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I enjoy a good walk. A long walk is best. I used to take ones that covered many miles and lasted for days. Now I like day hikes more; walks that generally range from two to 20 miles. Most are around 10 miles. In 2008 I walked 35 miles through Yellowstone National Park in a single day and into the night. In 1974 I walked for six days from my log cabin in Branford to Ragged Mountain in New Britain, Connecticut. Later that year I walked for seven days from Mount Monadnock in Jaffrey, New Hampshire to Shutesbury, Massachusetts along the blue-blazed Metacomet trail.
Today I drove to Hammonasset State Park in Madison, Connecticut for a short walk along the beach. The air was warm and the sun shone brightly. It was a fine mid-October day. Temperature highs were in the 70's Fahrenheit. I started at the east end of the beach and walked along the wet, packed sand shore. The tide was out and provided me with a six-foot wide swath of firm sand to leave my footprints in. More than a few people shared the expansive beach with me. I passed one elderly couple that were sitting in canvas beach chairs, bundled against the cool breeze and reading the New York Times. Further on a mother and daughter were collecting sea glass. I found a large group of High School students that were occupied with tape measures, buckets, and related equipment. Many folks were simply enjoying the weekday and out for a pleasant walk. It was Covid time and few people were working.
Solitude is scarce in Connecticut and I did not anticipate finding any at the park. Even in the dead of winter, many hardy people walk the beaches and boardwalks at Hammonasset State Park. The tiny state of Connecticut is packed with at least 3,605,944 people and it is difficult to get away from all of them. Walking in the park today was like strolling down a city street. Crowds of people wandered to and fro, ebbing and flowing like the ocean tide. Most were friendly and many I chatted with. The walk was relaxing, a social occasion, and filled with lovely scenery. Educational placards told of glacial moraines, human history, and wildlife. A small museum played a film that showcased the park's natural history. Birds, rocks, and shells were on display in the museum and made for an interesting visit. Kayakers paddled on the great brackish water lake known as Long Island Sound. The air was still and the water calm.
In classic Connecticut fashion the state purchased private and commercial land during the economic depression of the 1930s. They created a 450-acre park on what is now, prime real estate worth hundreds of millions of dollars. The park does not pay property tax so all town landowners must subsidize that loss in revenue via higher property taxes. Perhaps that is why parking fees are discriminatory; out of state vehicle owners must pay more. Some funds are also gathered for camping and entrance fees. But wealth is not generated at the park such as is common on private property. This is a taxpayer-subsidized place for play, socializing, and entertainment. A place for families. A place to make memories and enjoy leisure time. Could it also be a place to pursue happiness?
A group of Kayakers glide over Long Island Sound. |
A glacial moraine leaves boulders which provides a grass and tree habitat. |
Islands in the marsh are covered with boulders, dirt, plants, and some trees. |
My next walk was on the familiar path of the blue-blazed Mattabesset trail on Mount Totoket in North Guilford, Connecticut. On another warm October day, the 13th, I casually climbed the steep trail from the spacious parking lot on Route 77. Barely a mountain, Mount Totoket rises just 600 or so feet from the surrounding landscape. It is part of a "trap rock" or more specifically a basalt ridge that extends all along a major fault zone through Connecticut and Massachusetts. 200 million years ago the earth's crust was torn apart here and scorching hot basalt welled up from the gaping fissures. A few million years later dinosaurs roamed the area which then resembled today's Death Valley landscape but with equatorial heat and humidity. They left bird-like footprints which are still found in ridgeline quarries. Today was quiet and peaceful. No earthquakes, splitting of the earth, or dinosaurs to contend with. There was just one other car in the large parking area so I thought that I may not see anyone.
The leaves were beginning to change color and the air was cool and crisp. Dried leaves crunched underfoot as I quickly ascended the first steep section of the trail. Along the way small, well-worn basalt outcrops afforded pleasant views to the east and north. Fluffy white cumulus clouds drifted slowly across the bright blue sky. Maples were showing their brilliant fall colors. Beech, oak, and a myriad of small shrubs added yellow, brown, and red to the lively palette. I soon passed a couple who were enjoying the view from another outcrop. I bid them hello and moved on towards Bluff Head; a bigger outcrop that sits at the top of this 200 million-year-old pile of basalt. On a clear day, Bluff Head offers a fine view of Hartford and further to Mount Tom in Massachusetts. Today was such a day and I was rewarded with stunning vistas from Bluff Head. To the east, gently rolling hills stretched to Rhode Island. To the south Long Island and the saltwater lake that separates the island from Connecticut glittered with reflected sunlight. I climbed a small tree and looked west. I could see the New Haven skyline and harbor from the topmost branches.
I visited Bluff Head and Mount Totoket frequently in the 1970s. Sometimes I quietly camped and then hiked further north to Mount Pistapaug and Fowler. Or south to Lake Gaillard and my home in Branford. Other times I would climb the mountain knowing it was a reliable place of solitude and quiet beauty where I could reflect upon and often solve, vexing problems. When I was surrounded by beauty and immersed in nature's peace the jigsaw puzzle of my life started to fit together. Critical analysis, contemplation, and introspection flowed freely in the conducive environment. Everything seemed possible at that time and place.
In the 1980s the old fire tower dirt road that went to the top of Mount Totoket was partially paved. Houses were built on virgin land. Lovely homes and yards created new neighborhoods for many people. A few homes went right to the top of Mount Totoket and overnight camping was no longer possible. 20 years later the blue-blazed Mattabesset Trail became federalized as the New England Trail. New neighborhoods, greater prosperity, and federalization all increased trail awareness and subsequent foot traffic to the point where solitude became very rare. The views are still lovely but large houses and expansive yards now frame nature. In the 1970s nature dominated the landscape. It was frequently my experience to walk for many days in the trap rock mountains of Connecticut and rarely see another person. People and houses were few. In the area of Mount Totocket folks and homes were mostly in the valley and along heavily traveled state roads.
Looking north from Bluff Head on Mount Totoket. |
A basalt outcrop that served well as a heat reflecting fireplace on cold winter nights. |
Looking south from Bluff Head towards Long Island Sound. |
On October 14, 2021, I searched for the blue-blazed trail that connected Pistapaug Mountain with Mount Fowler in Durham, Connecticut. After walking Howd road twice I finally saw a sign high on the side of a tree near a small one-car turnoff. Now the scenery started to look familiar. Mount Fowler was a common destination for all-season camping in the 1970s. I first discovered it while attending Branford High School. On a cold winter day, I hiked to the top with Frank Twohill and Bob Baker to meet other friends who were camping at what was called the Bird Watcher's cabin. Larry Chase and a few other juniors and seniors were cabin camping in the deep snow. They were having a wonderful time and we shared in their revelry. The abandoned Bird Watcher's cabin was still a solid and warm structure. Over the years the cabin quickly deteriorated through vandalism. By 1972 all the windows were smashed, the chimney collapsed and the doors were torn off. At that time I picked up some of the window hinges and used them for my log cabin in the Supply Pond forest in Branford. Today, 50 years later, I wondered if anything remained. The Mattabesset blue-blazed trail was easy to follow but not well-worn. I gradually ascended to the trap rock ridge and carefully scanned the landscape. I found where the cabin was but nothing remained except for foundation rocks and my memories. I hiked on and in a mile or so came to the George Washington dirt road. A concrete post marking the spot stood bare. The bronze plaque was long gone. Stolen? Who knows but my experience of living in the woods in Branford showed that theft and vandalism were common in the 1970s and later. Visitors to my cabin routinely stole almost everything but books. Once they even took the blankets off my bed. On the way out they would sometimes tear a cabinet off the wall, smash a chair or throw a rock through a window. It was savage, lawless behavior by a few anonymous individuals who did not share societal norms including respect for others and their property.
Legend has it that George Washington came past here in his carriage while on an east coast tour, shortly after he retired as our first President. Today the road is just a wide dirt trail but just a little further on it is paved and lined with houses. From the George Washington road, I veered sharply to the left, went off the trail, and climbed over steep and slippery talus slopes to the top of Mount Fowler. The view was beautiful. The city of New Haven and Sleeping Giant State Park was to the south and southwest. The Hanging Hills of Meriden were to the northwest. I rested and ate lunch on a sunny basalt outcrop. The day was warm and in the 70s. A deep blue sky with high cirrus clouds promised fair weather at least until dusk. I could hear gunshots emanating from the Blue Trail Shooting Range far below. To my Montana ears, they sounded like Yankee Doodle and the Star Spangled Banner. Pure Second Amendment music and enjoyable. To others, the sounds may have appeared menacing and they may have been frightened. They were just distant sounds though. No bullets, which I understand sound like angry bees, were whizzing past me. After lunch, I continued north and wound around the noisy quarry that was actively chewing into the northern slope of Mount Fowler. That noise was soon drowned out by heavy traffic on Route 68 as I approached the end of this section of the Mattabesset blue-blazed trail in Durham.
I walked along the busy highway in search of someone I could ask for water. I found a retired person working in their yard. He brought two ice-cold bottles from his basement refrigerator. We chatted for a while and then I headed back to the trail. Instead of going over the ridge that I had lunch on, I followed the new trail that goes behind the ridge. That went down a very steep and long talus slope where the footing was especially tricky. Then it leveled out, crossed the George Washington road by the missing plaque, and continued past the Bird Cabin foundation. Around 4 pm I was back at my car. I did not see anyone on the trail which was a first for 2021 Connecticut hiking.
Mount Fowler is bordered on the west by a reservoir. Most of the land belongs to the state and is part of Tri-Mountain state park. The lack of nearby houses and the loud shooting range may explain why it is not frequently hiked. I enjoyed Mount Fowler's solitude even though it was not always accompanied by nature's peace and quiet.
Mount Pistapaug and adjoining reservoirs. |
The path gently ascends to the top of Mount Fowler. |
The view from the top of Mount Fowler. |
The next portion of the Mattabesset Blue Blazed Trail threaded over Mount Beseck and ended at Black Pond. On Friday, October 15, 2021, I parked in a two-car pull-off near the loud and busy quarry on Route 68 in Durham, Connecticut. Heavy traffic relentlessly sped by. Why the hurry and where everyone was headed remained a mystery. I crossed the quarry railroad tracks but then stopped. I had a few pennies in my pocket and remembered how trains could flatten and curl them. A penny thus curled was said to bring good luck. The last curled and flattened penny I found was in Montana the day before I purchased property there. That brought good fortune so I placed a few pennies on the rail and marked the spot with a colorful rock. Then I scampered up the rocky, rutted, and well-worn trail. This section was noisy because of road traffic and the quarry. In a mile or so I came to the low trap rock ridge and saw rows and rows of houses before me. They started at the base of the ridge and spread out to the western horizon. With every step, I felt like I was hiking through someone's backyard. A little further on I came to a massive set of new power lines that fed electricity to thousands of hungry homes below. There I met a group of gray-haired hikers who wandered over from Powder Ridge, the local ski area. They took the ski lift up and were out for a morning walk. Around noon I approached Powder Ridge. I found a plastic folding chair perched on an outcrop and ate lunch. Below me was a school with an empty parking lot. I could see through many of the windows. Not a soul was around. Covid I reasoned. After lunch, I crossed into the ski area and met several mountain bikers. Wide and well-worn bike trails dotted the landscape and often made finding the blue-blazed Mattabesset trail difficult. A few times I lost my way but not for long.
My last hike over Mount Beseck was in the late winter of 1972. Manmade snow covered the slope at the ski resort. The rest of the mountain was bare. I did not see anyone back then except at Powder Ridge. Today was warm and sunny. No skiers but maybe 25 hikers and mountain bikers crossed my path throughout the day.
The mountain was boxed in with houses and many people were enjoying a pleasant day outside. About a mile after Powder Ridge, the trail narrowed and followed the rocky ridge line. Around 2 pm I caught sight of Black Pond which marks the scenic end of this section of the Mattabesset Blue Blazed Trail. Far below a few kayakers skimmed across the surface of the pond like water bugs. Busy Route 66 appeared on the horizon and another set of power lines bisected the mountain. I walked to the end of the trail by Bailey Road. Just like Route 68, the traffic was fast, furious, and deafening. I turned back and walked through a wetland bog to reach Black Pond. Then I climbed up the mountain for a brisk walk to my car, six miles away. Just after sunset I reached my car, found my freshly curled pennies and headed for home. It was a 14-mile roundtrip day and marked my last Connecticut hike in 2021. Soon I would be driving west to my home in Montana.
In 1972 I continued on the Mattabesset Trail to hike Mount Higby, Chauncey Peak, Lamentation Mountain, the Hanging Hills of Meriden, and the base of Ragged Peak in New Britain. Then a wet March snow settled around me. The footing was slippery, the cold was bone-chilling and civilization drew ever closer to the blue-blazed trail. I had enough and hitchhiked back to my warm and dry home in Branford. While on the trail I did not meet another hiker until I started to ascend the Hanging Hills. Like me, that person retreated to nature attempting to solve difficult problems. We chatted for hours. Later she drove me to the base of Ragged Mountain after sunset. Almost every night I camped on the peak of some mountain where I could look back in satisfaction and see ahead to the new challenges. The weather remained agreeable for a week with nights in the 20s and daytime highs around 50 degrees Fahrenheit. Perfect for backpacking at the young age of 18.
New power lines cross Mount Beseck before the ski area. |
Powder Ridge Ski area sits near the top of Mt Beseck. |
Black Rock Pond sits at the end of this trail section. |
A year later I returned to the Mattabesset Blue Blazed Trail where it reaches Castle Craig at the peak of the Hanging Hills in Meriden, Connecticut. A gated Hubbard Park road led to the top and a large paved parking area. Even on a weekday morning, the place was buzzing with tourists and locals. I met a lovely young woman with blazing red hair named Jennifer at the top of romantic Castle Craig's turret. We shared hiking and life stories for almost an hour. She told me about the trails she walked. Together we picked out and identified all the peaks between the shoreline and Hartford. Later I met some folks from Missouri; the Show-Me state. So I obligingly showed them all the peaks Jennifer and I properly named and then gave them a brief geological history of the area. Jennifer had to go to work so we parted probably forever at the top of Castle Craig. A little saddened I carefully mapped in my mind the surrounding peaks and quietly snapped a few photos. Then I too left. The next day I headed back to Montana. As I passed under the Hanging Hills while driving west on Interstate 691 I looked up and bid them adieu.
I was fortunate to have known the Blue Blazed trail when wildness was abundant. In 1970 the trail was a wide band of rocks, outcrops, ponds, lakes, and trees that wound through Connecticut and eventually ended at Mount Monadnock in Jaffrey, New Hampshire. I walked and camped from Branford to New Britain on the southern end and from Mount Monadnock to Shutesbury, Massachusetts on the northern half. The original wilderness was gone by 1970 but wildness remained. The trail was broken by busy roads then but the mountains were relatively untouched. So backpacking, camping and solitude were all possible and easily experienced. On top of the mountains, Nature's sweet fruits were available year-round in the 1970s.
The ever-increasing cost of living in Connecticut and high property taxes often forced the sale of scarce mountain land. They were subsequently blanketed with yards, homes, and roads. Interstate highways further encroached upon the state in the 1970s and brought more people and prosperity. Hundreds of thousands of cars now pass by the Hanging Hills daily. Mount Higby is bordered by busy and deafening I-91. In Branford, we have I-95 that connects every east coast city from Miami to Portland, Maine. Life goes forward and we can never return to what has passed. But I was deeply saddened by something precious that seemed forever lost in the vanishing wilds of Connecticut.
Hanging Hills - Interstate 691 Leads West |
A single blue blaze on a pine tree beckons from a busy road |
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Page 4 Happiness A Walk Back in Time |
Tim's Life Main Table of Contents |
Pursuit of Happiness Table of Contents |
Page 6 To be written... |
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