You comin’?
In order to really enjoy a dog, one doesn’t merely try to train him to be semi-human. The point of it is to open oneself to the possibility of becoming partly a dog.
-Edward Hoagland
Yesterday, a warm front came through our little patch of woods, The Assebet River Rail Trail, and raised the temperature to 58℉. It rained about 0.6 inches and the two together melted all the snow and ice on the tarmac. Last night, the temperature dropped well below freezing and I was afraid that I’d awaken to iced-over puddles. But that didn’t happen. There are a few small, shallow ice-skating rinks on the rail trail, maybe a foot in diameter, but nothing that can’t be easily negotiated. The temperature today, with windchill, is in the low twenties and the winds are blowing around 10 – 14 miles per hour. So, it is a little chilly, but easily dressed for. Waldo’s enjoying the cool.
Still, it’s cold enough that there aren’t many animals about. On other days, I see the occasional deer and, sometimes, an adventurous squirrel, but not today. No rabbits anywhere. I know there are skunks around here, but I’ve never seen any (I can smell them when they’re around). The air is clear and brisk today, however. I neither hear, nor see, any birds, whatsoever. It’s quiet. It’s just me, Waldo and a few fellow intrepid walkers, who pass us by. We have no hibernacula (a word I just learned that means the place where animals hibernate) — we gotta get out and fight cabin fever, you know. Oh, and, of course, there’s also the sleeping woods.
Waldo is doing his Waldo thing, nose inches off the ground, searching the environs with his odar (odor detection and ranging). He trots along in S-turns, back and forth across the trail, and stops, on occasion, when he finds something particularly interesting that requires a more prolonged and intensive sniff. That might be pee-mail, some other dog’s poop, a dead animal, or God knows what. When he does find that peculiar, enticing whiff that requires his focused attention, he sometimes falls behind. When he catches up, he almost always goes around me on my left. I’ve often wondered why.
Border collies are known for doing something the community calls “spinning.” They often walk around you – falling behind, passing you on one side, then falling behind again on the other side. It’s thought to be an expression of their herding instinct. When they’re on a leash, the result can be that you get all wrapped up in their tether. I am constantly passing the leash handle from one hand to the other to prevent that. When we’re out bushwhacking and Waldo gets in front of me and on the wrong “path,” I call him back. If there is a tree between me and him, he seldom comes back the way he went. He spins the damn tree. That means I have to plow through the weeds some distance (the leash is long) to where he is and unwrap the leash. We then backtrack to get on the course I want us to follow. It’s just one of the many ways I feel like I’m constantly trying to get us over what he’s put asunder.
One thing that I find puzzling about Waldo’s spinning is that it’s almost always in a clockwise direction. He falls behind me on my right, passes me on the left, and so on. Why in the world would he have a predilection for clockwise spinning? In nature, wind moves from a high pressure to a low pressure so the pressure can be equalized. This can’t happen directly because the Earth is rotating which creates a pseudoforce, called the Coriolis force, that makes wind blow clockwise out of the high-pressure region and then counterclockwise into the low-pressure area. That’s why all hurricanes and tornadoes spin counterclockwise in the northern hemisphere (in the southern hemisphere, the same force makes tornadoes and hurricanes spin in the opposite direction). But, as far as I know, there’s no counterpart to the Coriolis force that governs dog behavior. Maybe I should test that and take Waldo to Australia to see if he spins me in a counterclockwise direction.
After many S-turns and clockwise circles, Waldo straightens out his path and tugs a bit at the leash. He’s anxious to get back to the car and home. I don’t think that’s because he’s tired or cold. I think he’s looking forward to supper. And, of course, passing on dicta to his dogdom from his balcony throne. He does have responsibilities, you know.
Me, I’m tired and cold and looking forward to warming up in my beloved recliner. Until tomorrow, that is, when we do it all over again.
And share the joy of being in the woods.
Let’s go, then.
More snow, with fresh footprints.
To appreciate the beauty of a snowflake, it is necessary to stand out in the cold.
-Aristotle
Snow is falling in tiny little dry flakes all around us as Waldo and I walk down the Assebet River Rail Trail. It’s more like Mother Nature’s dandruff than the big puffy milkweed wisps that gently float down when it’s snowing hard. I really like it when I’m surrounded by the big fluffy stuff wafting around me. It makes the universe feel so small. You certainly can’t see very far and sound doesn’t travel well, so the world seems close and personal, like it ends just a few feet away. It’s almost like existence is giving you a hug. The small stuff is nice too, though. And the best part is that it doesn’t accumulate into deep piles that make you work and sweat for every step.
Of course, this all presupposes that there’s not much wind. A good hefty breeze can be brutal. It drives the flakes into the exposed skin of your face, turning their pillowy softness into icy needles that not only painfully poke, they also stick and grow into icicles hanging from any exposed hair (like a mustache). And, of course, the wind chill factor can drop the apparent temperature by tens of degrees. Most heavy snow falls when the air temperature is around 32℉, but in a blizzard, it is, effectively, much colder. And all that wind can produce some really interesting phenomena too. I remember driving home from work, one winter night, in a blizzard. It was blowing so hard that I was engulfed by lightning all around me (turbulence makes lightning). There were no nearby strikes, but there were some close enough that their boom shook my car. It was surreal to be plowing through a sea of snow that was occasionally lit up by a bright flash of light, making a good bit of the white air momentarily glow.
But I digress. Nothing like that is happening today. There is next to no breeze and the snow is ever so slowly falling and joining its kin on the ground. The storm started more than 4 hours ago, but there’s only about 2 inches of accumulation, so the walking is easy. The patches of ice that were left from the last storm are small and few enough that I can avoid them, even though I can’t see them. I just have to remember where they are. I slip a little, here and there, but I don’t come close to falling.
Because it’s been hours since the snow started, there are footprints in the snow. A lot of them. And doggy pawprints and a few tracks of mechanical devices, like bicycles and baby buggies. We pass a few people, sometimes with their dogs, but no wheeled vehicles. There are no indigenous beasts out and about, neither squirrels, nor rabbits, nor birds, that I can see or hear, and I don’t see any tracks either. They must be snuggling next to their versions of a hearth, waiting for the storm to pass.
Waldo is having a great time. He’s trotting along, nose close to the ground, going back and forth, searching for the ultimate snort (I suppose). Once in a while, he’ll drop his jaw and scoop up a dollop of the white stuff to slake his thirst (I’m guessing). When I stop walking, for whatever reason, he goes off to the side of the trail, rolls over onto his back, and makes snow-doggies. Once in a while, he’ll find a stick, trot up to me and do his best to entice me with it. Just what he wants me to do, I’m not sure. He pokes me with it, or lifts a paw to swipe at my foot or leg, then retreats out of range, so I can’t grab the stick. I do my best to participate and he seems happy with the effort. This is his kind of weather and he’s reveling in it.
Today’s walk is decidedly different from our recent excursions through weeds and brambles. They were more of an exploration, a quest to get from where we were to where we wanted to go. What we’re doing today is more of a joyful indulgence, using our little patch of forest as a playground, in celebration of being alive in the natural world.
Both Waldo and I are grateful we have such a beautiful place to do that.
It always amazes me how many people come out here, as evidenced by their footprints, despite the weather.
Marlborough plows the trail.
…For we have strayed far.
But one is never too lost
To rediscover the Path…
-Falisa Tang
Ten days after Waldo and I finished walking the route of the Mass Central Rail Trail, we had our first snow. A cold, snowy airmass moved down to us from the south and east. A warmer, rainy airmass moved up from the north and east. They met over Marlborough, in a line running southwest to northeast, consisting of wet snow, sleet and freezing rain. Places a mere 15-minute drive north of Marlborough had a snow accumulation of up to 9 inches. Belchertown, the last city we walked through, got 6 inches. South of us got mostly freezing rain.
At the beginning of the storm, the grounds outside of our apartment were covered by around 3 inches of snow. Then came the freezing rain that coated much of what was already on the ground with a thin sheet of ice. Some of the snow melted in the rain, but what was left was slush. The next day, there was a hard freeze that turned everything to ice. It’s still walkable without crampons, but not by much. Waldo and I finished our trek toward Northampton just in time.
Now, here we are, back on the Assebet River Rail Trail. The portion that runs from the beginning of the trail to the Hudson border, just short of 2.25 miles, was plowed, leaving a swath of clear tarmac roughly 6 feet wide. On either side is a layer, 1 inch thick or so, of white, crunchy ice full of footprints where other people and dogs walked. Even the unplowed areas aren’t too slick and we step out there, when required, to let other people, dogs, and even bicycles, pass. In Hudson, where no plow ever ventures, it is mostly crunchy ice, also full of footprints, bicycle and even baby stroller tracks. Waldo and I are never the only intrepid souls who brave even the worst of the weather Mother Nature shares with those who will not be cloistered when things get nasty.
Waldo is happy with the cooler temperatures and the snow and ice doesn’t seem to bother him. In certain conditions, when the temperature drops below 10℉ and the snow is light and powdery, so it can work its way between his pads and freeze into ice, his feet can really bother him. But not today. He’s wandering around, out into the icy snow, doing his Waldo thing — grabbing sticks, sniffing the bushes and leaving his scent where he goes. There are a few bicycles that we pass, but not many, and Waldo doesn’t seem concerned by them. He’s out at the front end of the leash and simply makes room for any that pass.
Me, I’m happy not having to fight the Rosa multiflora. I do miss the adventure of having to find an antique path through the weeds, but any walk in the woods offers plenty. It’s nice, too, seeing how things have changed on our rail trail. While exploring the MCRT, we still came out here on the days we weren’t out west, but we weren’t here every day. Today, the fallen dead leaves and ground, that we last trod on, are now covered in white. The chilly breeze requiring a jacket has been replaced by a biting, icy blow that prods and probes in search of some way to penetrate the puffy parka I now wear. It feels like it was late fall when we last walked here and now winter has beset us with its months-long siege.
We pass by the spot, next to the Covid Garden, where I planted some wild flower seed. There never were any flowers there, so I don’t know if the seed took root or not. I’m hoping that there are plants there, they just need a year to mature enough to blossom forth. Any flowers that did sprout will have to compete with some very hardy weeds who will not be willing to readily surrender ground, so it’s not a foregone conclusion. Over this last spring, summer and fall, I did see green plants grow there, and some of them, I think, were my flowers. But I also saw local plants in the same spot that I know for sure I didn’t plant. Spring will tell.
The Covid Garden is asleep for the season and the new park is in hibernation. The English ivy tree is covered in dark green leaves, white pines are a spiky pale green and garlic mustard can be seen here and there, poking up through the ice. Everything else is a pale shade of tan to beige. No birds are out singing and the rabbits and squirrels are out of sight, doing their best to stay warm. Mother Nature has assumed her quiet, subdued wintry posture. Hello, Assebet River Rail Trail! Waldo and I are back and we’ll be greeting you on nearly a daily basis.
At least until it thaws a bit.
Hudson doesn’t.
The train, when it was running, went through some truly idyllic forest.
It is good to have an end to journey towards; but it is the journey that matters, in the end.
-Ursula K. Le Guin
So here we are, on the last leg of our prolonged journey.
A little over 6 years ago, Waldo, Christine, Karen (a friend of Christine’s) and I first put foot on the Mass Central Rail Trail near the town of Northampton. At the time, we were walking across Massachusetts from the New York border, near Pittsfield, to the tip of Cape Cod. We were able to accomplish that in about 6 months. In the process, we followed highways, streets and any other route than ran from where we were to where we wanted to end up. Just west of Northampton, the maps on our phones showed a rail trail, going in the right direction, and we took it. It ran from there, across the Connecticut River on an old railroad bridge and on past Amherst to Belchertown, where it stopped. From Belchertown, we had to resort to streets and highways again.
That piece of rail trail is part of the Mass Central Rail Trail, but it is also known as the Norwottuck Rail Trail. Other pieces of the Central Mass Railroad were improved and paved by local communities and given other names as well. Six years ago, it was incredibly difficult to search online for all the different sections of the entire MCRT, because to do so meant you had to know all the local names. Waldo, Christine, Phyllis and I walked on other pieces of the MCRT, sometimes without knowing it, but there was no easy way to know where the entire route was. That’s why it’s taken us so long to walk the whole thing.
A few years ago, I don’t remember exactly when, a group of people dedicated to the development of rail trails started a website focused on connecting all the different pieces and making a single paved rail trail from Boston to Northampton, following the original railroad bed as much as possible. They posted a map that made it “easy” to find all the separate pieces and their connections.
At first, I focused on walking the established, paved parts, but the rest was still there, just begging to be walked. The website says there are 63 miles of trail “open,” which leaves 41 miles that needed to be explored. So, last spring, I decided I needed to do just that and Waldo and I were off on another adventure. It took us over 6 years to do the whole thing, but, today, here we are, on the verge of completing the trek. This last leg takes us to the eastern end of the Norwottuck Rail Trail, which we walked way back when, and, when we’re done, we’ll have completed the entire 104 miles of the old Central Mass Railroad, from Northampton to downtown Boston.
We park the car, where we ended up on the last leg, on Bay Road, in Belchertown. Across the street, there is an embankment, some 20 or 30 feet high, and even when we’re on top, there’s nothing that can be recognized as old railroad bed. The map says it’s “proposed”, then becomes “protected/ unimproved.” On the ground, I can’t tell any difference between the two. As we walk along, no path at all morphs into well established path, to weed-choked, but obvious old railroad bed, to well established trail, to nothing at all again. It’s pretty much what the last few miles have been.
There are places where the railroad cuts through stunningly gorgeous pieces of forest land, or around swampy ponds sporting all kinds of flora. And Waldo and I are doing this in late fall, when all the leaves are gone. It doesn’t take much imagination to see the sylvan beauty that must be here in the height of summer. I try to picture what it must have been like to be on the train going through here back in the day. You know, Calvin Coolidge, when he was Governor of Massachusetts, used to take this train every day, going from his home in Northampton, to Boston. That was about a 3-hour trip. Each way. Today, because there is no direct route, it would take from 4 to 7 hours to travel by train, depending on connections.
There is so much American history where we have walked. Much more than I’ve mentioned. Like the Daniel Shays Highway, that goes to Belchertown. It is named after the leader of the 1786 rebellion against the newly founded government of the United States. There is the Quabbin reservoir, which finally filled in1946, drowned several towns and necessitated some rerouting of the Central Mass Railroad. And there is a lot more. But, then, in New England, Waldo can’t lift a leg without risking getting some piece of history wet.
As we walk down a well-trodden footpath on a raised part of the old railroad bed, I see, up ahead, through all the weeds, bushes and trees, a highway. On the other side is a large sign. I can’t read it, but I know what it says: “Norwottuck Rail Trail.” A few more yards and we’re there, beside the sign. We’ve done it. In order to avoid all the bushwhacking, we take to the roads and return to the car.
It’s funny, I don’t feel a sense of accomplishment, or the desire to celebrate. In fact, I’m a little disappointed. As is very often the case, maybe always, the real value is in the journey, not the realization of the goal. I’m going to miss the adventure of navigating my way through the bush, finding my way forward when it is not at all obvious.
But then, this isn’t our last walk in the woods, is it.
We’ve done it! All 104 miles (and then some).
The train used to go through here, somewhere…
If you think adventure is dangerous, try routine, it’s lethal.
-Paulo Coelho
Only 6 miles to go (roughly). After looking at the map, I’m expecting to have to do a lot of tramping through weeds and brambles, so I’m dressed in armor: gaiters, rain pants and jacket with heavy gloves. The temperature is cool, in the low 40s, fortunately, so I’m not sweltering. I don’t know how I would be able to protect myself without suffering heat exhaustion in temperatures of 70℉. The beginning of today’s trek takes off from a patch of tarmac called Maple Street (there are no buildings around) and wanders into the woods on a well-established path. The map says it is “in design,” whatever that means, and, as far as I can see, it promises to be an easy stroll. There is a railroad, currently in use, about 30 yards to our left and trees and brush to our right.
After about a mile and a half, we come to a street. On the other side is a steep embankment with a wall of weeds that, if not impenetrable, would be a challenge to negotiate. The railroad to our left passes over the street on a bridge. Taking the path of least resistance, we cross over the road, on the railroad bridge, then head back into the bush. Waldo is now used to dealing with daylight shining between his toes on these bridges and we have no problems. However, once on the embankment to the right of the railroad bridge, I can’t see anything that looks like old railroad bed. Just weeds, brambles, brush and small bole trees. At one place, we have no choice but to force our way through a wall of foliage – we now have to add plowing through to crawling under, climbing over and going around.
There are a couple of places, parallel to each other, where, with a little imagination, I can sorta guess where the railroad maybe used to go and Waldo and I weed-whack our way from one to the other, looking for the best way to go. You know, this could be part of a new border collie sport. We’d call it “agility bushwhacking.” I begin to understand why Waldo likes these walks so much. He loves doing agility training. Me? I’m tempted to take to the railroad tracks to our left, but I don’t give in that easily and Waldo is having a blast herding the shrubbery. So, we continue on as best we can.
Then, after about a quarter of a mile, I can see something that resembles a path. It obviously isn’t used much, but it is clear that someone, or something, has been there before. There is nothing to suggest an explanation as to why that path has been used and not where we just came from, but we’re grateful for the change. There are all kinds of paths that traverse through all New England woods and we don’t want to be misled onto a track that takes us from where we want to go, but this path seems to be going in the right direction. We follow it and the further we go, the better defined and wider it gets. Soon, we pass signs designed for snowmobilers, which explains some of who has been using the path. At times, other well-trodden paths branch off to our right, but we hold our course.
We cross another street and the trail, thereafter, is not so well developed at all. But it’s still relatively easy going. There are a few fallen trees blocking our path that we have to climb over (jump over in Waldo’s case) but little else that needs effort to travel over, under, around, or through.
After about a quarter-mile, we come to the road that is the endpoint of today’s walk. On the other side of the street is a steep embankment and no obvious clue as to where the railroad bed continues. That’s a problem to be solved on the next walk, on another day. We reverse our steps and head back the way we came.
When we get back to the next street, though, we take to the road. I do not want to repeat the worst of the bushwhacking. The road is 2-laned and the shoulder is narrow. The traffic is light, but they are going about 40 miles per hour or so. They give us a wide berth, but even so, as soon as we’ve gone around the sea of brambles, bush and weeds (ending where the railroad bridge passed over the street), we take back to the old railroad bed and walk carefree on the well-established path. Soon, we’re back to the car and another piece of our trek is done.
Only 3 more miles (approximately) to go!
Ah, yes. There it is. Waldo found it!
Not only is this part of the trail well-manicured, it has other people on it!
To study history means submitting yourself to chaos, but nevertheless retaining your faith in order and meaning.
-Herman Hesse
I was pretty sure that this next chunk of the Mass Central Rail Trail was going to be a fairly easy walk, with little to no bushwhacking. I couldn’t be sure, but the map and satellite views suggested it would be. Also, a couple of weeks ago, I met a guy, on a different part of the trail, who, if I understood him right, said it would be a nice walk. We parked across the road from where we ended up last time and headed out.
My reasoning was sound. The trail is broad, flat and straight. It’s buried under a carpet of dead maple, oak and birch leaves and the rails and ties are completely gone. Here and there, I get a glimpse of the ground under the leaves and it looks like it was paved in crushed stone at some point. The map says it’s “protected/unimproved,” but it doesn’t look to me that much will be required to improve it. We’re surrounded by a forest of new growth trees, none older that about 50 years. The railroad was finished and opened in 1887, so the original landscape must have been mainly farmland then. I can see a good half-mile or more in front of us – the path runs as straight as I-80 through Nebraska.
Waldo is up ahead, at his usual position, doing his Waldo thing. He needs no direction. Our course is obvious, even to a border collie who loves to search out different paths to take. I don’t know what he’s doing up there, but whatever it is, he’s happily doing it without feeling the need to involve me. We pass 4 other people with dogs, and one couple without, who are out for a walk on a cool autumn day, just like us. We also pass 2 bicycles, but Waldo doesn’t seem particularly bothered by them like he is on the Assebet River Rail Trail. I’m left with lots of time for my mind to wander as it is wont to do.
137 years ago, steam locomotives were belching, wheezing, rattling and screeching their way down this same route where we’re walking today. Trains in the US first started carrying passengers in 1830, but they were few until after the Civil War. Before then, since prehistoric times, man had three choices about how he could travel: on foot, on water in a raft or boat and using animal power to propel him and his goods in one way or another.
It was slow. Horse and oxen drawn wagons took from 3 to 6 months, in the 1850s, to go from the east coast to the west coast. This could take even longer if you had to make your own road, which was sometimes required. Walking would take about as long, but you didn’t need a road. Ocean-going sailing vessels could do around 7 mph, when the wind was blowing right, and it would require a trip around Cape Horn of 4 to 6 months, to go from New York to San Francisco.
You could go by boat on a river, but sailing was unreliable on rivers and steam boats weren’t available until 1810 (interestingly, Lewis and Clark’s adventure was 1804 to 1806). Rivers only flow one way, toward the sea, and even if you found one that was going where you wanted to go, it would really slow you down if you had to go upstream. It took Lewis and Clark 5 months to go 1,600 miles up the Missouri River from St. Louis to the Mandan villages (near present day Bismark, North Dakota).
Any way you did it was arduous and it took a very, very long time to go any distance.
And then, after the Civil War, railroads sprung up everywhere. After the driving of the golden spike at Promontory Point, Utah, quite suddenly, people were able to travel at speed! Sort of. Trains only traveled, at best, 22 miles per hour, but they could do it 24/7. The coast-to-coast travel time was reduced to 8 – 10 days. There was a lot of money to be made by building a railroad and connecting any place that had goods or people who needed to be moved “fast” and after the Civil War, railroads sprung up everywhere. The Pennsylvania Railroad was the largest corporation in the world, around the turn of the 19th to the 20th centuries, and was worth over a billion dollars. Trains were a big deal.
And here Waldo and I are, trekking down the fossilized bones of what used to be, not all that long ago, a wonder of human creativity. Trains were something that had a major impact on human society and served to reshape it into something totally different from what it was before and into something that could never have been imagined when the tracks were first laid down. And it all happened so quickly. Alas, most railways have now disappeared, rapidly becoming only faint memories and weed-choked bumps in the landscape, after the advent of the automobile and paved highways. In places like this, there is only a dusty suggestion of the magic that once was. There’s a lot of intriguing history passing under my boots.
By the time I’ve finished ruminating about all this, we’ve gone some 3.9 miles. I estimated the distance was going to be about 4 miles, but our planned trek turned out to be more like 3.5 miles. Because I wasn’t paying close attention, we ended up doing almost 4 miles anyway. We turn around and head back to the car and home.
There’s only about 6 more miles to do before we’ve walked what’s left of the entire Mass Central Railroad, 104 miles, from downtown Boston to Northampton, MA.
Straight and smooth!
Sometimes, all you have to do is cross the road and the whole world changes.
The older I get, the more I realize how rare it is to meet a kindred spirit.
-Ethan Hawke
It’s amazing how something as simple as crossing the road can change so much. I was a little hesitant to continue our trek on the Mass Central Rail Trail today after struggling so much on the last leg, on one side of the road, in all the brush and briar. The path we have yet to take, on the other side of the road, is all “proposed” and a bit longer. Given what we just weathered, it seemed likely it would be even more arduous. Ugh. But, as I stepped through the curtain of foliage at the edge of the road, I saw a clear path that continued on down the rails for as far as I could see. You never know what the path on the other side of the road is like until you walk it. There’s a bumper sticker in there somewhere, I think.
Waldo is off and gone at the forward end of the leash, trotting along and clearly happy at being on another adventure. I follow at a comfortable pace and we’re making good progress. The surrounding country is not that much different from that on the other side of the road; I don’t understand why the tracks are so much clearer. It’s not long and we cross a small bridge that spans a creek. It has the same 3-inch open spaces between the ties that the bridge over the Ware River had. Waldo doesn’t balk a bit. He seems to have learned that it isn’t as threatening as he first thought. A little touch of hubris, I think, because, at one point, a back foot goes through the gap between the ties and he lands on his butt. He extricates himself, none the worse for wear, and continues on, just a bit more slowly. It seems he’s learned not to put his weight on a foot until it makes contact with something more solid than the ether. Hmmm. Another bumper sticker?
After crossing over a street on another bridge, we pass next to a residential area known as Duckville, a part of Bondsville. We’re really out in the sticks, here, and I can’t help but wonder what industry supports the people that live here. We’re miles from any sizeable city, yet there are not only homes, but apartment complexes as well. The railroad bed runs close enough to these private properties that I was worried, when I looked at the map, that it would be disrupted and hard to follow. But the trail continues on as before, until we get to the Swift River. There, the trail ends at a bridge abutment, sans bridge, about 50 feet above the water. The river is, roughly, 50 feet wide and moving leisurely, north to south, over a weir. On the other side is an embankment at least as high as the one we’re standing on, but the brush is so thick, I can’t see where the railroad bed continues.
We climb down to a street that runs along the water and head downriver to a bridge, about a half-mile away. On the other side is a trail, not the rail trail, that we follow back upriver to a point close to being opposite to where we were. I look up the embankment and can’t see anything that looks like an old bridge abutment and decide to climb to the top and look for a railroad bed there. It’s a steep climb, covered in slippery dead leaves, but we make it without too much trouble. At the top, we push through the brush until we come across something resembling a path. We follow that until it abuts a road, maybe 1/8th of a mile. On the other side of the road is a large grassy field, no path. We continue in the same direction as the path we just left and cross the field until we come to its edge — brush and trees. There is no more path. We head into the woods and take a 90 degree turn to the north, figuring that the railroad bed must be over there. After about 100 yards, we find what we’re looking for in a deep cut. The path we had been following, apparently, was a red herring.
As we come to the edge of the cut, I see at its bottom, a guy squatting next to a mountain bike, doing something in the dirt. The railroad bed is clear, covered in dead leaves, but it doesn’t look like it would be comfortable place to ride a bike. The rails are all gone, but you can see, under the leaves, old weathered and rotting ties that would make the going washboardy. “Hello!” I call out, as Waldo and I climb down. “Whatcha doing?”
“This is an old railroad,” he says, continuing with his efforts.
“Yeah,” I say. “It was finished in 1887, but I don’t think this part has been used since about 1938. A hurricane came through here that year and a part of the railroad was washed out north of Ware and was never repaired.”
“You’re spot on! Look at this.” He shows me a nail, still in a tie, that has “37” stamped on its head. “Since about 1900, until the 1960s, railroads would put these ‘date nails’ on the ties to show when they were replaced.” He scuffs some leaves around on the ground with his boots. “Here’s another one.”
We talk a bit about our experiences exploring railroad beds. He likes to ride his bike on the remnants of old train tracks, but, obviously, ones a bit more “developed” than the ones we’ve been following. He gives Waldo a friendly pat on the head and Waldo and I trek on. He is the first person that we’ve met anywhere on a “proposed” rail trail. There are kindred spirits!
After about a mile, we come to the end of the day’s trek. We turn around and head back the way we came. Sometimes, when the going is rough, we’ll take to the streets and highways on our way back, but this trail has been easy enough that we just retrace our steps. The guy on the bike passes us, going the other way, and we wish him a good evening. We follow this part of the railroad bed back to the Swift River and I see where we went wrong and followed the wrong path from the river, going the other way.
It’s still daylight when we get back to the car, but it’s dark when we get home. It was a nice walk and we have one more leg done. We now only have 10 more miles, out of 104, to do. The next bit is about 4 miles long each way, 8 miles round trip, and is supposed to be an easy walk.
We’re getting close to the end!
On the other side of the river, the trail continues on as an easy walk.
I wonder what’s down this away…
The key to a wonderful life is to never stop wandering into wonder.
-Suzy Kassem
A fundamental part of being a Homo sapiens is the necessity to wander, to explore. This has been true since our earliest ancestors stepped foot on the plains of east Africa. They felt, then, the burning need to see what was on the other side of the next hill, to seek out what was around the bend in the river, to find what was miles offshore, across the sea. The resulting diaspora spread our species, in a remarkably short period of time, to every continent of the planet, except, perhaps, Antarctica, and to most islands in the Pacific. They populated Mother Earth more completely than any other hominid species. This, in turn, helped our species survive, when many of the others did not, in part because it meant that if there were sudden deadly changes in the environment in one place, there would be other places where those changes would not threaten man’s continued existence. The resulting evolutionary pressure probably selected out this voyaging trait and it has passed down to us. That it is buried deep in all our genes seems evident as it exists in people across all cultures as well as down through the ages.
Today, most of us feel this essential necessity to some degree or another, although not everyone to the same extent. There are highly motivated people, like Lewis and Clark and the Corps of Discovery, whose souls drove them to risk their lives to search over 4 thousand miles across western America, to find out what was in that place where no “civilized man” had been before. There are mountain climbers like Sir Edmund Hillary, who climbed Mt. Everest simply “because it was there,” explorers like Richard Burton, who almost died trying to find the source of the White Nile, and astronauts like Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin and Michael Collins, who were drawn to the moon like Waldo is to sticks.
Even if most people are not compelled to perform such dramatic and consequential deeds, I’m guessing there are few of us, if any, who don’t feel some urge to go outside our familiar bubble. The thought of visiting Europe, or Asia, or Africa appeals to most everyone. Even a road trip to some place we’ve never been has an allure. However, it is also true that we all also feel needs for security, comfort and social acceptance that can push that wandering seduction deep into the background. It may be pressed low down on the list of priorities in some of us, but I’d bet it’s still there.
Recently, Waldo and I have been continuing to force our way along an abandoned piece of the defunct Massachusetts Central Railroad, through bushy, weedy thickets with embedded saplings and thorny multiflora rose. This is one big pain in the posterior, sometimes elsewhere, and I’m not doing it because I enjoy it. I tolerate it. What motivates me to continue is the genetic, marrow-deep, desire to see what it’s like, just up ahead. It feels good to give into an instinctual drive to do what our ancestors did over the millennia – explore. Appealing, too, is that it’s likely that few, if any, have ventured this way in a very long time. That makes me feel kind of special. The fact that it is difficult also gives me a sense of accomplishment when I’m done.
Waldo, he’s a simpler creature. He truly enjoys bushwhacking and does it with a fever. I may be anthropomorphizing, but I’d bet he also likes to wander around in new places, sniff stuff he’s never smelled and probe into spaces hard to get into. It’s not just man who likes to go places he has not visited before. Many other animals do too, although they haven’t developed it into the fine art of man. I think all animals must have it to some degree because we all have to search for food.
Even as I plod along, searching for the least ensnaring route and Kungfu fighting the thorny stems trying their best to impale me, I am not discouraged. There are no obstacles in Waldo and my wandering paths, just crawl-unders, climb-overs and work-arounds. I am so focused on finding my way through that I’m not the slightest bit tempted to give up altogether. Along the way, I find the magic of being alive amidst the beauty of Mother Nature.
And I get to exercise my primordial instinct to roam.
This way looks promising…
Most of our route looked like this.
If you’re going through hell, keep going.
-Mark Twain
…Continued from before.
So, here we are, Waldo and I, slogging down a barely recognizable old railroad bed, plowing our way through dense foliage. All around us are saplings, bushes, weeds and vines. The weeds and bushes are chest high and thick enough, in places, that I can’t just force my way through. The thin twigs can be pushed aside, but they’re attached to the ground in a most unforgiving, entrenched and deeply rooted web of boot-defying thicket. Vines snake their way along the ground that constantly reach out for my ankles, doing their best to trip me. I only know they’re there when I try to take a step and feel a tug that almost flattens me. Waldo and I are constantly looking this way and that, for the path of least resistance. And not always agreeing on what that is.
Worse still is the Rosa multiflora. As the name suggests, it is a variety of rose, although the flowers don’t look like those that come to mind when one hears “rose.” They are white, or pink, and look more like a daisy. But they have no flowers this time of year. There are, however, plenty of long, spindly, green, claw-bearing tendrils that flail about in the air, just waiting for some innocent to wander close. They then mercilessly reach out and impale their victim with their tiny hooked talons, embedding themselves in clothing and flesh. Once snared, it’s not easy to pull free and when you can, the godawful tentacles swing free and return to do it all over again. When you have a vigorous border collie pulling at his leash, it’s even harder to get loose. The plant likes a lot of sun, so, of course, here, where there is little shade from old trees, the stuff is plentiful. It’s not long before small amounts of blood are running down the exposed skin on my hands and arms. Waldo doesn’t seem bothered, but I’m not so sure that I would trade the experience for a thick, thorn-resistant, sable coat. At least not in these temperatures.
I haven’t figured out why, but the way seems to be a little clearer next to the roadbed as opposed to right on it. But even so, it’s touch and go and we have to weave our way around to get through the worst of it. Thankfully, there are short stretches where a relatively open path appears off to the side. Not for long, but long enough that we can get some relief.
This must have been the way things were when the Indians first came here. It’s no wonder that they liked to follow game trails, when they could, blazed by larger animals. When the pilgrims arrived, they took to both the game trails and the Indian trails until they made “roads” they could follow to where they needed to go. I now have an intimate understanding of what compelled them to do that.
After about 2 miles of fighting the local flora, we cross the highway I decided would be the end of the day’s trek. We turn down the tarmac and head back to the car, about 3.7 miles, following a two-lane road. No way I‘m going back the way we came. The going is uneventful and relatively uninteresting until we get to within 1/8th of a mile of our car. There are a lot of cars on the highway, but Waldo and I are the only pedestrians. On the other side of the road, off to our left, a cop car pulls over and stops. He opens his door and crosses the road toward us.
Oops.
“We got a report that someone was walking through the rail yard, was that you?” he says, as he approaches.
“Yeah,” I say. “They’re going to build a piece of the Mass Central Rail Trail through there and we thought we’d see where it’s going to go.”
“Well, you set off all their cameras. It’s private property and against federal law to trespass there.”
That sounds like a lot of hooey to me. The information I have is that it belongs to the Commonwealth of Massachusetts who contracts it out to the train company. Why the feds would be interested, I don’t know. But I don’t argue. “I figured there’d be people who wouldn’t like it, but I decided it would work better if I asked for forgiveness rather than permission.” I left a slight pause. “I guess I could have waited until the trail was completed.”
“Yeah, you could have.”
“But I’m not going to live that long.”
The cop laughed. “Don’t say that,” he said. “You never know.”
“I’m pretty sure,” I answered.
The cop then said he just wanted to make sure that this was not going to be a regular thing and I answered that, no, it was a one-off. I didn’t bother telling him that I felt absolutely no inclination to repeat the bloodletting I had just been through. Not here, anyway. The cop got back in his car and left Waldo and I to walk the short distance to our car. It’s around 5:30 PM and the sun has not yet set, so we finished our trek well before dark.
The next 3 miles on our itinerary (6 miles round trip) will require more bushwhacking, but after that I’m told it’s a clear path (“protected/unimproved”) for 4 miles. Then it’s 6 more miles of “proposed” slogging and we’ll be done. We will have walked the entire 104 miles of the old Mass Central Railroad bed (mostly) from downtown Boston to Northampton, Massachusetts.
And we should be able to do it before the first snow flies.
In one place, for a short distance, we found a nice place to walk next to the railroad bed. The bed is off to the left.
Alongside the railcars.
Was it my fault that the most entertaining things to do also happened to be illegal?
-Michael J. Heil
The Mass Central Rail Trail “proposed” route runs from southeast of the town of Ware, over the Ware River, then continues alongside a railroad that is currently being used. After a couple of miles, the trail then heads east on a part of the old railroad bed that is no longer used. I was warned that if anyone saw us walking alongside the active rails, there are people who would not like it. However, the satellite view on my phone shows there is no real option. It’s also Sunday, which, I hope, means there is unlikely to be any unwelcoming folks around.
The satellite view also shows there is a bridge, still standing, that crosses the Ware River not far from the active railroad. That’s a good thing, except I can see daylight shining through crosswise on the bridge. I’m guessing that means that there is no flooring underneath the ties. If so, that would mean there is nothing but air in the gaps between them and all the way to the water. The gaps must be large enough to let reflected light from the river shine through, though I can’t tell just how wide they are. If they are as wide as those on the ground, Waldo could fall through them, all the way to the water. So, I brought a dog harness that I can hold onto and support him, if needed, when we cross the bridge.
The rest of the trail looks like a bushwhack, but I can’t tell how bad. All in all, today’s walk will cover right around seven miles, about half of which could be a real slog through massive undergrowth. We wait until the day is as warm as it’s going to get, in the low 50s, and we start at 2 PM. Sunset is scheduled for 5:45 PM, so we will have almost 4 hours before things start to get dark. We’re cutting it close, but we should be fine.
The area that has the active railway is flat and broad, having up to two sidings in addition to the main line. On the sidings, at various places, are long strings of railroad cars, coupled together. They look like what’s used to carry grain or liquids. The rails on which they sit are quite rusted, so they haven’t seen a lot of use in the recent past. The rust is solid enough that I’m guessing the cars haven’t been moved much in years. In between the three sets of rails, and sometimes on the sides as well, are broad aprons of tarmac. That makes for easy walking and Waldo and I make good progress. As I hoped, there is absolutely no one around.
I thought it might be hard to find just where the trail leaves the active railroad and heads east. I needn’t have worried. Not only are there rails that still run on the old bed, there are more parked railcars on them. After an eighth of a mile or so, the line of cars stops, but the unencumbered rails continue on to the bridge. At the bridge abutment, however, someone has built a chest high dam of tree trunks, branches and large rocks. Peering over that, I see that I needn’t have worried about the holes in the bridge. They are there, as I suspected they might be, but they are only about 2 inches wide. Wide enough for a doggy paw to go through, but not the whole Waldo. Now we just have to get over the damned dam.
I decide the easiest way is to go is around the barricade to the left. There are some big rocks there that will support my weight and it should be an easy clamber. However, the bridge itself is a wide-open lattice of steel girders, with inadequate railing to keep one from falling through to the water some 30 feet below. I carefully brace myself against the girders, step over the rocks and onto the ties on the bridge beyond. I then lean against the girder nearest the bridge end of the dam and block the only hole Waldo could fall through. Now it’s just a matter of convincing Waldo he should follow me. That takes some convincing.
Waldo, who characteristically leaps over obstacles in our way with abandon, climbs to the top of the dam and plants his paws in a straight-legged forward brace and effectively says, “Uh-uh! No way in hell!”
“It’s okay, Waldo. I’ve got you covered,” I say, and pull on the leash, being careful to keep myself between him and oblivion.
Waldo stares down at the holes in the bridge and through the wide-open spaces between the girders and whines. I softly encourage him some more and pull on his collar. Finally, he decides I am not going to give up on this completely foolhardy, and totally unnecessary, venture and reluctantly climbs over the rocks and onto the bridge ties. We move over, closer to the middle of the bridge, and he seems to decide that, hey, it’s not as bad as he thought, and we continue happily on our way, tail wagging and all.
Until we get to the other end of the bridge. There the tracks and ties continue on, but they are buried under a thick copse of new-growth trees, weeds, small bushes and vines. None of the trees are wider than 4 inches in diameter, which means they are no older than about 20 years. I look at the mess that lies in front of us and realize that we’re in for a hard slog. With no old-growth trees, there is no good, solid canopy overhead and that means there’s plenty of sunlight on the ground to support the proliferation of bushes and weeds. And it surely looks that they have proliferated with a fury.
To be continued…
The bridge and the damn dam.