There’s active logging going on here.

 

We don’t stop hiking because we get old – We grow old because we stop hiking.

— Finis Mitchel

 

Today is our last walk on the Midstate Trail for the season.  Starting tomorrow, and for the foreseeable future, the forecast is for temperatures well into the 80s and higher.  That precludes Waldo and my continuing until sometime in September, when it will be once again cool enough for us to finish this trek.  Until then, we’ll have to walk when, where and as we can in the coming heat.

Today, though, is a fine day for a walk in the woods.  The high temperature will be in the 60s, the winds are light, the sky cover scattered and the ground dry (except in places).  Christine once again drops us off where we start.  We’re at the Parker Cemetery, we’re we stopped 2 days ago, and we head south on Coldbrook Rd.  In less that ¼-mile, the trail heads off to our left into the woods and the 21^st century is left behind (except for my cell which I keep in my pocket until needed).   The trail is embedded in foliage – ferns, small bushes, weeds and new-growth deciduous trees.  It’s dense enough that Waldo, up ahead at his self-assigned position at the lead-end of the leash, is almost swallowed in green.

After less than a mile, we come across a large grassy field of grass.  On the left side of the trail are 2 granite benches, bearing the names of Rolf Larson and Bob Elms.  Rolf and Bob were 2 of the people responsible for the development of the Midstate Trail.  The granite slabs that comprise the benches are large and heavy.  The nearest road is almost ¼-mile away and I have no idea how those stones were brought here – it must have taken a lot of manual labor.  Aside from the grassy field, a small pond and some trees on its edge, there is not much of a view.  I have no idea why so much effort was expended to put the benches at this particular spot.  On the other side of the field, the trail is once again absorbed by the forest.

After around another mile, we come across a two-rutted dirt road, Pine Plain Rd, and continue down that.  Not far down the road is a sign that reads, Caution, Active Logging in Progress.  I don’t see many pines on either side of the road, and the oaks, maples and birch are all less that one-hundred years old (judging by the diameter of their trunks) and it doesn’t look to me like prime logging country, but that just shows my level of ignorance about such things.  After a half mile or so, we come across downed logs, trimmed and ready for transport, on the side of the road.  There is some heavy equipment off in the manmade field to our right, including a large chipper, but most of it, I can’t identify.  Just past the logs, we are met by a large semi, drawing a closed in trailer, that takes up most of the road.  Waldo and I step off the road and let him pass, waving as we do.  The trucker waves back and continues on his way.

Just past the place where we met the truck, the trail takes off to the left and heads into the bush.  After a short distance, we cross over a wooden walk that covers some swampy ground.  There are places on this trail that appear to be not much more than a path worn into the ground by passing boots.  And then there are other places, like here, where some not insignificant effort has been put in to maintain the path.

Not very far at all from the walkway, we cross the Mass Central Rail Trail.  This piece of the rail trail , Christine and I walked along a few years ago and I don’t recognize it.  I recognize the line on the map that represents it and I know we walked it, I just don’t remember the country or having crossed the Midstate Trail when we did.  But I know we did.  At the intersection is a stone bench with Midstate and Mass Central Rail Trail etched on its side and a granite pillar with Mass Central Rail Trail engraved on it.  Small world…  Much to Waldo’s dismay, there are a few bikes that pass us in the short time that we’re there.  We even pass a woman walking her dog.

A stone’s throw from the intersection is the large parking lot, just off Rte 122, where we left our car.  There is a porta potty where the trail meets the parking lot.  I’m pretty sure that it is there for those who use the Mass Central Rail Trail, because it is used more than the Midstate Trail.  Today’s walk: 5.45 miles in 2:42 and 412 feet of elevation gain.

I water Waldo and we get in the car to go home.  After having come so far, I’m feeling a little disappointed we won’t be able to continue for a few months.  I’m also feeling quite happy that we have been able to make it halfway before being forced to take a hiatus.  That was looking pretty doubtful while we were scrambling over the New Hampshire granite at the beginning of the hike.  Once fall comes, I’m pretty sure, now, we’ll be able to finish before the first flying flurries of winter.  For now, though, it’s home to my recliner and Waldo to his balcony.

I just have to figure out how to get any significant walking done, in the next couple of months, without baking in the heat.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Central Mass Rail Trail.

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Of all the paths you take in life, make sure a few of them are dirt.

— John Muir

 

Christine once again drops us off where we left off on our last hike.  She lives only about 15 minutes away, but still, she’s been very gracious about doing that.  I ask her, “You know, by the fall, when the weather is cool enough for Waldo and me to continue on this trek, your plantar fasciitis should be healed.  Do you want to join us then?”

“Absolutely,” she answers.  “My foot better be improved by then!  I miss walking with you guys.”

“We miss walking with you too.”

Waldo wags his tail.

For now, though, it’s not to be and Waldo and I head out on our own.

At first, we follow a paved highway, then a paved street.  The temperature is somewhere in the high 50s to the low 60s and I’m in shirt sleeves, so I’m feeling a little chilly, bur it isn’t long before I generate enough body heat to be comfortable.  This is Waldo weather and he’s happily trotting along up front, to the extent the leash will allow.

Before too long, the trail turns into the woods and becomes a dirt track weaving its way through ferns, bushes and saplings.  This part of New England is very green in the spring and summer and the world is drowning in emerald splendor.  I spent my early life out west in semiarid desert and was astounded that a place could be this green.  It’s always made me feel comforted, subliminally assured that there is plenty of food and water.  A true Garden of Eden.  Maybe that’s because most of my life took place in areas relatively bereft of verdancy.

We’re well off the highlands of the mountains and we pass by many swampy areas and slowly flowing streams.  There are places where we walk through a tunnel of foliage, surrounded by leafy bushes and ferns, then climb up a small hill to a path meandering through new growth trees with little undergrowth.  Eventually, the trail turns into a two-rut road, heading west.  The road is no longer used by motor vehicles, at least without special waver, and the walking is fast and easy.

The road then turns north and the path continues on west toward a large stone dike.  The ground is a large grass field and there is no place to put trail markers.  We get somewhat lost and wander around a bit, looking for the trail.  The general direction of where to go is obvious, but it has become a challenge to find the actual path.  After some circuitous exploration, we end up on top of the dike on a road.

The dike is large enough to be a dam, but there is no reservoir – at least none that has any water in it.  Water flows freely underneath the rocks of the dike.  A sign tells me that what we’re walking over is the Barre (pronounced “berry”) Falls Dam.  It is a dry reservoir dam, designed for flood control.  The reservoir can hold several million gallons of water, if need be, but there is nothing but a small river there now.  It turns out that it is the east branch of the Ware River, a river well known to Waldo and me from our trek along the Central Mass Railroad bed of last year.  If it became necessary to fill the reservoir, much of where we walked today would be under water.

The path continues on past the dam, down Coldbrook Road and to our car where we left it in a small parking lot next to a tiny old cemetery, called Parker Cemetery.  In the cemetery are some small, thin, frail headstones that are so old and weathered, I can read none of the text they once carried.  I can identify no dates or names at all.  There can’t be more than a couple of dozen graves here and I wonder what community they once served, because there is no one living near here now.  There is a Parker, who was a minister in nearby Hubbardston in the late 18^th century, but he was buried in another cemetery.  It’s just another piece of history lost to the sands of time.

Today’s walk has been a nice leisurely stroll, 5.91 miles in 2:37 with 239 feet of elevation gain.  Quite a change from the grueling hike we had at the beginning of this trail.  One more leg and we’ll be very close to being halfway done.  The plan is to finish that piece the day after tomorrow.  After that, NOAA says we’ll have to take a hiatus until the cooler temps of fall.

For right now, I hear my recliner calling and Waldo needs to make his presence known on his balcony.

 

 

Leave the road, take the trails.

— Pythagoras

 

The weather is cooperating for the next few days – no rain and temps in the mid to high 60s.  Today’s hike starts at the south side of Mt. Wachusett, on Westminster Rd, on a gentle downhill slope.  Waldo and I leave our car where we’re going to end up, about 7 miles away, and Christine graciously shuttles us to our starting point.

The forest is dense and green with many oaks, maples and birch trees.  There are ferns and bushes on the side of the trail, but they thin out a short distance away.  The trail is well marked and easy to follow.  The sky is partly cloudy and there is only a light breeze.  Waldo assumes his position at the front end of the leash and we’re off.

The going is easy, except for the roots and rocks that make the ground uneven in some places.  In other places, the trail is covered in a smooth carpet of needles and crushed leaves.  There are a couple of places where the path widens out onto something that might once have been a road, then we turn a corner and, once again, we’re on a narrow footpath meandering through thick foliage.  We don’t see any other animals, other than bugs, and only an occasional northern cardinal or a house sparrow sings somewhere off in the distant trees.  This hike would be perfect, if it weren’t for the damn mosquitoes.

There are low places we pass, marshy areas with a lot of muddy puddles, where I’m attacked by swarms of the blood-sucking critters.  They buzz around me and occasionally land on bare skin.  I do my best to wave them off, but some do get past my defense and alight and I have to brush them away.  Sometimes they land where I can’t see them and I only notice them when I feel them bite and inject their saliva, proteins and anticoagulants.  Some lucky people are not bothered by the things.  They love me – even though I bathed in permethrin before I left home.

I always wear long pants, tucked into my socks, to prevent tick infestation, and long-sleeved shirts, rolled up to the elbow.  I liberally spray bug repellant full of permethrin on my boots, socks and lower pant legs, exposed parts of my hands and arms and smear it on my face and neck.  Still the mosquitoes come around and harass me.  I know from experience that it’s much worse without the bug spray, but, still, it’s a nuisance.  There are a lot of ticks around this year, but I’ve been able to keep them, more or less, at bay – only picking 2 or three off me during and after each hike.  God knows how many of them beasts emigrate from Waldo to me.

Other than that, walking in the woods is a soul-nourishing experience.  There’s something spiritual about being out in nature, with little evidence of human intervention other than the path we walk.  It’s like the human condition is stripped of all the noise and nonsense that people drown themselves in.  No irritating confrontations with thoughtless people, no money problems, no expectations to live up to, no embarrassments to blush for, no confrontations to avoid — there’s nothing but Mother Nature.  All that’s present is you and the universe – the unembellished and raw experience of being alive.  It’s like coming home.

As we walk up and down the rolling countryside, the path changes its ambience.  In the low areas, it’s surrounded closely with small bushes and nascent saplings.  After a rise of 50 feet or so, the trail is meandering through forest whose floor is pretty barren, except for a carpet of tan-colored dead leaves.  Another a mile or 2 later and we come to a 2-rut dirt road and follow that.  We don’t go far, maybe a half-mile or so, and the road abuts a swampy area.  There, we pass a stake driven in the ground, bearing a sign that reads, in large, bold typeface, “DETOUR, TRAIL FLOODED.”  An arrow points to a path running up a small hill to our right.

God knows how long that’s been there, so I walk a ways further, until the trail runs out onto a dike, with large ponds on either side.  It looks like it once crossed the area on a dike, or maybe even a beaver dam, but it soon becomes obvious that, if we want to continue thataway, we’re gonna get mighty wet.  So we turn around and head up the hill.

Everywhere else on this trail, there are yellow triangular markers posted every so often, to reassure you that you’re on the path.  Here, there are none.  Just red streamers hanging from bushes and branches.  However, the path is beaten down well enough that it’s easy to follow.  This detour must have been here for quite a while to have gotten enough foot traffic to do that, especially considering that we’ve passed no one on this leg of the hike.  It must be a big deal to fix the flood.

Waldo and I hike up and down, paralleling the swamp, until we come to solid ground heading east.  The path then takes a left turn and continues back toward the road.  I’m guessing we added another mile or so to our journey, but the going is easy and we make good time.  We eventually come out of the bushes onto the continuation of the road and carry on.

We cross Gates Road and the path goes onto a farmer’s field of knee-high grass, called “Four Corners Hay Fields.”  Someone has mowed a swath through the grass.  At the rate grass grows, that must have happened fairly recently.  Someone cares about this trail.  Maybe it’s just the farmer who wants to make sure that passersby keep to the trail.  Soon, we’re back in the woods, wending our way through Mother Nature.

Finally, we break out onto Abbot Road, where we left our car.  Total distance traveled is 8.29 miles in 4:32:37, with 480 feet of elevation gain.  A bit more than the 7 miles I planned for.

Two more jaunts, if we can manage it before it becomes unbearably hot, and we’ll be halfway there.  While hiking over the Watatic ridge, that seemed like an implausible goal.  But we’re almost there!

Tomorrow is a rainy day, but the day after will be another fine day for a walk in the woods.

 

 

Every mountaintop is within reach if you just keep climbing.

—  Barry Finlay

 

Webster says that a mountain is a “landmass that projects above its surroundings and is higher than a hill.”  It also says that a hill is a “usually rounded natural elevation of land lower than a mountain.”  Now, I have been places, like in the Rockies and the Alps, and on Kilimanjaro, where there is absolutely no question as to what a mountain is.  For me, these rounded bumps of land that Waldo and I have been crawling over are, at best, in the gray range.  In the Rockies and the Alps, they’d be called foothills.  But they are the tallest bits of land anywhere nearby and, when I factor in how much effort I’ve had to put out to get up and down the things, well, okay, I’ll call ’em mountains.

Our next jaunt is over Wachusett Mountain, 2005 ft above sea level.  I’ve climbed over it before, in my relative youth (my 50s and early 60s), and I remember the trails leading to the top are very rocky and steep.  So I’m expecting a long hard haul (the top is just under 2 miles north and a little over 800 feet up from where we’ll start at the ski lodge) to get to the top.  For that reason, I picked an end point about 2 miles from the summit on the down (south) side.  That’ll make the day’s trek around 4 miles.  Whereas that’s hardly a warmup distance for Waldo and I, I’m sure that, given the topography, we’ll be thoroughly spent by the time we finish.

Christine has once again agreed to shuttle us from where we leave the car to where we start the climb.  Damn good thing – I don’t want to have to do any round-trips on the thing.  The trail goes up a gentle slope, at first, and wanders around to the west in an arc before getting serious.  There aren’t many conifers in these parts, mostly birch, maple and oaks.  The trail is covered by crushed leaves and no evergreen needles.  The forest is thick and the ground covered in rocks and roots.  The rocks are large and granitic, probably left behind when the glaciers of the last ice age receded.  There are huge underlying slabs of granite just under the dirt, which should come as no surprise.  After all, New Hampshire is called The Granite State, for good reason, and the border is only 30 miles to the north.

As we start, the temperature is in the high 50s to low 60s and the sky is blue.  There’s about a 10-mph wind blowing, but that dissolves quickly once we’re deep in the forest.  Waldo is eager to go and is pulling at the leash in youthful exuberance.  I set an uphill pace that is fast enough to make me breathe hard, but not so fast I need to stop and catch my breath.  That’s not fast enough for Waldo and he is bounding uphill, bouncing from rock to rock, insistently urging me on.

After about a mile, the trail makes a hard right turn and goes up with a vengeance.  It looks like we’re clambering over an old landslide, there are so many large rocks.  In fact, what we’re doing is bouldering – climbing over not just rocks, but boulders.  I have hands that can help me out and I take time to find the best route to get over the buggers.  Waldo is strictly four-paw drive and is a little intimidated by the lack of good places to plant a paw – but only a little.  He pauses only for a few seconds before making a choice of how to continue, but he does hesitate in obvious thought.  Waldo’s actually pretty good at finding the best route to take and I, for the most part, follow his lead.  We meet a handful of other hardy souls, in twos and threes, and a couple of dogs, making the hike, but not many.

The steep climb continues for a half-mile or so, and then we scramble over a large boulder and we’re at the top, 1.8 miles and 807 feet from the bottom.  It has taken us 1:20 to make the climb.  Not too shabby.

There is a tall watch tower at the very top, but it’s not open to the general public.  Its base is a huge concrete block that’s about 15 feet high with a ramp that people are allowed to go up.  There’s a gaggle of school age kids who, of course, love Waldo and want to pet him.  Waldo calmly obliges, in his Waldo kind of way.  The kids are wandering around and on the base – my guess is that they came up here by way of the paved road that wends its way to the top in a gentle slope.  Vehicles can drive on that road, but I see no cars or buses around.  There a few adults here too, in groups of 2 and 3.  On the top of the base, the 360-degree view is spectacular.  Off to the east, on the horizon, I can just barely make out the tall skinny buildings of Boston.  To the north, I can see the hills of New Hampshire from whence we came.  To the south are a few lower hills whither we go.  Westward are miles and miles of green rolling country.  Where I grew up, in Utah, such a panorama would be painted in shades of yellow and tan, not so much green.  The green around here is something that always impresses me deeply.

After a 20-minute break to water the Waldo and rest up a bit, we head down the south side of the mountain.  The down-trek is even steeper and more bouldery than the trail we came up.  I need to proceed carefully to make sure I can, at my advanced age and decreasing agility, get down from one boulder to the next safely.  Even Waldo waits and follows my lead when he makes many of his path choices.

Finally, we make it to flatter ground and then the car.  We walked a total of 3.9 miles, made a little over 800 feet in elevation gain and did it in just about 3 hours (with a 20-minute hiatus).  Though I am significantly on the spent side of tired, still, that’s not too bad for an old fart.  This is last of the big hills we have to negotiate on the Midstate Trail.  From here, although there will be some ups and downs, the going should be fairly flat and easy.  It’s going to get too hot to continue in about a week or so, so we have to keep going.  That way, when we start again in the fall, we have some chance of finishing before the first snow.

So, tomorrow, onward we go!

 

 

Great things are done when men and mountains meet; This is not done by jostling in the street.

— William Blake

 

There is a ski resort on Mount Wachusetts, with several lifts to the top.  It replaced a hotel that was at its summit, built in 1870, expanded in 1884 and 1908, and burned down in 1970.  There is only a watchtower at the very top now, with a small parking lot at the end of a road.  The road starts at the main buildings of the ski lodge at the mountain’s bottom.  We reserve the hike over the mountain (not by way of the road) for another day – a day when that is all we have to trek.  Today, Christine meets us at the parking lot at the bottom of the mountain, today’s end point, and takes us a few miles north, to the rehab center where we ended our walk yesterday.

I’m looking forward to another easy walk, like yesterday’s.  Things start out that way, but after about a mile, we come to a steep slope.  Waldo and I scramble over large rocks with frequent stops, so I can catch my breath and rest my leg muscles.  Waldo, bless his heart, waits patiently for me when I have to do that and doesn’t make a fuss.  He just stands up ahead, where I have yet to go, looks down at me and gives me a, “Come on, old man, you can do it,” look.

“I’m coming,” I tell him.  “I’m coming,” and carry on.

The hill isn’t high and its top is overgrown with a lot of vegetation, so there isn’t a great view.  Going down the other side is as steep as the side we went up.  Soon, we’re at the bottom and following alongside a beautiful mountain stream on a gentle slope.  It gurgles and trickles, creating an ambience of white noise most deliciously.  Despite the fact that the temperature is only in the low 60s, I’m soaked with sweat from all the work of climbing and the sound alone makes me feel cooler.  The trail also passes through a very shady part of dense forest which helps.  I swear I can feel the cool refreshing water just by walking next to it.

That doesn’t last.  We cross over a bridge and head up yet another, even steeper hill.  This hill is topped by a huge slab of granite with an escarpment higher than I am tall.  Looking at the trail app, I see that people come up here for rock climbing.  I can see why.  The path proceeds up the slab through a break in its side.  I don’t need rope, pitons and carabiners, but it’s still a steep scramble over huge rocks.  On top, I can see, through the foliage, Mount Wachusetts poking its head up in the near distance.  The trail takes a sharp turn to the left and over what looks like a cliff.  I edge over to the edge and look down. It’s not as steep as it looked a few feet away and it looks doable, but I’m going to have to be careful with my 77-year-old bones.  Waldo looks down the same place and balks.  I can hear him thinking, You want to go down that?  I figure I might have to go down first and coax him down behind me, but as soon as I move forward, he’s in front of me and going down like it’s no big deal at all.  I follow him cautiously and there are no mishaps.  We make it to the bottom and there’s a picnic table right there in the middle of nowhere.  Curious.  I wonder who put it there and if it is often used.  The trail continues on to the right, along only a gentle slope, and we continue on.    Damn, I hope there aren’t any more of those hills we have to climb.

The rest of the hike has a little up and down to it, but they’re short and not nearly as taxing.  Which is a good thing, because, unlike yesterday, I am spent.  Waldo doesn’t seem bothered, but then I wouldn’t be at his age either (he’s in his early 50s, in human years).  He stays up ahead, panting at the front end of his 26-foot leash, and trots along.  We continue through the woods, skirt some ponds and a beaver dam, then come to the ski lodge parking lot and the car.

We’ve gone 5.9 miles in 3:44:03and made it over 866 feet of elevation gain.  The numbers don’t reflect the effort, though.  Those hills were steep!  The most telling number just might be the 3:44:03.  Going 6 miles, with that much elevation gain, in that amount of time, tells me that I kept up a really good pace.  I was pushing hard, right up to the point of exhaustion.  I could only do that because I am getting in better mountain hiking shape!

That’s a very good thing, because the next leg is over the top of Mount Wachusetts and I know that’s going to be a hard slog.  I’ve done it before – when I was much younger.  But, for now, it’s home to dinner and my recliner.

All we need to continue is another cool, dry day.

 

 

Between every two Pines is a doorway to a new world.

— John Muir

 

The walking season is getting short.  Soon, there won’t be any days left that have a weather window wide enough to entertain temperatures of 76℉, or less, for long enough to hike very far.  Once those days are gone, Waldo and I will have to wait until fall.  76℉?  You may say that isn’t very hot.  Ah, but when the sun is beating down on you and you’re hiking up and down hills for many miles, it’s too damn hot.  Especially when you’re wearing a sable birthday suit and the only way you have to cool off is to pant.  When Waldo was younger, he would take hot weather in stride, within reason.  But now, he’s apt to lay down in the shade and look up at me with a look that says, “Uh-uh.  I’m done.  Let’s go back to the car.”

Since we’ve had to do much of this hike on our own, I’ve been looking for end points that are 3 or 4 miles apart, so we don’t have to go more than about 8 miles at a time, round trip.  At that rate, it will take us forever to go the full 101.6 miles.  We certainly can’t make much progress before the hot gets here.  So, I call Christine and ask her if she’d be willing to shuttle us from where we leave our car to where we want to start the day’s trek.  Unfortunately, she can’t join us because she’s having problems with plantar fasciitis, which causes a lot of foot pain to walk.  She lives about a half-hour away and graciously agrees.  She picks us up, where we leave our car at a drug rehab center in Westminster, and drops us off where we left off on our last hike, some 5 or so miles away.

We’re still in the hilly country of north-central Massachusetts, so, although it won’t be as bad as it was around Watatic, there will be hills and I can’t know how challenging it will be.  We start out on a paved road and have to follow it for a half mile or so, until the trail hangs a hard left and we’re deep in New England woods.  We’re surrounded on all sides by tall deciduous new growth trees, mostly oak.  These parts were covered in very large-bole trees in the 18^th century, but by the late 19^th century, they were almost all gone.  Some used for shipbuilding and others were cleared for farming.  After the late 18^th century, ships were built more and more from iron and steel, propelled by black-cloud belching engines that didn’t need tall masts, and farmers moved west where the ground was more fertile and had fewer rocks.  Since the late 19^th century, the land was left to regenerate and the trees came back (often with some human help).  So what we see now are trees that are, for the most part, less than 100 years old.

Still, the land has had enough time to birth dense enough forests that sunlight does not penetrate, with force, all the way to the forest floor.  That means that there isn’t a lot of undergrowth that we have to bushwhack through and the going is easy – except for ubiquitous tree roots and large rocks left over from the receding glaciers of the last ice age.  The trail is often not much more than a narrow swath of barely concave dirt, root and rock, filled by dead leaves.  You often can tell where the path is only because that’s where the leaves are ground up by passing boots, whereas, elsewhere, the leaves are more intact.  Well, that and the yellow triangular trail markers nailed to a trunk, here and there, that occasionally mark the way.

All the same, Waldo is really good at following the trail, until we come to a place where it crosses another trail.  He then, more often than not, picks the wrong way to go and I have to redirect him.  We sometimes wander off our route, because I’m paying close attention to where I’m putting my feet and don’t notice we’ve gone astray.  It doesn’t last long, though, and we correct our mistake.

It occurs to me that I can see where I put my feet and avoid mishap, but Waldo cannot.  He can only see where he puts his front feet.  Still, he strides forward with great confidence and doesn’t stumble very often.  Following him in the snow, I’ve often seen him plant his back feet into tracks left by his front feet.  I assumed that four-legged animals evolved spine and leg lengths to make that happen because it optimized their speed.  But maybe much of it has to do with being able to put feet you can’t see on ground you know is stable because you just put a foot you can see on that spot.  Mother Nature’s design capabilities are fascinating.

We go up and down a few hills, but they aren’t very steep or high and we move at a good pace.  5.3 miles, 2:25:34 after we started and with only 591 feet of elevation gain, we get to our car.  Not bad at all and I’m not all that tired.  Maybe I should start looking for trail sections 7 or 8 miles long.  The next leg will be about 5.5 miles long and will put us at the base of Mt Wachusetts.  Now that is a hill.  It’s the tallest mountain on the Midstate Trail and has an elevation gain of around 1000 feet in less than 2 miles.  I’m planning on only a little over 3 miles for that slog, including going up one side and down the other..

Tomorrow is another cool spring day, so, with Christine’s help, we’re going to add another good distance to our journey.

Mount Wachusetts, here we come!

 

 

The man who goes alone can start today, but he who travels with another must wait untilthat other is ready.

— Henry David Thoreau

 

Waldo and I have to wait for a few days because of temperatures in the 80s and some periods of light rain.  We won’t melt in the wet, but I really don’t like to live with a swamp-dog, so we wait until things are dryish.  Today, the temps are forecast to be in the low 60s, the sky cover is scattered and the winds are light.  It’s a beautiful day for a hike in the woods, so we’re going.  We only have a limited amount of time until it’s going to be way too damn hot to go for long walks, let alone hikes, so we can’t squander what we’re given.

Looking at the trail app, I find a place to park somewhere around 3.5 miles from where we left off last time.  It’s just the two of us today — Phyllis is busy elsewhere and Christine can’t go, so we have to keep the hike short.  The terrain looks, on the topographical map, to be fairly flat, so 7 miles (round trip) should be fairly easy.  The place I found to park, off Bragg Road, is at the end of a short rutted and rocky dirt track.  There, a cable sags between two posts and a large blue plastic barrel.  The path past that stretches out northward, through a small grassy meadow.  The track is wide enough to accommodate a car (and looks like it once may have) and it runs up a gentle slope.  There are many damp, muddy places we have to work around, but it’s not hard picking my way around them and I keep my boots dry.  It does mean I have to pay attention to where I step, though.  There are also a lot of rocks underfoot and I’m watching the ground closely.

After right around 2 miles, we come onto a small lake, off to our left.  Its surface is placid, with foliage growing all the way to the water’s edge.  There are no ducks on it and I see no one fishing.  By this time, the trail has morphed into a narrow, smooth path, carpeted with needles and leaves, winding through large hedges of 6-foot-high mountain laurel.  The trail breaks out onto a clearing next to the lake.  In it is a wooden picknick table, a small log shelter and, to one side, a pitched tent.  The people belonging to the tent are nowhere in sight, so we continue on.

We have to climb up and down some hills, nothing particularly challenging, until we’ve gone about 3.5 miles.  Yeah, that’s not a typo.  Today’s trek is a little longer than I expected.  At that point, we have to scamper down a bit of a steep slope to get to our turn around point.  The last part follows what looks like an old road, maybe used for logging.  It goes straight downhill, across a bridge and then onto Route 12, where we ended our last trek.  The distance is 4.2 miles, making for a 8.4-mile roundtrip hike.  Further than I planned, but I’m feeling pretty good and most of the way is fairly flat, so I’m not concerned.

We stop at the turn-around point, I pull out Waldo’s water bottle and give him a good draft.  He’s clearly grateful and laps down almost a liter.  Walking in the woods is thirsty work.  He seems happy and is enjoying the hike.  We haven’t come across any animals, not even a squirrel, but I’m sure there is a lot of animal spoor to keep his nose busy and his interest engaged, just the same.  We rouse ourselves and head back up the hill for the return trip.

Going back up the hill is sweaty work, requiring not infrequent stops for me to rest my tired old muscles, but it doesn’t last long.  Once on the flat(ish) part, we make good time and are soon back at the lake.  There, we come across a man, in his late twenties, and his dog.  The dog, named Trevor, is about Waldo’s size and full of energy.  Trevor is only a year old and stuffed with puppy romp and nonsense.  Waldo is tolerant and lets Trevor bounce around and over him.  “I saw your tent on our way up here,” I say.  “How long are you staying?”

“Just overnight,” the man says.  “It didn’t take as long to get here as I thought it would.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty flat.”  Then I notice his tent is pitched in the shelter.  “Wasn’t your tent pitched over there?”  I pointed to where I’d seen a tent before.

“No, that must have been the people Trevor and I passed on our way up here.”

“Oh, I didn’t know the spot was that popular of a camping spot.  Well, enjoy,” I say.  “It’s forecast to be really hot tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” he says, “I saw that.”

Waldo and I say our goodbyes to Trevor and his dad and head back into the fields of mountain laurel.  Before long, we’re back at the car.  My AllTrails app says we did 8.4 miles in 4:26:29 with 577 feet of elevation gain.  I’m feeling tired, but nowhere nearly as exhausted as when Waldo and I trekkcd over the Mount Watatic ridge.  We head home to rest up for the next leg of the trail.

Now, we just have to wait for this next heat wave to dissipate.

 

 

 

Of all the paths you take in life, make sure some of them are dirt.

— John Muir

 

Continued from last week…

The Midstate Trail began in the 1920s.  At first, it ran from Mt Watatic to Mt Wachusett, about 22.5 miles.  In 1972, a group of people came together to create a trail that goes from the New Hampshire border, south to the Rhode Island border, about 90.6 miles.  However, the only way to get to the trail at either border is by hiking, so the effective length of the trail is more like 101.6 miles, running from just north of the New Hampshire/Massachusetts border to just south of the Massachusetts/Rhode Island border.  Until today, Waldo and I have only walked about 10% of the way.  After we’re done today, that will be expanded to around 17%.  A good start, but we have a ways to go.

So far, we’ve gone up and down some hills, but nothing like Waldo and I had to endure around Mt Watatic.  We’re climbing up a gentle slope when, out of nowhere, a medium-sized dog with no leash appears in front of us and bounds with youthful puppy energy in our direction.  I watch carefully because, if he’s not friendly, we could have a problem.  But he’s only interested in meeting Waldo and the two of them do a I’ll-sniff-yours and you-sniff-mine hello.  Right behind the leashless dog are two women and two other dogs, also off leash.

We exchange greetings and then I home in on the fact that one of them is wearing a t-shirt that says, “State Police,” on it.  “Are you a cop?” I ask.  Phyllis gives me a sidelong glance as if questioning the wisdom of the question.

“Yes, I’m a State Trooper,” she says.

“I parked beside Rte 12, at Blackburn Village, is that legal?  Am I going to get towed?” I ask.  “I’m completely off the tarmac.”

“Rte 12 is a state highway, so it is illegal,” she answers, “but you’ll probably be okay.  The law is really there so we have legal recourse if someone is being a nuisance.”  That last part would be reassuring if only the first part weren’t there.

We say hello to each other’s dogs and continue on our way.

After less than a mile more, we pass by a lake.  A sign says, “Camp Winnekeag.”  There are some buildings on the shore nearby and Phyllis and I wonder if they’re likely the ones who built and use the log amphitheater where we rested.  The trail follows a road for a few hundred yards, then takes off to the right, back into the woods.  By this time, we’ve come almost 5 miles, over hill and dale, and we’re starting to get a little tired.  My phone says we’ve only gained about 700 feet in altitude, but that’s enough to make me feel it in my muscles.  I turn and look at Phyllis, who is bringing up the rear, so she doesn’t get tangled in Waldo’s leash, and ask, “How you doin’, old girl?”

“I’m fine,” she replies.  “I can feel it in my legs that we’ve been climbing some hills, but they aren’t yet that painful.”

“Well, you are old, you know.  A whole year older than I am.”

“Oh yeah?  How’s your back?”

“It’s doin’ good.”  She knows I sometimes have trouble with it.  “Beginning to feel a bit tired, though.”

“I noticed you slowed down a notch or two.”

“Yep.  Think I’ll just sit here on this rock for a breather.”  I sit on a boulder and rest my legs.  After only about 2 minutes, I’m back up and plodding along, only now at a noticeably faster pace.

“That’s all it took?” she asks.

“Yep,” I say, “Just needed to rest the old leg muscles for a while.”  Even so, for the next two miles, every 30 minutes or so, Phyllis askes how much further we have to go and I reply, “Oh, a mile or two.”

“That’s how you always answer that question,” she says.

I too am looking forward to getting back to the car.

Finally, tired and somewhat sore, we break out of the woods and see the car where we left it, on the side of the road.  It was not towed.  It’s been 5 hours and 25 minutes since we started, we gained 724 feet in elevation and walked 7.37 miles.

“How’re you feeling?” I ask.

“It was just the right amount of hike,” she answers.  “Hard enough to give me a good work out, but not so long that I feel like I’m gonna die.  I’m really glad I came.”

“Well, you’re gonna have to join us again soon.”

“I just have to fit it into my schedule.”

“Yes, you do.”  I let Waldo in the passenger seat (that’s his place and always has been) and Phyllis gets in the back.  “For now, it’s back home for dinner, a rest in the recliner and a nap,” I say.

I rest my weary bones on the driver’s seat, let out an inaudible sigh, and begin the trip home.

 

 

Good company makes the way seem shorter.

—  Izaak Walton

 

When Waldo and I go for long walks in the hinterland, some planning is required.  First, I look for places I can leave my car (where there is little chance of it getting towed), that’s within the distance I think I might be able to go (sometimes requiring a healthy dose of hubris).  That’s not always so easy, because there aren’t always parking lots close to the limit of my endurance.  When that happens, I look for places where the trail crosses a road, with the idea of finding a wide spot where I can pull off the tarmac.  Sometimes, you just gotta be there to know for sure and sometimes, there’s no guarantee about the towing thing.

Then I look at the weather, looking for a day that is neither too wet, nor too hot.  I don’t mind slogging through a bit of mud, but I don’t really like turning Waldo into Swamp-dog.  I am not kidding when I tell you he is self-cleaning – an hour or so after he’s black from his toes to his knees and elbows, all of the mud and grime falls off and he has sparkling white feet.  But the odor lingers for a bit and I don’t relish bringing that into the car and home.  So I try to wait a day or so after the last hard rain before venturing out.  It rained only lightly yesterday, the temperature is forecast to be in the high 50s at its peak today, so we’re good to go.

Phyllis has agreed to join us, so we can do a one-way hike, leaving cars at both ends.   I figure I can realistically expect to be able to do around 6 miles, with some up and down.  I go to the AllTrails app and find we can start at the Mt. Watatic parking lot, where we left off on our last hike, and walk around 6 miles, with something like 600 feet of elevation gain, and end at Rte 12 at Blackburn Village.  The app isn’t that accurate, but it should put us in the right ball park and it’s doable.

I leave my car on the side of Rte 12, with some trepidation, and take Phyllis’ car to Watatic.  We start out, as eager as a border collie, and are soon winding our way on a dirt path through the weeds, roots, rocks and trees.  The ground, at first, is just barely noticeably damp, but not muddy.  The temperature is in the low 50s and the sky cover is broken.  That means we are oscillating between being grateful for our light jackets, when the sun is behind a cloud, to being definitely over-dressed, as it comes out and shines down on us.  Soon, we’re going uphill, although not nearly as steep as when Waldo and I trekked over and around Mt Watatic, and we’re working up a sweat.  The jackets come off and go into our packs and we deal with the cooler air in the shade and under clouds.

We’re surrounded by hemlock and spruce.  The latter is not so easy to identify because their needle-bearing branches are all up high, beyond where we can see them well.  But I know they’re there, because I’m walking over more than a few of their distinctive cones.  The leaves on the deciduous trees are still on the small side, but I can recognize the bark of birch, maple and oak.  There are very few birds out serenading us as we go – it’s around midday and their choruses are much more plentiful in the early morning and late evening.

“I heard something interesting on a news feed on my way here this morning,” I tell Phyllis.  “Apparently, there is a recent study that shows that being involved with the arts increases longevity as much as exercise.”

“I don’t believe it!” she says.  “To quote my friend Byron, show me the data!”

“It’s out there, all you have to do is look it up.”

“For it to be credible, a metastudy needs to be done.”

“That’s absolutely not true!” I reply.  “Metastudies are only required when you can’t reach statistical significance from the data you have.”

“Well, you have your opinion and I have mine.”

“No.  You have an opinion.  I have an informed opinion.”  We are good friends, but we don’t see eye-to-eye on everything.  When we don’t, we do enjoy some playful banter – as we negotiate our aged feet over root and rock, at a white-haired pace, being careful not to stumble.

Waldo just keeps plodding along, restrained only by being at the end of his leash, ignoring the chattering noise behind him.  There aren’t a lot of side trails where he can make a wrong turn and he does a fine job of leading the way.

 

To be continued…