I know I am still on the younger side but since quarantine I have started Sunday driving to keep myself sane. I like to wander off and find myself some nice dirt roads in the middle of nowhere – you know the sort I am talking about that are surrounded on all sides by trees and dotted with hunting camps and farmhouses from the 1700s. Roads that have enticing names like Stagecoach and Snakepit. I mean how could I not want to explore that??
Today was no different. I decided to go towards Wilton in an ambling drunken beeline weaving to and fro at random. It was fun! But as usual I was on the lookout for a nice trail to hike down. I passed by so many but they all either had “No Trespassing” signs or were just trails crossing the road with no parking anywhere in sight. I basically had lost hope when I decided to return home. I was almost back when I noticed a sign I’d never seen before that literally read, “hiking trail” with a little arrow pointing towards a road I’d never been before. Universe, are you talking to me again? Because it’s working.
The road turned to dirt and I found myself crawling at 14 miles per hour down it hoping the sign didn’t lie. I was almost to the end and believing it was all indeed just a rouse when alas I came across a big sign reading, “Sheldrick Nature Preserve.” SCORE! I took a quick turn and found myself in a grassy parking lot of sorts with two other cars, a bulletin board, and no real trail in sight, though I knew it had to be there somewhere.
Sure enough, as I looked at the map on the bulletin board an elderly couple wandered out from the back of the parking lot’s field and I knew that must be where the trail was – beyond a vast wild strawberry patch.
As I walked I came across the second couple whose car was in the parking lot right off the bat. OK OK, so I was out kind of late, still this meant I had the whole trail to myself! And it was QUIET. This is one of those trails out in the middle of nowhere that feels a bit like going back in time. I needed this bit of serenity. As of late I haven’t been feeling myself. I’ve been pretty drained and down in mood and well… this little bit of serenity fed my soul like nothing else. Almost immediately I had found some huge really weird mushrooms growing on a felled tree. They were waxy in texture and took some pretty wild forms. I was fascinated by them even though I haven’t the foggiest idea what they were. Probably something that could kill legions. I’m good at finding that sort of thing… and thinking it’s cute until told otherwise.
Anyway there were several trails here that connected to each other. I snapped a photo of the map with my cell phone before entering so I’d know where to go. It was fortunate. The path is at first all down hill and easy but what goes down must eventually come up and I am still flagrantly out of shape. I walked down Helen’s Path and then turned taking Margaret’s Meander which is a loop. This led me up some very steep hills which left me embarrassingly gasping for air. I can’t believe I let myself get this bad!
Still I was very much enjoying how quiet and peaceful it was here. The only noise I could hear were chipmunks skittering about here and there and a single crow watching me dubiously from the canopy. If only I had a place a beautiful as this in my back yard!
I’ll admit that after Margaret’s Meander I was too exhausted to do the rest of the loop… which if the internet is right had a river somewhere on it. I decided to leave that adventure for another day now that I know this place exists! And so close to home! Yep, it was the perfect little introvert’s escape.
It’s funny. It seems I have been all over the place – this blog started when I went to all the lower 48 states, and then Europe, and then decided to explore all corners of New England, but what I haven’t done in all that time is pay any attention whatsoever to the town where I was raised and spent the majority of my life: Rindge NH. And what a perfect time to explore a deserted cemetery so close to home than when we’re all still being super cautious about the corona virus.
So that’s how I ended up in the center of Rindge at the Meetinghouse Cemetery. I parked at the church because I had a foggy recollection that there was a gap in the fence I could walk through at the corner of it. Indeed there is, as well as a proper entrance adjacent to the current town hall just down the street a little ways where the old crypt still stands. Parking at either is easy and doesn’t bother anyone.
I hadn’t visited this place since I was probably 12 or 13 years old and had a friend living nearby. We’d walked the cemetery and played in the town center – once giving the dog officer a hell of a scare as we bounded through the snow in the common on one particularly dark evening. But happy childhood memories aside, this is the heart of the historic parts of Rindge and it’s got a lot of stories to tell. And what a better day to tell them than on a rainy day like this?! The perfect activity for those of you going nuts in quarantine – no one walks through old cemeteries in the rain… well, except for me and a handful of other delightfully weird people.
I have to say I don’t remember this being the most hill-filled graveyard I have ever been too. WHEW! There was no effort whatsoever put into flattening the ground here but I must admit that adds to how dramatic it feels with slate stones dating back to the 1700’s and creepy barren trees on all sides. Still it was super peaceful and welcoming to the photographer in me. (Though people driving by absolutely did notice me there. Probably thought I was the Ghost of the 1970’s with my orange plaid bellbottoms.)
A Little About the Stones…
I’ve learned a few things over the years about these old graveyards and cemeteries. The first is the difference between a cemetery, which is just a generalized burial ground, and a graveyard which is the consecrated ground surrounding a church. The slate stones that were favored in the 1700’s were mostly mass produced in Boston. As such many have the same designs on them. Today I saw mostly Death Heads (a symbol of rebirth and resurrections) and weeping willows. As usual the stones closest to the church were both the oldest and frequently the most wealthy. You can tell by how large they are as they range from little more than a foot tall to five or six feet. People of wealth in those days often were tied to either religious institutions or the military. You can see several Minute Men buried here who usually have metal markers aside their grave.
Was there anyone of particular note residing here? I actually don’t know. I suspect there are a lot of people that were important to the town back in the day but this was a while ago. I didn’t see any stones that dated any younger than 1901. This… is a forgotten place.
Other Things to See Nearby
That being said there are a few other things to see nearby if you’re there anyway. Directly across the street is the ruins of an old foundation that used to be our old town shelter for both abused animals and battered women. This was not unusual as the Humane Society functioned more as peace officers for domestic abuse situations than they did as animal rescuers although they fulfilled both roles. How much of a need did we have for this little building I have no idea but suffice to say if you were in need you’d be kept there…
Not far from the ruined foundation there’s a tiny park dedicated to our veterans. There’s a few benches, a little memorial, some flags. From here you can look over the town common which used to be used as a livestock exchange and open air market. Today it holds a gazebo used for weddings and one of only two antique livestock scales left in New England which we proudly use every year for the great pumpkin weigh-off. So how big can a pumpkin get? apparently over 2,500 pounds… and let me tell you moving these giant orange beasts is a challenge. Worth coming out just to see that!
And so that’s my little town center. Thanks for stopping by to enjoy it with me. Below are five galleries of photos I took, organized by topic.
Gallery One: Super Dramatic Multiple Stone Photos
Gallery Two: Some Individual Stones
Gallery Three: Artsy Close Ups
Gallery Four: Other Things to See
This structure was used to house carriage horses during church services.
Well! It’s been a while since I gave a little love to this blog and if I am bluntly honest I wasn’t really planning on it today either… but then I realized I actually hadn’t said much about this little haunt of mine so I took out my cell phone camera and started snapping away. I NEEDED THIS TODAY!
If you’re anything like me you’re probably being a good little disease vector and staying home in quarantine while simultaneously crawling out of your own skin. I get it. I know I had a TON of plans for this blog this year. I was going to go to art galleries, bizarre museums no one has ever heard of, lots of festivals and county fairs, and even some odd things like a midnight showing of Rocky Horror which I am currently being threatened with. OK, so those are off the table… for now… but that doesn’t mean I can’t keep exploring, just means I’ll be exploring more obscure hiking trails and cemeteries… in New Hampshire…. because all the states around NH are starting to pull out-of-staters over. Vermont is fining them, Massachusetts is sending them home and Maine is demanding a two week quarantine before entering. It’s…hairy….out there.
That’s OK though! We can do this. We can go out and appreciate nature without coughing on anyone. Especially on these far less loved trails so how about it… here we go!
Today I walked a very familiar trail – the Betsy Foskett Trail in the Betsy Fosket Wildlife Bird Sanctuary- the entrance of which is located half-way up some dude’s driveway (the very last driveway on the Emerson Lane cul-de-sac) and is hidden from the road. It is however there and that half of the driveway is a right of way so don’t worry when you’re walking up, it’s right past the little bridge and impossible to miss.
The beginning of the trail was flooded today because we’ve had so much rain but I took the part of the trail that is next to the water and walked along there following the yellow markers until a little sign showed where the two paths diverged. From here I took the red path – Pond View Trail. It’s longer than the Betsy Fosket but crosses it again later on. Here I found the ruins of what I think was a house at some point and lots of lovely photo opportunities. I even found a nesting hole from a woodpecker and a beaver damn! Both new to me!
It’s an easy trail but I am fiercely out of shape at the moment and was having difficulty keeping up. So when I came across the entrance to the clearing where it crosses the Betsy Fosket Trail again I got off it. The clearing has all sorts of No Trespassing signs but the trail is still town property so ignore them. It will lead to the dam which is where I took a lovely rest before returning home via the Betsy Fosket. Where does the Pond View Trail end? I currently do not know… but I will investigate this further when my lungs aren’t burning.
I had a GREAT trip out and needed this little distraction so bad. I regret not taking my actual camera as I tried to only take a few snaps with my cell. My photographer’s brain was going completely nuts out there. It’s been WAY too long since I let it out to play.
Since I clearly need more exercise and exposure to nature this will not be the last you hear from me this year. Stay tuned and keep safe!
I had to go back to Peterborough today to pick up either my medical records or the first draft of Moby Dick, I can’t tell you for sure, point is once I finished this chore it occurred to me there was a trail nearby I had passed the last time I was up here. So off I went to check it out!
The sign you can see from the road
Now the sign denoting this little forest path is HUGE but it’s oddly located outside what appears to be a hall of some sort and an orchard and some other random houses. Once you’re in the parking lot you’ll see a bench, a big green field, and a bulletin board type thing describing nearby trees. The entrance to the path itself is past this big board and over the field out of sight of the parking lot. It feels…. awkward…. to get there…. but I did it anyway.
Entrance ot the path
I don’t know if many people use this place. The path was a bit gnarly from the get-go but it is fall and I suspect less people go out hiking when the weather gets cooler. I don’t know why. It’s way more pleasant to hike now than it is in the 80 degree heat of summer! But hey, if you want to dissolve into a puddle of sweat be my guest…
The path started to diverge into dozens of other smaller tributary paths. All of them were marked as trails but there seemed to be no logic or deeper meaning to the markers which were spread like confetti randomly through the trees sporting every color for no reason I could tell. Normally this sort of thing would make me head back but it was a small area surrounded by roads and since I knew the roads I figured I was safe enough to wander.
PINE TREES.
This was a somewhat unusual hike for me as it was straight into a pine forest. Most of the places I hike are decidedly deciduous or at least mixed. They’re arguably prettier but pine forests are definitely creepier… and I am not the only one to say so. It’s no surprise to me that years ago when I was chasing the Jersey Devil he was said to live in the pine barons. Today wasn’t disappointing either. Once I got to the river I could sense the presence of a teenage girl but I couldn’t see anyone at first and then at three separate points I noticed in the corner of my eye someone in an ankle length historical dress darting behind the trees 100 or so feet away. I know what you’re thinking, this seems like a great reason to head back to the car and pretend nothing was out there. I however am not that easily swayed. Whoever it was seemed to be watching me, yes, but they seemed to be doing so in a playful manner so I took a different option – I just started to talk to them. “Hello there! I can see you and I don’t have a problem with you if you don’t have a problem with me…” And maybe she just wanted to be validated because I didn’t feel or see her again. I have no idea if this place is known for such encounters or if today I witnessed something special.
I spent some time sitting on some rocks over the little brook but there were also picnic tables nearby and despite the trails being a total rat’s nest this did seem like a sweet little nook in the woods, perhaps a great place to take a date for lunch. Although you might not want to take dating advice from me considering my idea of a date involves far more death than desserts. Stroll through a cemetery? Sounds like a Gothic dream to me. Winding down unexplored “roads” with a Prius where you might be attacked by Bigfoot or get mired in a mud puddle and die? AWWWWE. Going to an abandoned asylum at midnight looking for ghosts? Fuck, if that’s your idea of a date I’m marrying you! This is probably why I’m single… I mean I think it’s hilarious I have the audacity to bum rush a bobcat without thinking (to protect my bunnies) but most people find this at the very least intimidating. SIGH.
ANYWAY, back on track… This was a lovely little outing. If you happen to be in the area with a bag lunch by all means check it out… otherwise it’s tiny. I guess historically these paths used to go everywhere in Peterborough but they’ve been chopped up by the purchase of private property. Some of the trails did lead to longer ones if you didn’t mind crossing the road (I wasn’t about to do that…) Anyway, here’s the photos I managed to take – including a couple of a FUZZY CATERPILLAR, the perfect distraction!
One of the things I have not been able to explore as much as I have wanted to is the local music scene – both what’s up in Boston as well as all the weird and unusual things going on in Vermont. Problem is I don’t like going to these shindigs alone (for reasons of safety) and none of my local friends are uh… as enthusiastic as I am about avant guard music. Soooo…. when I learned that a band I actually really adore out of Boston was showing up in Fitchburg for an open-air gig in the park I couldn’t say no.
If I’m honest it’d been a tough week for me but that made me all the more determined to get out there and enjoy this. Problem is there was pretty much no information anywhere. All I could find is it started at 4PM and tickets were $10 online (with no link to buy them) and $15 at the gates. Oooookaaaay. Right from the get-go I thought 4PM sounded weird as fuck for such a thing but whatever… I can still roll with it.
And I showed up at 4PM to a pretty empty park. In fact it was so empty that I wondered if I had the right park! Turns out I had accidentally bumbled into it from a rear entrance. And it was soooo Fitchburgy. To one side a plaque read about how this park was here because the river was soooo beautiful that it was determined it must be a park. And indeed there was some pretty impressive masonry holding up a flag whoosing over… a VERY overgrown and completely unkempt riverbank. Even hiking into the middle of nowhere I hadn’t seen a thicket of weeds so ferociously thick. I took a photo – and then was asked by a man if I was a volunteer. No? He told me to check in and pointed frantically towards the other side of the park. I shrugged and did as I was told.
Approaching the ticketmaster I asked what was up today, pretending to play dumb for a moment. She told me it was a Steampunk Festival and that there were vendors, food trucks, beer from a local brewery, and live music but they wouldn’t be starting for an hour. I knew 4PM had to be wrong! She didn’t even have tickets or anything so I bid her adieu and wandered the streets like a common urchin for a while. Until I got tired, found a bench, and just sat people watching. Problem is there seemed to be just as many people watching me, including a shuttle bus driver who kept passing and giving me the dirty eyeball. WHY? Is it the orange hair? It’s the orange hair.. or perhaps my general ne’er-do-well appearance. Two parked cop cars were also watching me sit idly by myself. I promise I wasn’t dealing. Seriously. Just minding my own!
Does this look like a face you’d trust? At least I had an excuse to wear the granny glasses again…
Eventually 5PM rolled around so I got off my duff and wandered back to the park, said hello again to the ticket master, and gave her exact change because she didn’t have a change box yet. I did however learn that this whole event was an attempt to raise money to buy the park a permanent stage. There’d been a folk festival the month before (which I wish I knew about) and next month they’re holding Fiesta Latina (Saturday 9/14/19 from 5-9) I could feel good about supporting such a cause. Music and art are a wonderful way to vitalize a community.
I wandered around looking at the vendors for as long as I could muster, said a happy hello to them, but really… there was one guy signing people up for a raffle, the beer guy, and two craft vendors. The food trucks were still amiss. I felt bad for the two crafters, this was the saddest turn out for such a thing I had ever seen. Obviously this meant I needed to shower one with praise for her art (which was actually nice, mind you!) and stop to get a Henna tattoo from the other. I’d always liked the idea of letting someone doodle on my skin… I mean this isn’t quite as involved as checking “volunteer sorry carcass to be full body painted” off my bucket list but it was close enough. Did you know Henna smells really weird? It smells like a head shop. I wasn’t real fond of it and kept smelling myself the rest of the day. SIGH. I did however listen intently to the care instructions – should last 24 hours before starting to fleck off leaving a stain. Don’t bash it against things. That last instruction may have been too much for me – someone who has consistently failed at being refined and dainty since birth. And yes, I saw the exasperated look the artist gave me as I then wandered off and sat on the ground in what I can only guess was the least feminine manner possible. Shockingly I did not smudge it in the grass! I did however pick it all off later that night because it was driving me nuts. Can’t win them all. TO NEW EXPERIENCES!
Honestly it looked better as a stain.
By now I wasn’t the only one in the audience but I was pretty damn close. A row of local older hippies sat in camping chairs up near the front. Damn! I had two of those in my car if only I had the audacity to lug them through Fitchburg and into the park. Nope, nevermind. I’m nutty enough a scene without a damn chair. I plopped my ass down a little behind them and off to the side.
AND SO THE SHOW BEGAN! First up was The Dirge Carolers. To me they had a typical steam punk sound mixed with a lot of murder ballad type lyrics. I relaxed. Gallows humor will always be a hit to me. By now some people were filing in and out and I was starting to enjoy the people watching. There were a lot of costumes, corsets, top hats, bustles, goggles, that sort of thing, and flashes of unnaturally colored hair abounded. I was home here. However this was not the feeling everyone got as I witnessed one old black dude just wandering aimlessly, staring wide-eyed at everyone with an unmistakable impression on his face, “Uh-oh, the crazy white people have taken over the park again.” He wasn’t wrong.
I was sitting directly in the sun which was glaring in my eyes bad. I couldn’t see a damn thing but I knew the stage was probably populated by oddly adorned individuals – how? Well by the amount of amateur photographers who seemed to be floating around taking snaps with great glee – captive bizarre human subjects!! I’ll admit, I had thought about doing the same but I didn’t bring my camera, just my phone. One particular photographer was college aged, seemed to think a lot about each capture. She kept circling me, taking photos of everything around me. And then she worked up the nerve to take a photo of me, just me. There was NO WAY she could hide this so I just looked up from my reclined position on the grass and smiled broadly. Sorry. Better luck next time getting a natural shot of me. She seemed embarrassed. I just laughed and nodded.
As the band continued to play the most Fitchburg-y thing happened. A train rumbled through right behind the stage completely blocking out all music for a good three minutes or so as it dragged car after car after car behind it. I thought it was a terrific piece of ambiance for a steampunk festival! The band played on like they were on the goddamn Titanic. That’s dedication there. They eventually left off with some song from a B-rated horror movie they wrote it for, sullenly leaving the stage with this odd lamentation, “Sorry, no Zombie Llama today.” Though I’d never heard of this band I suddenly wanted to hear Zombie Llama.
The first intermission was fun. The park was still pretty quiet. There were people around but it seemed like they were just here for the food truck (ouch.) I considered getting up and buying myself a nice shwarma but I’d been struggling with bad nausea all week and wasn’t really hungry. Maybe in a bit. In the meantime I was being kept well entertained by a human blockhead running around with a long nail and power drill – an act I have seen many times before but this one was way more fun because the audience he was playing to – those nice old hippie ladies- were WELL GROSSED OUT, turning their heads in abject horror and audibly gagging. Sorry bud, it’s just not your day. He wandered off a smidge sullen.
Once everyone settled back down with their assorted dinners the second band went up to bat. They were the Busted Jug Band a strange assortment of heavily costumed, utterly bizarre, peoples carrying rubber chickens. And some instruments…. which were very… DIY… They also introduced every one of the members, not by name, but by aggressively odd nicknames which I am not entirely certain weren’t made up on the spot. My favorite was Root Boy which just… brings up SO MANY QUESTIONS. Like what kind of root? And whhhy? Do you aspire to be a turnip? Because you’re giving me a root vegetable vibe. Even better one of the other band members was wearing translucent angel wings… which during the last intermission freaked me the hell out because all I could see through a halo of sun glare was a top-hatted silhouette and angel wings. For a second I thought I might have died. No such luck.
But anyway, the music from this band was… different for sure! And perhaps a bit familiar? I think I may have seen them before… This had a much more silly feel to it. No one up there was taking their life even the tiniest bit seriously. And of course that intense whimsy was all the more adorable to me. I was pretty happy on my little patch of grass though my knees and back weren’t so much. I contemplated lying on the ground and staring at the sky for a while. I could always tell people walking by I was on acid and watching the pretty clouds (there were no clouds) as I knew in this crowd that’d be a perfectly acceptable thing to say… I held it together.
By the time the second band finished up I was just really loving the vibe of everyone here. The old hippies were randomly getting up, wandering, and dancing, and hugging each other – I’m not going to lie, I wouldn’t be surprised if they were on acid. They were warm and lovely bunch. Most of the lookee-loos had wandered off but more and more steam-punky looking people were showing up and I’ll be damned if that old black dude didn’t pull up a chair behind me with his daughter and her friends. Shout out to all the cool dads out there who don’t get their kids hobbies at all but still support them! I can’t tell you how much I respect that. His daughter and her friends were in the maybe 12-14 age range. She was sporting a dark purple mohawk and was giving me some strong Aspie vibes but I couldn’t be happier with that. Be your weird self. She stuttered to me that she liked my hair. I told her I liked hers too and then she blurted out, “But it BURNS!” What? “Bleaching it! It burns so bad!” Ooooh, I don’t think you’re supposed to keep it in that long… “TWO HOURS! AND I CAN’T HAVE MY NAILS DONE EITHER!” Why? She held up her nails, two well done fake nails still remaining with all the others hacked the hell off. I grok that. I held up my own in solidarity and laughed. She asked if I liked music. I said all kinds and asked what she liked listening to. She listed a bunch of 90’s bands and I suddenly felt really old. I felt only somewhat better when I recognized the one modern band she did mention – Panic at the Disco – but if I am brutally honest I only have heard the name in passing. I haven’t the foggiest idea what they sing.
Meanwhile as this intermission dragged on the human block head came out with fire. Ah, fire eating. How dual purpose. But he wasn’t having a great time with it. No one here seemed impressed, the kids were vocally not entertained, and eventually when he couldn’t get his last trick to go right he gave this exasperated expression and wandered off, leaving the stage to a chick who worked at the local eatery across the street. Her fire came attached to hula hoops and she wasn’t fucking around. I was actually quite impressed! We’d see her intermittently for the rest of the night doing different acts – all with various things in flames. It was probably at this time one of the girls wandered off and cornered the blockhead/fire eater and somehow elicited his entire life story from him. I got to hear all about it a few minutes later and had to struggle really hard not to laugh. I’m not eavesdropping, no siree.
The last band up was the one I came for: Walter Sickert and the Army of Broken Toys. They were having some issues setting up with unwanted feedback loops and were taking awhile. I had already seen them perform two or three times before – never thought I’d see them again. That last time I went they didn’t come on stage until the establishment was nearly closed. The pamphlet said they were unpredictable and I had heard rumors that they were hard to work with because of these issues but even with all that they have to be one of the best experiences of my life. They really truly believe that art, love, and music can cure all the world’s ills and their audience is so vibrant, creative, and accepting that in each of those instances I got the hugest contact high just from all the warm fuzzies in the air. That’s what I came for! That and the music. This band… raw fucking talent. And this was obvious when they finally got to singing and the whole audience which had been fidgety and complaining behind me just went, “WOW!” And the grumpy old dad? “I guess this WAS worth waiting for them to set up!”
It had started with sweet sad violin music, not a note out of place, that lulled the audience before walloping them over the head with strong passionate vocals and more traditional instruments. Absolutely amazing. And some of the band members had young children whose birthday it was so they all got up on the stage and danced in a cloud of bubbles as a few songs were dedicated to them. That was certainly different than the body positive burlesque dancers and drag kings I was used to surrounding this act but it was so…. sweet. And seemed so right, all at the same time. Maybe with time everyone grows up – but the smartest among us clutch tightly to the passion and whimsy that brought us this far. I was overjoyed to get one short video of the madness, one of my favorite songs – a cover of I am Sam Hall (Best. Version. Ever.) which I will post below. As the music came to an end I slinked silently back into the night where I found comfort in the darkness and drove quietly home, a smile on my face.
Vermont in particular seems to have a long and bizarre history when it comes to interesting ordinary individuals. One of those people I just learned was Phineas Gage. If you don’t know who Phineas Gage is you’re not alone. Mostly it’s people in the psychiatric and medical professions that know his name. He was just a normal railway worker living his life when an accident launched him into the pages of history.
It happened in 1848 when he was working on the rails south of the village of Cavendish Vermont. The railways went directly through mountainous areas which meant that workers had to blast their way through in order to put the rails down. This was dangerous work that involved boring a hole in the rock, filling it with explosives, and packing sand on top with an iron rod (called a tamping iron) before lighting a fuse. Phineas was in the process of doing this when his attention was distracted and when he turned his head to speak the tamping iron struck the rock, caused an unexpected spark, and before he had any time to react he had the 13 pound 3 foot rod shot through his head which landed 85 feet away. This would have been the end for most workers but not Gage who convulsed a few times before getting up and staying conscious well past getting to the hospital. Insanely stoic this guy claimed he wasn’t hurt much and should be back to work in a few days. Granted going to the doctors in the 1800’s wasn’t as sterile or educated as it is today. Gage’s recovery was up and down and at one point included the draining of a fungal abscess on his remaining brain issue which may have caused further damage.
Today I visited the spot of the memorial plaque dedicated to this very unlikely survivor. It sits in the Cavendish common which isn’t the site of the accident but is nearby. I parked at the Municipal building which is just behind the monument that is welded to a rock. I’m afraid my photo isn’t fantastic but it shows in brief detail the life of a man that is more of a curiosity now than he was in his own life (and he was very well known then for it.)
If you’re wondering what happened to Gage after his recovery well… that’s where the story gets quite muddy. What is known is that Gage survived his injury and that for what appears a short time afterward he showed symptoms not uncommon among brain-injured patients but remarkably despite his story being repeatedly rewritten for political reasons he seems to have gone on to live a pretty normal life… His intelligence was said to be unaffected, his memory returned, and he even held down numerous jobs before seizures prevented him from keeping them. We don’t know why he died or if his injury had any real lasting effects on his personality because there seems to be a lot of conflicting information.
Other common myths around this one remarkable individual is that his injury gave inspiration for the invention of lobotomies. There’s no written evidence of this but I have to wonder why it’s been linked in the first place. As I read up on this to create this blog entry I was filled with far more questions than answers. Did he have any serious personalty changes after the accident and if so did they get better over time? Maybe the lesson in his story isn’t whether or not brain damage can make someone a different person but to what extent one can expect to recover from such a thing. Maybe this is really about the remarkable plasticity of the brain.
This photo of the man was discovered in 2009. In it he sits with his tamping iron which toured with him throughout New England in the two years after the accident. It’s unsettling to say the least.
After leaving the monument I asked the GPS where to go and by happenstance it dragged me onto a narrow dirt road where the same rail line ran through the woods. It was a strange moment to realize this. All and all today’s visit to the Phineas Gage memorial and the Fort at Number 4 satiated my desire for history. Until next time…
It was this and several other little memories that brought me back today as I found myself once again on the road. The Fort at Number Four is a reconstruction of a wooden fort that stood in the fourth plantation of the Massachusetts Bay Colony in 1735. It was the North Westernmost British settlement in the New World. By 1745 ten families lived within the confines of the fort behind big fortified walls. There were living quarters, a saw mill, gardens, a barn, a black smith shop all nested in the woods like some sort of antisocial wooden castle blockading itself from the rest of the world. Why was such a thing necessary? Well because diplomacy apparently wasn’t one of the settlers’ biggest skills and the “Indians” (which are still referred to as such in the pamphlets they were handing out today) were a little testy about the new neighbors claiming their land as their own. And from there it appears there were some dust ups involving the British, the French, the occasional Spaniard… to me this seems like lunacy. For ten families to live in what amount to the wilderness – thirty five miles from the closest settlement. But OK.
Oh today’s tour was going to be good if this is what I went in there thinking. I am happy to note it was a really easy place to find and on a Thursday pretty much no one was there except a woman taking admission fees ($12 per adult) and one melting tour guide in period garb who I found playing Hoops with some children. He offered everyone else guided tours but myself and the older couple who came in at the same time as me politely declined to go wander on our own. I like allowing myself time and space to take photos from odd angles and such.
Here’s a photo of my knees giving a solid “fuck you” for climbing to the top of the tower. These stairs have to be climbed down backwards like a latter. Fun.
First off I should remark that you shouldn’t revisit places form your childhood that you once thought were so grand because when you get there and realize just how tiny and insignificant they are your perceptions will be RUINED. I headed up the tower, which by the way is only three stories high, and looked out over the river. Yup. There was Vermont. Looking all green and sleepy as she usually does. The view was sooo…. unspectacular, but I guess it would be for someone who has flown in planes, peered down from the Penobscot Bridge Observatory, and nearly died of exhaustion dragging my sorry ass to the top of the Empire State Building. Life and experience had dampened my reaction.
I remembered literally nothing else of the fort from those sweet early days and I was actually happily surprised how expansive the place was. Plus it smelled like old barn wood which made me deliriously happy. Of course being unlit it was pretty dark in spots but that made it all the more fun. Coming into the kitchen I found a number of herbs hanging to dry. One of them brought me straight back to my childhood. It smelled SO FAMILIAR but I don’t know what it was… something from my days in the first house I lived in. I was grinning from ear to ear. The fort seemed to have a lot of personality even with very sparse furnishings. It was indeed the perfect space to play with my photography – the lighting, the architecture, the odd artifacts, all lent themselves beautifully to this task.
Yup, those would be two child-sized coffins int he rafters. Daring motif.
Then I got to looking around – and having a bit of fun with the artifacts. being as this was basically set up for children many of the exhibits were hands-on like the series of pelts that lined the walls of one of the buildings that made up a sort of macabre dead petting zoo of sorts. It wasn’t the most morbid thing by far, there were two child-size coffins in the workshop, and another plaque telling the history of the place said something about “murder holes” being needed to protect the families in their bedrooms. Murder holes. To protect the family. In their beds. Just let that sink in. But the weirdest thing I found was a diorama of the place. There were soldiers reenacting a battle all around it, which I get, but why they were wearing Scottish kilts and who they were fighting…. fuck if I know. Maybe there was a sale on figurines that day. Kilted ones. Or maybe there’s something the brochures aren’t telling me. Quite frankly I left a bit confused and only took one feeble shot of this weird scene because I didn’t feel like being that person taking photos of the diorama. Seriously. That guy. We all know that guy. I still have pride. I wandered off to fondle the zombie pets.
Besides the mystery Scottish militia there seems to be a vaguely Turkish looking dude in the back swinging a bayonet at nothing. I have no idea who they’ve killed.
I spent maybe an hour or so poking around. It was a sweet little way to spend an afternoon. After this I allowed the GPS to try and kill me leading me through increasingly narrow dirt roads on the search for my next destination – the scene of Phineas Gage’s fateful railway accident.
Taking a jaunt through the Northwest Cemetery was fun but ideally I was out for a hike today. All the cemeteries and fishing holes were just a distraction. Really I wanted to find a nice trail and enjoy the somewhat moderate weather. It was only 79 degrees out, in the past week it’s been 84 and although that seems only a slight difference it really isn’t when slogging through the woods!
I’d passed by a number of trailheads which weren’t marked. I wasn’t sure if they were private property and was really on the lookout for something that I could park in front of without being towed away or reported. That’s always a plus. So when I started seeing a few feeble signs for the Federated Woman’s Club State Forest I couldn’t help but wonder what that was. I turned in and it was…. completely vacant. I am not sure any cars have been down here since spring. The roads were ROUGH. The potholes were so deep that the undercarriage of the Prius got a bit scraped up despite me trying desperately to drive less than ten miles an hour and go around them. The GPS was also no help. According to my map I was driving into nowhere. The roads weren’t even showing up.
Finally I drove up to a little parking space which looked like it was at a trailhead although nothing was marked at all. I stopped and tried for the fourth time today to type in “Where am I?” into my cell phone and for the fourth time it told me I was out of range for any kind of internet connection. SIGH. So unfortunately I have no idea which trail it was that I took or where it was… only that I was somewhere within the boundaries of the park.
There were signs everywhere warning that hunting and trapping were allowed here. I guess it’s a good thing I have neon orange hair. I don’t feel like being shot today. The trail at first seemed like an old road and someone had probably driven up it somewhat recently but before I knew it the path narrowed and started looking more like a hiking trail. It was SO QUIET out here that all I could hear was the birds. I don’t think there was a soul around and I don’t think many people aside from trappers and hunters must use these trails because it wasn’t long before it went from a pleasant stroll to “Hmmm, there appears to a be a bridge which I am not sure if humans or beavers built and the trail…. doesn’t seem very trail like anymore…” Plus it was getting hot so I turned around at the weird log bridge.
I had on the way discovered some weird mushrooms, the likes of which I had never seen before. I’d also scared a few frogs, tangoed with a dragon fly or two, and spotted and old stone which I could not prove or disprove may have been a burial for someone. It’s not unusual to find stones in State Forests – often the land is donated by people whose families have lived on it for a long time and back in the day cemeteries were frequently tiny family plots of only 1-20 individuals basically in the back yard of the family farm. Over time trees grow, houses crumble, and people forget.
I was pretty melted by the time I got back to the car but I was having such a wonderful day. This was the ultimate introvert’s retreat. I really felt like I was so far from civilization that I could have turned feral at any moment. I drove down the road some more to see if I could find any more trails. There was one that was badly hidden that I passed by accidentally and then the road basically stopped at a T. To the left there was a big sign reading, “Road closed, bridge out!” and to the right there was a gate across the way. There was a small parking area fit for maybe four cars and I was tempted to check it out but I was still pretty overheated and decided this might be best for another day. Besides I had one more adventure – to the South Cemetery in Wendell – to go to before going home.
So today I actually did some research before bumbling into the woods in 84 degree weather. I looked up the trailhead I had passed on my way to Sarah’s Hat Boxes the other day and low and behold it actually sounded pretty interesting. The property the trail runs through used to be an old farm in the late 1800’s on and there were a few whispered rumors about there being ruins of the old farm still on the property. What kind of ruins? It didn’t say but I was picturing maybe some old farmhouse foundation or something. I’m all into that.
There was a hitch though. My mother was on her way out and currently I have been sharing her car. Suffice to say both her and her friend ended up coming with me in the dastardly muggy heat but that’s OK because I also read this was an easy .9 mile hike through the shade of many trees. Doable.
The trailhead sits right off route 123 a few miles past the center of Hancock. There’s a little bit of space for parking which is easy to find because of the sign reading Welch’s Family Farm & Forest. The path itself has a gate across it.
My first impression was this place was not frequented by too many people. The path was very wide but grass was growing over most of it. It was forested at first but gave way eventually to a scene of rolling unmanicured pastures framed by the mountains in the background. My mother was thrilled as this reminded her of the paths she rambled down as a youth. Luckily it was an easy trail with gentle slopes and inclines here and there.
We came to a ruin of a sort – an old hay machine. It was hard to date it exactly but it was neither very old nor particularly modern. It was however sitting upright and well rusted. Also on the trail I found evidence of owls (owl pellets were spat on the ground at one point) and what I think was fox or coyote scat. Someone also had taken a turkey feather and poked it into a tree stump. Clearly this place was alive with wildlife. It was said to be a great place to see a bobcat in the winter. Also I fully expected to run into a flooded trail as beavers were said to be constantly washing it out with their activities.
We walked about 3/4ths of a mile before we passed a sign on the opposite side of the trail marking a property boundary. We had gone from being on a completely unmarked trail to the red trail. We then walked to the .9 mile we had been promised. By now we seemed to be walking past a more active looking pasture with what seemed to be an access road in the background. A sign read, “Red trail exit” and gave a two way arrow. We decided to head back rather than go to the end. I didn’t see any ruins, only whispers of wildlife, and no water or beavers. Maybe they were on one or more of the trails that jutted off of this one. Who knows. All and all I wouldn’t really recommend this path unless you’re looking for something easy and happen to live in the area. It was pleasant but pretty boring. There was however more stone walls than I could count so it might be a nice slice of New England scenery for someone who doesn’t live here as well.
Just when I feel like I know where everything is and there’s no new places to explore I get another giggle from the Universe. Lyndeborough is only thirty minutes from where I live and I had no idea this town even existed. I have never heard of it which is a shame because apparently that’s where the devil makes beans. Or something. I may have gotten that one a bit wrong… but what I do know is that Lyndeborough is one of many purgatories you’ll find scattered through our deliciously Puritanical New England. This time it comes in the form of waterfalls.
I was told by a few different people it was somewhere I needed to check out so I looked it up vaguely online for an address. There were numerous people who claimed the parking lot was hidden, that it was near impossible to find, and that the GPS will only lead you to a sign across town reading:
OK, so let me explain the sign. It’s placed on Purgatory Falls Road which being the clever thing I am I figured was the home of Purgatory Falls. So I let my GPS take me there because it was being a total jerk today and wouldn’t acknowledge that not only Purgatory Road was a real place but also the entire town of Lyndeborough. SIGH. Now here’s the trick. Purgatory Falls Road is NOT correct but plain old Purgatory Road is. And the parking lot is indeed really frelling easy to miss. The signs out front are worn right off the trees and it doesn’t even look like a trail head. I had to drive in and find a single 8 by 11 sign hanging above a trash can that let me know that yes, I found the right place (by following good old fashioned print directions.) But I’ve made it easier for you. While I was in the parking lot I took a snap of my GPS coordinates which your GPS should not fuck up!
Alright, now that we have that cleared up… I was only one of three cars there when I arrived. When I entered the woods I was greeted by the usual path although there wasn’t a damn marker anywhere and the trail kept having other little partial trails jutting off it. Sooooo I was already hesitant but I did manage to end up at Lower Purgatory Falls which was perhaps a quarter of a mile in. I was lucky to show up early enough that no one was here. I had the whole waterfall to myself. It’s apparently a popular swimming hole with a nice area below and above the falls to take a nice ice cold dip. There were missing items of clothing and random trash scattered through the whole area. I had done a very shitty amount of research before I left and knew that this was Lower Purgatory Falls but that there is also an Upper Purgatory Falls somewhere. Stupidly I thought this was a loop trail. And I was feeling a bit brazen because I saw the first trail markers at the falls. I’m already in the woods why not? I took the yellow trail, whatever that is, but it wasn’t long before I realized every goddamn trail was marked with yellow markers. They all led into each other sure but… whew, that was confusing.
It was a hot out today and I didn’t really feel like dying out here so I tried to stay near the riverbank figuring it was likely the river attached to the other falls and definitely was the river attached to the Lower Falls should I need to get back to the car. It was a pretty little hike with lots of little inlets and river scenes. I was enjoying myself. But then I had to turn away from the river and that made me get a bit fidgety. Up until then I’d only seen two other hikers who I thought were an army. Christ were they a loud bunch. I was shocked to find they were a young couple and not a circus troop of small children (the only kind of people I’d expect so much noise from!) From here the trail was… sketchily marked, at times getting pretty overgrown and hairy and at two places surrounded by “NO TRESPASSING!” and “Security cameras are on!” signs. Not very welcoming. Those were attached to the properties of two mansions and I just can’t help but wonder what is wrong with those people. You bought a house almost built directly on a popular public trail did you not expect people to be wandering by? Idjits. Oh what I’d do to live on a house attached to such a nice hiking trail! I’d be HAPPY.
And I kept walking. And walking. And walking. Deeper into the woods. The trail markers are now mostly yellow with a few white ones mixed in to keep me guessing and offshoot trails are appearing with orange and blue markers. Finally I was back at the river bank. I immediately looked for a spot to stop and rest. Heat exhaustion was starting to make my head hurt. And then I saw the PERFECT little spot. A rock stretched out over the water and allowed for a nice semi-secluded spot to sit so I crawled out there, lobbed off my shoes, and splashed in that COLD COLD water like a small child. It was shaded and the water was so cold it actually hurt to put my feet in it but I was desperate and it did make me immediately feel better. I dithered about there for a while before passing hikers make me feel a bit self conscious so I moved on.
The trail ahead was not the “easy” beginner trail I was told it’d be online. Jagged and often slippery roots, steep hills, and terrifying cliffs dotted the entire route. My knees were screaming bloody murder at me. And now my head and stomach were kicking in. Heat. And then I came to a clearly marked trail junction that pointed to whence I came “Lower Falls” and another path “Purgatory Brook Trail” which I think leads to the other falls. So I kept going even though by now I was toast. I’d WAY overdone it. I needed to be at the car not 4 or 5 miles into the woods. I still kept going before reaching a bridge that both had trail markings and yet another Private Property/No Trespassing sign. I sat down, pulled out my phone, turned the mobile data on, and started to figure this out. First I tried “Where am I?” which resulted in a map…. of literally nothing no matter how much I zoomed out. Fuck. Now I’ve done it. I’m in no man’s land. Then I tried looking up where the falls were on the trail. One source said 5.1 miles apart, another said the whole trail was 15 miles. All said they started in one parking lot and ended in another. NOT A LOOP. And I didn’t have any kind soul to pick me up at parking lot #2 because I was too stupid to plan this out better.
I turned back and started marching. It seemed like forever before I found that rock plank over the river again and when I did I stopped and dunked myself. In fact I wandered around a bit splashing water over myself as much as I could. A hiker sneaked by me as I was probably looking like a lunatic prospecting for gold. I’d seen very few hikers out today but ALL of them caught me doing or saying something nutty. One caught me muttering, “Yellow trail my ass! These markers are shit!” A second caught me cursing again at myself when I twisted my ankle going down a hill, “Fucking no! I am NOT breaking my goddamn ankle out in the goddamn woods!” Luckily no one came upon me with my ass in the air taking a macro photo of an adorable mushroom I found on a ground but that is usually when people do pass… This has all taught me 1) I curse a profound amount and 2) I’m probably pretty embarrassing to be around.
When I gathered myself up from the river I decided to dunk my socks in the water so I’d at least have something cold and wet around my ankles keeping me sorted as I made my way back. Another egregious trip back. This time when the trail weaved away from the water I sort of freaked a little bit because in this direction it was marked even worse. Would I ever get back to the car?! Every now and then I’d notice something to keep me somewhat distracted like a half-made fairy house made of birch bark or a grackle. We have grackles in New England?! WHY IS IT MOCKING ME?!
Eventually I heard my phone ringing. My mother had noticed hours after taking her car that I was missing. I’d arrived at 10:30. It was 3PM before I finally found my way to the parking lot. This time the waterfalls themselves were filled with people but I was less than thrilled to walk from the falls back to my car in a rat’s nest of unmarked trails and half trails. Just keep walking. Just keep walking.
I made it. What a glorious sight the car was. It was however hotter than hell when I opened it up and as it burped out that 140 degree stale air I was dooooone. I’m home now. Already in pain. Going to be paying for this one for days to come! But although I know I will be in a coma for the next couple of days I am still happy I went. And heeeeey, maybe I can drive to the Upper Falls parking lot and see the upper falls and the devil’s bean pot from there. Then I can say I did the whole trail and stop feeling like such a hiking wuss.
