Walking with Waldo

Downtown Wellfleet.

Leave the roads; take the trails.

-Pythagoras

Today, we walk from Wellfleet to Truro, about 12 miles north along the path we’re taking.  From here on out, the Cape narrows so there aren’t many roads or streets that run north and south, taking us from where we last left off to our goal.  We want to avoid the main road, Rte 6, which does run north/south, as it has heavy traffic and, honestly, it’s kinda boring.  There are a lot of roads that run from Rte 6 to the shore on both sides of the Cape, but few, on either side, that run lengthwise up toward Provincetown.  But we did find a serpentine path, going first toward the Atlantic coast, then crossing over Rte 6 and nudging close to Cape Cod Bay.  At the end of today’s trek, we have to go close to, but not on, Rte 6 to avoid a salt marsh.  This meandering adds a good 4 miles or so to our walk over what we’d travel on Rte 6, but, hey, we’re not in a hurry.  The object is the walk, not the goal.

Over half of the land area of Truro is part of the Cape Cod National Seashore, established in 1961 by President John F. Kennedy.  The Pilgrims originally considered the Provincetown and Truro area as a place to settle, but then decided that the area was unsuitable.  Some 7,000 Wampanoag Indians lived there at the time.  In the 1690s, it was settled by Europeans, with fishing, whaling and shipbuilding being the major industries.  Cape Cod has always been a popular location for artists because of its light (there are also a whole lot of people who feel that it is just a beautiful, peaceful place to live).  Its many beaches attract a seasonal tourist trade that thrives today (even with Covid).  Truro is the site of Cape Cod’s first lighthouse, erected in 1797.  Its population today is 12,607.

We start our trek with a right turn from the CCRT trailhead and walk down a back road toward the Atlantic Ocean.  Phyllis is back with us, so Waldo has three sheep to herd today.  The temperature hovers around 60 and is a little cool, although it’s two PM.  There is a 10-knot sea breeze blowing – just strong enough to make that 60 degrees feel quite nippy.  At first, we all wear light jackets against the chill, except Waldo, of course, who wears his all-weather sable birthday suit.  It isn’t long, though, and we shed our coats and carry them, once we work up some good body-heat.  The sea air is invigorating and we soon make a left turn, just north of the Marconi Wireless Station, and parallel the shore.  Looking up, we see several parasails flying just above the surf.  At first, we think they’re kites that propel surfboards, but as we get close, we can see that there are people suspended beneath them.  What we’re watching is a group of six or more paragliders sailing in the soft wind just inshore.  An adventure for the future?  Possibly…

We talk about all manner of things as we plod along, and today, the conversation revolves around what kind of a civilization could be built, knowing what we know now, if there were only seven million human beings alive on Earth instead of seven billion.  It seems like a relevant thing to think about, given Covid and all, and I’ve often wondered about it in a Utopian kind of way.  Think about it.  A lot of our problems would just go away, but we’d have to give up some things too.  Many of our needs could be supplied by robotic industries, including farming.  But would there be enough people around to continue researching medical interventions, like medication?  The production of medicines could be automated, but the research?  Doubtful, with what we have to work with now.  Just how much would such a civilization have to give up?  How much of that would be worth it in order to reap the benefits of a smaller population?  The miles fly beneath our feet.

Turning back west, we walk just north of Long Pond and are soon crossing over Rte 6.  A right turn down Main Street, a two-laned narrow road, takes us through downtown Wellfleet.  It’s a quaint New England town with small wooden shops lining the street.  After that, we’re on a narrow back road, with little traffic, that skirts salt marshes and runs close to the shore on the Bay side of the Cape.  We’re inland far enough that we can’t see the bay and our path is surrounded by short scrub pines.  In a little over four hours from the trailhead, we’ve come to our car where we left it in the parking lot of the Truro Historical Society.  Today’s trek was twelve miles, though it didn’t feel like it was that far.

Beautiful days, cool temperatures, smooth paths and good company will do that, you know.

A forest of dead trees near the western shore.

Nice, shady, smooth walk to Wellfleet..

Our Memories of the ocean will linger on, long after our footprints in the sand are gone.

-Anonymous

Four days after our Centerville to South Dennis walk, we’re back at it.  Our goal is Orleans, about 13.4 more miles down the CCRT (Cape Cod Rail Trail).  Phyllis has decided to join us again, which makes the trip so much more pleasant.  The sun is out and the temperature is cool without being cold; it’s a beautiful day for a walk on the cape.  Waldo is eager to go and seems very happy to be out here, but then he’s always up for a good walk.  His shepherding instincts show themselves, when one of us ventures off to water the weeds, by anxiously trying to follow with a bewildered “Where are you going?” look smeared across his hairy face.  The rest of the time, he’s trotting along on the side of the tarmac, looking for sticks to carry – two or three at a time.

We pass through Brewster, a town first settled in 1656 and incorporated in 1803.  The town was named after Elder William Brewster, the first religious leader of the Pilgrims at Plymouth Colony.  It had the first water-powered grist and woolen mill in the country, founded in the late 17^th century.  Helen Keller and her teacher, Anne Sullivan, visited the town in 1888.  The population of Brewster is 1,961.

Our destination, Orleans, was first settled by Pilgrims in 1693 and incorporated in 1797.  Not wanting a English name, as they were captured twice by the British during the Revolutionary War, they named their town after Louis Phillipe II, Duke of Orleans.  In 1918, Brewster was shelled by a German submarine, the only attack on the continental US during WWI.  I’m guessing they’ll not be eager to give the town a German name anytime soon.  It is now home to 1,867 souls.

I’ve grown to really appreciate the rail trails in our country.  What a great idea to convert old, unused railroad beds into paths that walkers and bikers can use.  They’re all over the country and can be found easily on websites like www.traillink.com, or www.alltrails.com.  The parent organizations provide maps and guidebooks and, through donations, are making even more trails available that run along the steam locomotive roadbeds of the not so distant past.  In any event, we follow the CCRT, pass through some corrugated culverts and walk past flooded cranberry bogs.  Waldo walks along the tarmac, surrounded by sandy berms bearing scrub pine and oak.  His nose is to the ground and I wonder if he’s fascinated by the different smells of the seashore.  If he is, he doesn’t show it.  But, then, he lives in an olfactory world and seems fascinated by all odors.  After 13.4 miles, make it to Orleans at the Dunkin’ Donuts where we left our car.  We have a refreshing large iced tea, an iced decaf with oat milk for Phyllis, and a bagel with cream cheese, and we drive home.

Three days later, it’s on to the end of the CCRT in Wellfleet.  On the way, we pass through Eastham.  In 1620, a hunting party from the Mayflower, which was anchored in Provincetown harbor after a rough Atlantic crossing, met the local Indians, the Nauset, at First Encounter Beach.  Eastham’s population is now 4,893.  Further along our route is Wellfleet.  Wellfleet achieved town status in 1763.  Originally, oyster beds drove the local economy, along with whaling and fishing.  The first transatlantic radio transmitter was built by Guglielmo Marconi, yes, that Marconi, on a coastal bluff in South Wellfleet in 1901-02.  The first radio telegram was sent from America to England, from President Theodore Roosevelt to King Edward VII, on January 18, 1903.  Former residents include Noam Chomsky, John Dos Passos, Guglielmo Marconi, Anthony Perkins, and many artists.  Its population today is 3,481.

Phyllis was not able to join us on this leg, but plans to join us for the rest of the trip.  It’s another fine day with warm, but not hot, temperatures, cloudy skies and only light winds.  We are quite comfortable in our shirtsleeves, yet Waldo doesn’t require a lot of water.  This walk is not as long as many of our more recent treks and we’re done in just over four hours.  On the way, we pass by salt marshes and plod down long straight, narrow stretches of tarmac shaded by trees rooted in the soft sand.  Oaks are only beginning to drop their leaves, which are mostly still green, and many others are conifers – scrub pine and western red cedar.  A lot of bicycles pass us; this part of the trail seems to be quite popular with cyclists.  Finally, we come to mile marker 22.0 and the CCRT ends.  We’ll miss it, it was a beautiful path to follow.

Only two more legs to P’town, then a short walk to Race Point.

We pass by a brackish inlet in mid fall..

Waldo, Christine and Phyllis. I am in my anchor place.

I only went out for a walk and finally concluded to stay out till sundown, for going out, I found, was really going in.

-John Muir

And we have a new walker, Phyllis, a 73-year old woman, recently met, who said she wanted to join us when our journey was mentioned (we are kinda proud of it).  She is very fit, likes to go on long walks, has bicycled far in Europe and loves to explore.  Have we ever got a trek for her!  Even though she didn’t start with us at the New York border, lo these seven months ago, she says she’s interested in walking with us to the end, and then, who knows?  We have spent some time discussing what we will call the end of this trek and decided it will be Race Point, a beach at the northernmost tip of the cape.  After that, we’re talking about walking back down the Cape on its Atlantic beaches to the elbow at Chatham.  But that is TBD.

Our walk starts where we left off at Centerville.  Centerville is one of seven villages making up the town of Barnstable.  The other six villages are the village of Barnstable, Cotuit, Marston Mills, Osterville, West Barnstable and Hyannis.  Barnstable was named after Barnstaple, Devon, England.  It was incorporated in 1639 and was originally a farming community.  Salt works and fishing soon added to the town’s industries and by the end of the 19^th century, some 804 ships called it home.  By that time, it became the tourist destination it is today – the Kennedys still use their compound in Hyannis.  Jack Kerouac and Kurt Vonnegut have also called it home.  The population is 44,477.

The first part of our track takes us down a wide sidewalk separated a short distance from a highway.  On the road, the traffic is heavy and moving fast; it makes Waldo nervous.  The route is complex and I have to stop periodically to make sure we take the appropriate turns to get us to the beginning of the Cape Cod Rail Trail, about 8 miles from where we started.  Always open to making new friends, Christine, Waldo and I are really enjoying getting to know Phyllis as we plod along.  She is an engaging conversationalist, we talk about all manner of things, and we get so wrapped up in it that we miss a turn and end up adding a good two miles to the route.  We pass by the east side of the Barnstable Municipal Airport and, shortly thereafter, come to the rail trail.  For the rest of this leg, it will be much easier to walk and talk at the same time without getting lost.

The CCRT (Cape Cod Rail Trail) is a total of 22.0 miles long, running from near the Barnstable Airport to Wellfleet.  It’s paved from one end to the other and the going is smooth, with only a couple of places where we have to leave it, for short distances, for city streets and roads.  Bordered by many of the same kinds of trees we’ve encountered on our walk so far, our way is shaded by our old friends, white pine, pitch pine, white oak, red oak, black oak, sumac, maples of various kinds, Chinese Arborvitae and others.  The weather is partly cloudy with only a slight breeze and there is a constant, but not overpowering smell of the sea.  The Atlantic Ocean is only a couple of miles from us to our right and the Cape Cod Bay lies just about the same distance from us to our left.  We pass by a few salt marshes and they have their own salty odor that belies their presence before we get to them.  The walk is, thankfully, bugless.

We pass through Yarmouth and end up at a parking lot just off the trail in South Dennis.  Yarmouth was incorporated in 1639.  The Indian name of the area was Mattacheese, which means “old land by the borders of water.”  The town was named after Yarmouth, England and, today, brewery and tourism play the biggest part in its economy.  Its population is 23,381.  Dennis was originally part of Yarmouth and was incorporated in 1793.  The town was named after resident minister Josiah Dennis.  Seafaring was the major industry in its early history and the place is now a popular seaside resort town.  The actress Bette Davis was “discovered” at the Cape Playhouse, one of the oldest summer theaters in the US, while working as an usher.  Author Mary Higgins Clark is from Dennis as well.

It takes us a little over five hours to complete our walk, the pace being set by my slow plod.  Christine, Phyllis and Waldo are up front and I’m in my usual position, dragging anchor.  I can walk faster, but why should I?  I’m enjoying myself out here.  This isn’t a race.

After all, the real value is in the walk, not in attaining the goal.

Flooded cranberry bog getting ready for harvest.

Cape Cod Canal, looking south toward the Atlantic, from the Bourne Bridge.

But the beauty is in the walking – we are betrayed by destinations.

-Gwyn Thomas

From Wareham, our trek finally leads to the Cape Cod Canal at Buzzards Bay, only 4.3 miles away.  Cape Cod is a peninsula that juts straight out into the Atlantic Ocean, then bends around in the shape of a human arm flexed at a right angle.  The elbow is near Chatham, and at the extreme end of the cape, where it curls around into Cape Cod Bay like a furled fist, is Provincetown.  The Cape Cod Canal is a manmade slice of water that cuts the cape at the shoulder, passing between the towns of Sagamore and Sandwich in the north, and Buzzards Bay and Bourne in the south, making the cape an island.  Without the canal, shipping would have to travel up to an additional 150 miles to get around the peninsula.  Originally conceived by Myles Standish in 1623 and occasionally reconsidered afterwards, nothing much happened until dredging started in 1909.  The canal was opened on a limited basis seventeen days before the opening of the Panama Canal on July 24, 1914.  It is 7 miles long, the longest sea-level canal in the world, 480 feet wide and its maximal depth is 32 feet at mean low water.  There are three bridges which span the watery gap, the Sagamore Bridge to the north and the Bourne Bridge, plus the Cape Cod Railroad Bridge, to the south.  Construction for all three began circa 1933.

Our route takes us from Wareham along city streets to the canal at Buzzards Bay.  There, we follow a bicycle path that runs next to the water, to the Bourne Bridge where we cross.  At the bridge, the road rises in an arc and we pause at the apex, high above the canal.  Behind us, mainland Massachusetts stretches west some 200 miles in the sidewalks, streets, highways, trails, rail-trails, and foot paths we pounded step by step.  In front of us lies about 60 miles of more of the same.  Beneath us flows a wide body of water that served as a beckoning milestone for almost seven months.  A body of water that, in one direction, bends around in a gentle curve and then gets lost in trees.  In the other direction, it passes under the nearby railroad bridge, then widens out into Buzzards Bay and the Atlantic Ocean.  We take one more step east and, finally, after all this time, we’ve made it to the Cape!  Filled with a sense of accomplishment, but with our eyes on the prize, we continue on to another bike path, also running next to the water.  We’ve made it to the cape, but we still have more to go.

The three of us just keep plodding along until, 13.6 miles from Wareham, exhausted and sore, we finally make it to our car in Sandwich.  Sandwich was settled in 1637 by approximately sixty families from Saugus.  It was named after Sandwich, Kent, England.  It and Yarmouth are the oldest towns on Cape Cod.  In the 1650s, the Religious Society of Friends (Quakers), were attracted to the area.  The Massachusetts Bay Colony banished them and in 1659, executed some.   Despite the persecution, the Quakers never completely left and, today, Sandwich’s Quaker Meetings are the oldest continuous Monthly Quaker Meetings in America.  In 1826, the Boston and Sandwich Glass Company arrived and doubled the population.  In 1854, the factory was open 24 hours a day, employed 550 workers and produced 5,200,000 pieces of glassware annually.  Today, the town is part of the Cape Cod resort industry and sees thousands of itinerant visitors each year.  The population as of 2020 is 2,866.

Three days later, we walk from Sandwich to Centerville.  I look for routes on Google maps that have back roads or, when possible, walking trails.  In order to select such a route, I have to force the program to make it track where I want to go.  This splits up the route into segments and the software does not list an overall distance.  I have to guess the distance from the time Google says it will take us to walk it.  My guess for this leg was about 13 miles.  I am wrong.  It turns out to be 15 miles.  Man, I thought the last leg was long!  Unfortunately, there are no places to park a car that wouldn’t significantly shorten the trip.  Even though it proves to be longer than desirable, we did find and follow interesting trails, some of which didn’t appear on non-Google map software.  Christine, Waldo and I just keep plodding along, putting one foot in front of the other, until we finally make it to our destination, a Dunkin’ Donuts in Centerville, after over five hours.  Man, was I ever glad to sit in the car seat when we got there.

These last two legs have been brutal, but we are getting close to our goal.  We definitely want to get to the P’town beaches before the wintery cold weather sets in.  I don’t think I want to go swimming in the Atlantic, but I would like to wiggle my bare toes in the seawater and wet sand without them getting frostbit.  Christine just might brave a dip, wearing a wetsuit.  And Waldo, he’s never seen so much water!

It’ll be really interesting to find out how Waldo reacts to the surf when we get to the end of our trek.

The moment we crossed over to the Cape.

Lake Rico at the edge of Massasoit State park.

We are tied to the ocean.  And when we go back to the sea, whether it is to sail or to watch, — we are going back to whence we came.

-John F. Kennedy

From Rico Lake in the Massasoit State Park in Taunton, we hike through the park, through the town of Lakeville and end in Rochester at the Old Colony Regional Vocational Technical High School.  The Park is heavily wooded and hosts a large number tree species.  Up until now, I have appreciated the many different kinds of trees that have offered their shade to us as we walk along, but I never bothered to speciate them.  Once in the park, I began paying more attention to the arboreal splendor New England displays.  There is, of course, the usual red oak, white pine, red maple, and hemlock, but the park also has catalpa, black cheery, pitch pine, white oak, tamarack and birch.  Christine knows quite a bit about all this and readily educates me as I wonder at the different kinds of trees as we find them.  Bushes and weeds abound as well, and I’m also interested in learning about them.

There is a paved road that meanders most of the way through the park, ending in a plethora of hiking trails that continue on in a number of different directions.  Side roads leading to camping areas split off from the main road and we pass more than a few people as they hike, bicycle and walk their dogs.  Waldo walks along, doing his own version of a nature walk, not speciating what he encounters, I’m pretty sure, but certainly checking everything out. Tail wagging, nose sniffing, he trots along out front, happily scouting out our route.  At the end of the paved road, we pick a path that heads toward where we want to go and exit the park on a narrow back street that has very little traffic.

This part of Massachusetts has a large number of lakes, ponds and cranberry bogs and we purposely choose a route that skirts many and crosses a couple on dikes that run near mid-water.  The bigger lakes have small fishing boats and quite a few migrating Canadian geese.  We also find Japanese knotweed, staghorn sumac, winterberry holly, small-leafed lime, northern bayberry and Chinese arborvitae.  I downloaded an app that helps me figure out what kind of living thing we come across, all the way down to the species if I’m lucky, but there is so much life and so little time.  The walk is 13.3 miles long and would take us close to five hours to complete it if we walked without break.  If I stopped and wondered at every weed and insect we passed, we wouldn’t finish until the following day.  So, instead, I focus on a few bits of biology as we go along and defer much curiosity to investigate in the long run.

You might wonder why I have developed such an interest in naming what I see.  I haven’t been all that interested in labeling stuff in the past.  But I find that taking the time to identify parts of the natural world forces me to pay closer attention to and engage more fully with Mother Nature.  And that, I find very fulfilling.

We end up at the Old Colony Regional Vocational Technical High School in Rochester.  From there, after two days of rest, we continue down back roads to Wareham, another 13.3 miles down the road, where we left a car at Don’s Custom Upholstery.  Wareham sits on the shore of Buzzard’s Bay and is home to many yachts and pleasure boats.  It was officially incorporated in 1739 and was named after a town of the same name in England.  Its early industry revolved around shipbuilding and related industries.  It also serves as a resort town.  Its population is 22,666 and is the birthplace of the actress Geena Davis.

As we get closer to Wareham, the ground gets more and more sandy and the road is absolutely flat.  No hills here.  The air smells of the sea — a familiar aroma to Christine and me as we’ve both spent significant parts of our lives living and sailing on sailboats on the ocean.

We’re pretty tired as we climb into the car to return to our starting point and we decide to wait for three days before we continue.  Even Waldo is spent.

Our next leg takes us across the Sagamore Bridge and we’ll finally be on Cape Cod!

Middle of Massasoit State Park.

Nice shady, tree-lined road.

My soul is full of longing for the secret of the sea, and the heart of the great ocean sends a thrilling pulse through me.

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Our next stop is just west of Taunton, 12.5 miles from North Attleborough.  Most of Taunton’s settlers were originally from Taunton in Somerset, England, when the town was incorporated in 1639.  A long history of iron industry in the area started in 1656 with the Taunton Iron Works and was known in the nineteenth century as “Silver City” for its many silversmithing operations.  As well as bar iron, the iron industry also produced goods like stoves, tacks and machinery.  In 1846 there was even a steam locomotive plant as well as textile mills, brick-making and shipbuilding.  During WWII, Taunton housed a prisoner of war camp containing German and Italian soldiers.  The National Weather Service now operates a regional weather forecast office in Taunton.  The City is trying to attract semiconductor, electronics and biotechnology firms.  In 2012, the City opened the Global War on Terrorism War Memorial.  The population of Taunton is 57,464.

The days are starting to cool down a little since high summer.  The temps can still get up to the low eighties around 4 o’clock, but the mornings are in the cool low sixties if we start early enough.  Today, we started just after seven and the temperature was a friendly 64 degrees.  We’re starting to have to drive farther before we can start walking; it took about 45 minutes this morning.  As we get closer to the Cape, it’ll take even longer, especially after we cross the Cape Cod Canal, since there are no freeways on Cape Cod.  We start from a Dunkin’ Donuts’ parking lot in North Attleborough and we’ll end up in a Dunkin’ Donuts in Taunton.

The streets we chose to follow are not terribly busy and some even have sidewalks.  Waldo saunters along, doing his Waldo thing, at the forward end of the leash.  Christine’s natural pace is faster than mine, so I’m often left a little behind.  This creates a leash-snarl of sorts as Waldo, eight meters in front of me, seems to have a talent for positioning himself so that Christine is constrained by his tether.  Maybe it’s part of his herding instincts?  He does it without looking behind him to see where we are, so he’s doing it by some none-visual cue.  Christine tolerates it well and often ducks under the line, to just have to do it again in 10 minutes.

The time and distance flows by quickly as Christine and I become engaged in discussions about personalities, morality in interpersonal relationships, effectiveness of certain types of behavior and the pursuit of happiness, with some Buddhism added in here and there.  This can be quite a challenge at times as Christine is often a few feet in front of me and traffic noise can be loud, but we manage.  When we finally get to our target Dunkin’, I’m spent, and pleasantly exhausted.  It’s strange, but these 12.5-mile treks seem less of an ordeal than my daily six-mile walks with Waldo.  Don’t get me wrong.  I love those hikes on the Marlborough Rail-Trail with Waldo, an occasional neighbor and Mommy Nature, but I’m glad when they’re over.  Today, I feel more tired, but it also seems like I’ve had a real good time.  The newness of the path helps, but the fine company is a real asset.

A few days pass and we continue with a 10 mile walk from the western side of Taunton to a beach on Pico Lake in Massasoit State Park, Middleboro.  Middleboro was settled by Europeans in 1661 and they called the town Nemasket, from a Native American settlement along the Nemasket River.  Nemasket means “place of fish,” as there are large numbers of herring that migrate up the river each spring.  The town name was changed to Middlebury and then it was incorporated as Middleborough in1669.  Both names were derived from a town in the Nethererlands, named Middleburg.  Alden Shoes are manufactured in Middleboro, one of the last remaining shoe manufacturers in America.  It is the corporate headquarters of Ocean Spray cranberries.  In 2012, a town ordinance was passed, banning the public use of profanity with a fine of $20.  However, this was deemed to be unconstitutional and its enforcement was blocked.  I wish I knew that when we were there, I would have been sorely tempted to leave a blue streak in the air.  Today, Middleboro’s population is 25,121.

When we drop off the end-of-trek car at the lake, the temperature is in the mid fifties and there is a billowy mist hanging over Pico Lake.  It’s just after 7 AM and there are a few people already putting small boats out onto the water.  One small boat, carrying just one man and fishing rods, is close to shore and can be seen through the fog.  The boat and fisherman seem to be hanging in a cloud, slowly drifting through space and time, perhaps seeking serenity.

We leave the Dunkin’ in Taunton and the walk is much like the last leg until we get close to the lake.  We pass a sign that boasts, “King Field,” a small airport with two hangars and grass runways.  We also pass a sign that says, “No Herring Removal.”  They must be protected to some degree.  It really feels like we are getting close to the ocean, although we’re still a good 16 miles from the sea at Wareham.  We’re only 20 miles from Buzzard’s Bay and the Cape Cod Canal.  It won’t be long now.

Next week, Cape Cod!

“Come on! Catch up!” says Waldo.

Sometimes things can get kinda funky.

“It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door.  You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.”

-J.R.R. Tolkien

Karen decided to stop coming with us on our trek.  Everything is fine, she is healthy, life just got in the way.  We’re going to miss you, Karen, and your superb navigational skills.

Over the past week, Christine, Waldo and I have walked almost twenty miles (19.3 or so).  We started in Millville, walked to Franklin on the SNETT (9.3 miles), then, a couple of days later, took to the streets and walked another 10 miles to North Attleborough.

Franklin was first settled by Europeans in 1660, then incorporated during the Revolutionary War in 1778.  It was named after Benjamin Franklin, who donated 116 books to the settlers.  The Franklin Public Library has been open to the public since.  It is supposed to be America’s first public library.

Franklin is also home to America’s father of public education, Horace Mann, as well as to the country’s oldest continuously operational one-room schoolhouse.  It was operational from 1792 until 2008.  Franklin’s population is 34,087.

The SNETT changes its nature between Millville and Franklin.  In places, it’s paved and busy, in other places, it is graveled and less traveled, and it has spots where it is little more than a footpath.  While on the path, it’s hard to get lost – but it also has its funky spots.

There’s a place on the edge of Woonsocket, just barely in Massachusetts, where the trail leads up to the Blackstone River and stops.  No bridge.  We bushwhacked around some fences then left the SNETT for city streets.  Wandering into Connecticut for a bit, we crossed the river on a street bridge.  Here, asking directions proved better that asking the GPS and after some educated guesses, we again looked for the trail.  There was this piece of sidewalk that the GPS said was where the trail was supposed to be, but there were no indications that it was anything other than a sidewalk.  We walked on in faith, then found something that looked more like a trail that peeled off to our left and was going in the right direction.  Soon, we were away from the city and it was clear we were where we were supposed to be.

Another funky spot, about a mile from the end of the trail in Franklin, is where a tunnel is being constructed under a street.  The trail and street are fenced off until the work is done.  We clamored up one side of the embankment and down the other, right next to the fence, and had little trouble – except Waldo was wondering what we were doing.  We could see where we had to go, it was just a matter of getting there.  Even today, there are places where you have to fight the underbrush to get to where you’re going.

The next bit of our week’s journey, after a day of rest, is to take to the city streets 10 miles to North Attleborough.  In precolonial times, the area was the site of the Bay Path, a major Native American trail to Narragansett Bay, the Seekonk River, Boston and parts of Rhode Island.  The English settled in the region in 1634.  Originally, the settlers subsisted on agriculture, fishing and hunting.  George Washington slept there with his army as they moved to Boston to rid the city of General Thomas Gage’s troops.  There were some mills and factories in the area early on, including button and nail manufacturing, textiles, jewelry, and cotton spinning.  Due to its proximity to Gillette Stadium, just 5 miles away, it is now home to many professional athletes. Its population is 29,349.

We are able to follow back streets most of the way, the day is cool and there is plenty of shade from the abundant trees lining the road and the walk is very pleasant.  Waldo is a little nervous, being so close to traffic, but the traffic is slow and not at all heavy.  I’m sure he misses the rail-trails.  Most of the way, we have sidewalks to follow, something that has been a bit of a luxury so far on our trek.  Though there aren’t street signs everywhere we walk, we are able to muddle through without our getting lost, or GPS losing us.  We just make the little triangle go along the trail of blue dots on Google Maps, you know?

In a sense, we’re wandering, roaming into places we may have been, but never afoot.  It wasn’t too many years ago and we might be going to the same places by following maps.  Maps are great, as long as, every once in a while, you come across a “sign” that tells you, “You are here,” in some form or another.  There were many times in my past when I had little idea of where I was on the map, so it was of little use.  Even in the twenty-first century, you can have the same problem.  Your map is on your phone instead of a large piece of paper, but GPS can only locate you on the map when it can get a good satellite signal.  It didn’t happen to us on our last few trips, but in the past, we’ve gotten lost because GPS lost us.  We sorta knew where we were, but GPS didn’t.  It cost us a good three-mile detour in Dalton.  That was painful.

Ah, the trials and tribulations of the twenty-first century.  I can only imagine what walking in this country was like before there were maps or GPS.

Even with all the fancy gizmos, though, it’s still an adventure.

And sometimes things can get REALLY funky.

Back on the SNETT.

Compassion becomes real when we recognize our shared humanity.

-Pema Chodron

Today, we head out for Millville, about 7.5 miles further down our path to P’town.  Originally inhabited by the Nipmuck people, Millville was first settled by Europeans in 1662, just 42 years after Plymouth Colony was established.  It wasn’t officially incorporated until 1916 and now has a population of 3,265.  The town lies in the Blackstone River Valley National Heritage Corridor and has a well-preserved lock which was used on the Blackstone Canal in the early 19^th century.  It also has a historic Friends Meetinghouse.  As its name suggests, it grew around a succession of mills, but in the 1800’s.  The canal, and later, the Providence and Worcester Railroad, provided a means for the transportation of manufactured goods that contributed to the area’s growth.  It was hit pretty hard with the recession of 2008 and is still struggling today.

To get to Millville, we’ll continue on down the SNETT (Southern New England Trunkline Trail) from Douglas.  This part of the trial gets a little funky.  In places, it’s a broad, level and graveled path. In other places, it narrows to a rocky footpath.  In one place, as we come to Route 146, a four-lane divided highway, it dwindles into nothing, choked by rocks, undergrowth, and a steep embankment.  When we lose the trail, we have to backtrack and clamber down an incline to a seldom used path that runs right next to Route 146.  A short distance later, we come to a bridge passing over a street and we have to scramble in the weeds beside a hurricane fence to get to the street.  Once there, we follow the pavement, turn onto other streets, until we come across the trail again.  The trail there is cared-for gravel that soon becomes paved.  The blacktop then continues all the way to our destination in Millville.  Such is the nature of this trail.  It varies depending on the effort supplied by the communities through which it runs.  It’s definitely a work in progress.

The country we plod through is forestland.  There are no large bore old trees, at least, very few, but many trees that are fifty years old and younger.  The shade is contiguous and the temperature in the high sixties and low seventies.  People pass us, and the number and makeup of those who do vary with the nature of the trail.  There are a lot of people out and about on the paved parts – families with strollers and young children, joggers, bicyclists, and dogwalkers.  The numbers dwindle on the graveled parts where we see mostly dogwalkers and a few mountain bikers.  We are entirely on our own when we have to bushwhack it.  What’s the matter?  No one with a sense of adventure?

There does seem to be quite a few people out on the trails where we go.  Maybe it’s the influence of Covid, I don’t know.  I did notice an increase in the numbers when everyone was sequestered at home in March, but the numbers seem to be higher than this time last year, even though restrictions have loosened somewhat.  Maybe, just maybe, once people got a taste of walking down these byways, they started to appreciate their worth.  I am pleasantly surprised by the demeanor of everyone we pass.  They all seem happy, friendly and quietly, thoughtfully enjoying themselves.  There is more than one community where someone started a rock garden with a sign that reads something like, “Take one.  Leave one.  Share one.”  Some are just bare stones that can easily fit in the palm of your hand, some are painted bright colors with terse messages meant to brighten the day, like, “Live.  Breathe.  Love.”  Even in these dark days of divisive politics, people on the trails seem to be reaching out, offering and receiving a welcoming message of shared humanity.  The world could use more trail-greetings and fewer street-confrontations.

I think Waldo shares in this spirit.  No longer is he a puppy who pulls at the leash so hard he rubs himself raw.  Now, he never barks or growls at other dogs we pass.  He doesn’t make himself a nuisance for other people, or pull at the leash with all his might, trying to get at something that’s grabbed his attention.  He just plugs along, checking out that part of spacetime we’re passing through, taking it all in, never making a fuss.  And he is always eager to make a new friend.

Our next stop is Franklin, the end of SNETT and another 10.3 miles closer to our goal.

Some places on the SNETT are smoother than others.

Fort Meadows Reservoir through the fog.

The way I see it, if you want the rainbow, you gotta put up with the rain.

-Dolly Parton

It’s raining…  Again.  Not much, mind you, just a sprinkle.  Instead of roaring down in splatters, it’s tickling the leaves, making them chatter like a bowl full of Rice Krispies in milk.  Not even enough to get either Waldo or me noticeably wet.  I start out our morning walk wearing my rain suit because the forecast is for worse.  But it isn’t long before I’m getting wetter from the sweat I generate and can’t evaporate than I am from the water in the air.  The jacket comes off.  The pants stay on because it’s such a pain pulling them over my walking shoes.  The temperature is in the mid-sixties with a light breeze and I feel a little cooler.

We come to the meadow over which we can see the Fort Meadows Reservoir.  A duvet of grey fog looms thick just beyond the houses on the far shore.  No fishermen in their small dinghies are out today.  I can see the roof of the Bolton Street Tavern, which is open again, with restrictions, but no one is parked in the lot this time of day.  I can see and hear traffic on the streets that run along and through the reservoir, but the traffic is light and the sound seems muted.

The birds still chirp, but they seem to be more subdued, huddled, no doubt, in whatever shelter serves them as their lair.  In my mind’s eye, I see them shake their feathers until puffed out, settle on warm bellies and retract heads so that only beaks and eyes show.  The leaves in the trees where they nest will provide them with Swiss cheese roofs and the natural ability of feathers to roll water off without dampening the skin underneath should keep them dry – as long as they stay put, huddled at home.  I understand the sentiment, but ignore it.

During the late fall to early spring, the land bordering the rail-trail is all well-rooted dormant sticks pointing skyward.  The tan-grey Earth, covered by orange-tan dead leaves and hibernating yellowed grass, is exposed, when not buried in snow, and Mother Nature can be seen in her underwear.  The trees are skeletal and you can easily see through them to the environs beyond.  You could, if the mood struck you, draw an approximate topographic map from what you can see.  Now, in the late summer, especially after a good rain, the trail is wrapped in undergrowth, a green fluffy boa sporting red, purple and bright yellow flowers.  The prima-donna trees are all decked out in their leafy finery and obscure what lies beyond, as if to say, “You need not look any further.  What’s important and beautiful in life is here before your eyes.”  Today, the green seems eager to catch the water as it falls from the clouds and pass it on to the ground where roots can drink it in and stir the life-force that generates even more luscious green.

There are a few acorns, black walnut fruits and other seeds lying on the tarmac that have been strewn there by the heavy winds that accompanied other recent storms.  This time of year, they are small and immature, loosed prematurely from their tenuous grip on the nascent tendrils that attached them to their progenitors.  It won’t be many weeks from now and there will be more – mature, large and prodigious.  Many, as big as green tennis balls, will lie on the trail under the walnut trees.  There, in Waldo’s ball court, the two of us will be playing at chase the walnut fruit as we walk along.  Today, the tiny fruit just tease us for things to come.  Any fruit I kick down the path, Waldo looks at and ignores.  They aren’t tempting enough yet to go after.

The rain, although barely worth mentioning, has apparently convinced the squirrels, rabbits, chipmunks and other critters to stay in their burrows and nooks and crannies.  Come on, guys!  Come on out and play!  It’s not as if you’re going to melt because you get a little wet.  Waldo is at the end of the leash, nose pointed to the front, walking briskly.  I don’t see him doing much exploring with his nose or any of his other sense organs.  He’s just walking.

But me, I’m trying to take it all in.

Fort Meadows Reservoir at dawn on a clear day.

At first, the trail is narrow and rough.

Not all those who wander are lost.

-J.R.R.Tolkien

The Southern New England Trunk Line Trail, or SNETT, was designated a National Recreation Trail in 1994.  It was built on a segment of the New Haven Railroad’s Midland Division, which operated between Boston and Putnam, CT.  Today, SNETT runs west 22 miles from Franklin, Massachusetts, to the Connecticut state line just south of Webster.  From the Northeastern Connecticut state border, the trail is known as the Air Line Rail Trail and runs a further 54.6 miles west to East Hampton, CT, in the middle of the state.  That’s a total of 76.6 miles of trail!  I’m tempted to walk the rest of it one day, but for now, we’re going to walk only that part that runs from less than a mile from the Connecticut border to Franklin.  It is level, fairly straight and paved with gravel – at least the part of it that we’re following today.  Many believe that the railroad tracks were laid for commuting from northern Connecticut to northern Massachusetts.  In fact, the route was used to haul ice from Wallum Lake, south of Douglas, to Connecticut.  The route was originally planned as a regular railroad, but its financier died when the Titanic sank in April 1912.

Our end point is Douglas, about 7.8 mile away.  Douglas was settled by English settlers in 1715 and the name of Douglas was given to the territory of the town in 1746.  It was named after a prominent Boston doctor, Dr. William Douglass who gave some money to the residents to develop the town.  The surrounding forest gave rise to a woodcutting industry and the Douglas axe company.  There was also a woolen manufacturing company that was prominent in the history of the place.  General Lafayette stopped in Douglas during the Revolutionary War, to change horses, on his way to join General Washington in Boston.  Today, Douglas has a population of 8,794 and lies in the 5,907-acre Douglas State Forest, a state recreational area.

We start out on Mike’s Way and the temperature is a pleasant 65 degrees or so.  It rained during the night and the ground is damp, but there aren’t any large puddles of standing water.  We walk less than a mile and we come across the SNETT.  The trail is paved with gravel and isn’t muddy at all.  The roadbed runs in a straight line as far as the eye can see, dissolving in the distance into a haze of foliage.  The bed is raised above the surrounding swampland and lined with trees and bushes.  The shade they provide is contiguous except where the trail runs through the surrounding swamp.  I expected it to be very buggy, but, although there were some mosquitoes, it wasn’t bad at all.

Waldo’s demeanor changes a lot as we walk along.  He’s paying attention to what’s around him and picking up sticks to carry along as he trots his way down the path.  He’s wagging his tail and he’s no longer pulling so hard at the end of the leash.  You can tell he’s having a good time.  The shade and a light breeze add to the cooler temperatures for a really pleasant trip.  We work up a bit of a sweat, but nothing like what we were doing in the recent past.  Waldo drinks the water I offer him only once and doesn’t drink much.

The four of us walk along, the humans exchanging pleasantries as we go.  Christine finds a sassafras leaf and a clinker, a bit of steam locomotive coal, and we talk about each.  Christine is very observant and notices a lot I pass by in ignorance.

We pass four other people on our way to Douglas.  Three are out walking their dogs.  They are local residents who use the trail often.  Before I got Waldo, I had no idea how nice it was to have a good trail to walk on nearby to where I live.  And these trails are all over the country.  Whoever came up with the idea is a genius.  The fourth person we passed was a fisherman towing a kayak on a trolley to a small lake that abuts the trail.

The rest of our journey into Douglas is on a bed that’s raised some forty feet above the surrounding forest with manmade landfill.  That must have taken a lot of effort and money to accomplish.  We end our walk in a forest.  Looking to the east, I can see what the next leg of our journey looks like.  It’s verdant, fecund and shady.

That walk is something I, and I’m sure, Waldo, are looking forward to.

In places, the trail widens and is gravel.