting and sanding reclaimed pine. Someone loaded it into a pickup truck and drove to that specific trail and hiked it to that specific location and installed it securely so it would be there when tired hikers needed it.
That someone is Bill Haskins. Seventy years old. Still working with his hands. Still building things. Still contributing to his community in the most practical way he knows how.
One bench at a time. One trail at a time. One rest stop at a time.
No plaques. No announcements. No expectation of recognition.
Just clear views. Just places to rest. Just the quiet satisfaction of building something useful and sharing it with strangers who need it.
“Figured people could use a place to rest.”
They do. And because of Bill, they have them. All over Vermont. On trails throughout the county. Anonymous benches built by a seventy-year-old carpenter who just wanted to help.