Sometimes, the trail is as wide as an old unused road.
Walking is man’s best medicine.
— Hippocrates
Waldo’s and my journey continues on, adding about another 3 miles south to the running total of our trek on the Midstate Trail, from New Hampshire to Rhode Island. We’re still doing round trips, so today, we park our car well south of where we turned around on our last walk, 3 days ago, and head north. I left a doggie poop bag on a trail marker then, so I would know when we get to where we left off. I know from experience, if I didn’t do something like that, I might not be sure just where we turned around.
The sky is partly cloudy, with little breeze, and the temperature is in the low 60s. The ground is dry and the sun is bright. We parked on a wide spot on the side of a road, so we have to follow a paved street for the first 10th of a mile. The path then turns left onto a dirt road and heads off into the woods. This is Waldo’s kind of weather for a walk through the trees and he is pulling at the leash, eager to go. Hs gait is normal and there’s no sign of a limp.
The forest we first walk through is the same mixture of new growth oaks and birch with white pine that has swaddled us since we left the mountains up north. After a mile or so, the broad path narrows to a typical footpath and, here and there, I see older trees, some with trunks thick enough to be 100 to 150 years old. The trail is well marked and Waldo does not lead us astray. Birdsong is rare and I only hear a bluejay and a northern cardinal out in the bush. I see no ground-pounding animals at all and insects are at bay, although an occasional mosquito does dive-bomb past me now and then.
After about 2 miles, we pop out of the woods into large grassy fields, bounded by trees and brush as windbreaks. Up ahead is a parking lot and there are 3 people there, looking at a sign. “Where you headed?” I ask, pleased to finally pass someone else out on the trail.
“We’re going to Burncoat Pond, if we can find out how to get there,” came the reply.
Burncoat pond is part of the Audubon Sanctuary Waldo and I visited on our last hike and I remember it. I look at the sign and then the possibilities. In addition to the Midstate Trail, there is another trail that the sign says leads to Burncoat. “Either trail will get you there,” I say, and Waldo and I continue on our way. They must have chosen the other trail, because we don’t see them again.
Our trail follows along the edge of grassy fields for another mile or so. We come across a trail marker that looks a whole lot like the one where we turned around on our last walk, but there’s no doggie poop bag there, or anywhere around it. I have no idea if it blew away or someone took it down to maintain the pristine nature of the trail. I’m pretty sure that’s where we turned around before, though. The problem is, my phone says we haven’t gone quite as far as I thought we should have. So we continue on, just to be sure, until I tire of seeing familiar territory and we turn around.
Just after we turn around, we pass an elderly couple going the other way. “How far are you going?” I ask.
“Oh,” said the man, “for about an hour or so. We’ll walk until we get tired. We’re in our 70s, so we do what seems reasonable.”
“We’re walking the Midstate Trail,” I say proudly. “I’ll be 78 next February and we started up in New Hampshire last spring and we’re headed down to Rhode Island in 6 mile, or so, trips.”
“We did that a couple of years ago and now just come out here for the exercise. Hiking is great exercise, you know.”
“Indeed it is,” I say. “That’s why I’m here. Waldo,” I point to Waldo, who has stopped up ahead and has turned around to watch me for signs he should continue, “on the other hand, needs this kind of thing to fend off cabin fever.”
“Me too,” says the man.
We say our goodbyes and continue on our respective ways. Wow, we passed 5 people out on the trail today.
There is a difference between physical distance and psychological distance, just like there’s a difference between clock time and psychological time. You can’t see very far when you’re deep in forest and that alters your perception of how far you’ve gone. On the outbound leg of a hike, it feels like you’ve gone a mile when you’ve only done a 1/4-mile. It seems like it takes forever to make any real progress. On the way back, though, you pass through familiar territory and the map you’ve unconsciously built in your head serves as a truer advisor of the distance you’ve gone and have yet to go. Compared to the outbound leg, it feels like progress is fast. I mean it literally, then, when I say we are soon back at the car. We did 6.12 miles in 2 hrs and 49 min, with 486 ft of elevation gain and are on our way to home, recliner and balcony.
After a day of rest, we’ll be back at it, with only about 30 more miles to go.
At other times, it is a narrow footpath that passes under old, thick-trunk trees.
We start along the top of a dam.
The poetry of the earth is never dead.
— John Keats
Today, Waldo and I walk the first half of our next 6-mile leg of the Midstate Trail. We are only doing ½ of the leg because we have to do it round trip, so we can get back to our car. We start from where we left off last time at the Moose Hill Flood Control Site – a pond created by a high earthen dam. From here, we will walk a little over 3 miles, then turn around and retrace our steps. The temperature is in the high 60s to low 70s, just cool enough for Waldo to go on a prolonged walk. The sky is mostly clear of clouds and there is only a slight breeze.
After parking the car, Waldo and I follow the trail across the earthen dam. It is covered by mown grass, but has a recognizable trail running down its center. To our left is a large water-filled pond and to our right, the dam slopes down into a vale that houses a paved road. As we cross the dam, there are people and machines mowing the grass off to the side. At the far end of the dam, down near the water, a tent is pitched and I can see two fishing poles, standing alone, with lines in the water. There are 2 men in the tent. “Catch anything thing?” I ask.
One of the men answers, “Nope. We must not be very good fishermen.”
“Maybe there’s no fish,” I reply. Waldo and I walk on.
After a quarter of a mile, or so, the trail turns left and disappears into oaks, pine and brush. There are a lot of ferns here, mostly sensitive ferns, so the area must be fairly wet most of the year – despite global warming and el niño. We did have a mildly wet spring and summer. The trail is narrow with many exposed roots, and is covered by boot-pounded dead leaves and pine needles. The ferns and brush only appear alongside the trail. Off deep into the forest, the ground is mostly bare of undergrowth, because of the dense canopy of leaves above.
Waldo is off at the extreme front end of the leash, pulling slightly in his eagerness to get on with it. There is no evidence of a limp. Although there are places where it is not at all obvious where the trail runs, he seems to know exactly where to go and winds his way through the undergrowth as if it was obvious. His only navigational hiccups occur at trail bifurcations and intersections. There, he pauses, looks down one option, takes a step or two, stops and then turns and looks down another option, with a step or two in that direction. After a period of indecision, he makes a choice and heads down a trail. It is almost always the wrong choice.
“Where you going?” I call out.
He stops, turns around and goes through the same process of indecision until he makes another choice. This continues until I get caught up to him and it becomes obvious which is my choice. He then runs off in the “right” direction, reassuming his position of lead and we’re off. After all these years and miles, it is a real pleasure to be out here walking with him.
We cross a highway and the trail continues down a country lane. We haven’t gone far and we pass a sign, in the weeds just off the road, that reads, “Original Home of Polar Spring Water, c. 1882.” I didn’t know that Polar Springs was that old. Looking around, I see nothing but weeds. No old buildings, or even abandoned foundations. There are no cleared areas and no evidence of any kind that something once happened here. The only water I can see are some muddy puddles that don’t seem at all appealing. Curious.
Moving on, we pass by some houses and broad grassy fields on our right, then the trail turns off to the left and runs into the woods. A sign tells us that we are now in the Mass Audubon Burncoat Pond Wildlife Sanctuary. It is a 680-acre landscape of forest, fields and wetlands, home to deer, fox, otter, racoon, beaver, coyote, fisher, muskrat and bear. There are a variety of birds that can be seen here, including wood ducks, great blue herons, sparrows and warblers. However, they must all be in quiet hiding, because we see and hear none. The ambience is idyllic, though, as we make our way down the path.
We turn around and head back to the car after going just more than 3 miles. When we get back to the dam, the fishermen are still there. “Catch anything yet?” I call down the dam to them.
“Not yet!” they call back.
“No fish!” I say, and Waldo and I continue on to the car.
We walked 6.81 miles, with 657 feet of elevation gain, in 3 hrs, 34 min. I am hot, sweaty, a bit sore and definitely fatigued. Waldo’s tongue is out, but I swear he’s smiling. I water the dog and we get into the car and head home to food, rest and a nap.
After a day or two of rest, we’ll be back at it and finish this leg of the trail.
Okay, but where?
Someone has mowed a path through the field.
A walk in the forest is not merely a walk; it is a sacred pilgrimage into the heart of stillness.
— Bhuwan Thapalia
Phyllis is busy and can’t join us today for the next leg of the Midstate Trail. Christine can’t go either, but she has graciously agreed to shuttle us from where we park our car to where we start our trek. Today’s hike is roughly 6.1 miles long, sinuously meandering through deciduous and pine forest, going up and down low hills, over roots and rocks and through weeds and, occasionally, brambles. Waldo’s dream walk.
It’s 9:15 when we start. The sky is blue, the ground, dry. The temp is in the low 60s and it’s windy, but we’re well sheltered in a green tunnel. As soon we hit the dirt path, Waldo is out front, tugging at the leash. His limp is indiscernible and his pull is strong enough that he must be pulling with both hind legs. I’m cautiously optimistic about his condition.
Some of the trees at the beginning of our walk are old, 100 – 150 years old, I’d guess. As we walk along, the types of trees change – sometimes mostly pine and, at other times, mostly oak. What dominates is a function of a few variables, like the type of soil (pine does better when it’s sandy), how wet the ground is (hemlock likes it wet) and how long the trees have been growing (pine will fill in a meadow first, followed by deciduous trees).
Weeds grow much faster and the kind of undergrowth changes, not only seasonally, but from one year to the next. The smaller plants here in the lowlands are different from what I saw in the mountains of New Hampshire (I don’t see any mountain laurel here, for example).
The trail itself is narrow and carpeted with either boot-ground dead oak leaves, or pine needles. Although well marked with yellow triangles, there are places where it crosses another trail, or forks off in two directions. I don’t have to be hypervigilant, but I do have to pay attention so we don’t wander off trail. After a while, the trail broadens and resembles a road once traveled by small 2-wheeled vehicles of some sort. The going is so obvious that I miss a place where the Midstate trail branches off to the left. I catch it only because I glance at the interactive map on my phone, which shows a red warning that reads, “Off Route.” We back track and I find where we went astray and we continue.
Somewhere around 4 miles into our walk, we cross a road and plunge into a large field of shoulder-high weeds of various kinds. My perspective is so limited, I even lose sight of Waldo. Leafy branches hang over the trail and obscure anything more that 3 or 4 feet away. I look around, expecting to see powerlines or some other reason for the forest to be cleared and see nothing but a sea of weeds. I soon become busy fighting the pesky things because they turn into Rosa multiflora, a bane to my hiking existence. Like any other rose plant, the stems are full of nasty thorns that pluck at my clothes and slice into skin. A frigging briar patch. Waldo isn’t bothered at all, due to his thick sable birthday suit, and pulls steadily at the leash.
I’m still curious as to why this field is here and consult the interactive map on my phone. It turns out that we are passing just north of the Spencer Airport. The runway is there, just beyond the brambles, I just can’t see it.
Spencer Airport has significance for me because I used to fly an aerobatic airplane out of there. Landing was a challenge, because the runway was rough, narrow and short. I had to be precise and touch down at the very end of the runway in order to have enough space to stop before I ran out of tarmac. It took some practice (I used to practice at Worcester Airport), but I eventually became skilled enough to do it without trouble.
Ah, those were the days! A friend of mine and I would take off from Spencer, fly to Worcester, do some touch and goes, then go off to a practice area and do some loops, rolls, spins, hammer heads, and so on, and finally return to Spencer. Sadly, that is something I cannot financially do in retirement.
Anyway, the owner of this tiny airport died and it’s no longer cared for. Pilots can still use it, but at their own risk. The tarmac is now uneven, cracked and clumps of grass grow in the crannies. Like my flying, Spencer Airport is something that has been left to the past. The last time I was there, in a place where I could see the runway and surrounding hangars, there were no planes nor any evidence of any having been there recently.
After about another mile, the trail turns down an asphalt-paved road and we finally get to our car. Again, we passed no one on our walk. Waldo is eager to get home and readily jumps into the car. We traveled 6.2 miles, with 545 feet of elevation gain, in 3 hours and 15 minutes. Another leg of our journey is complete. We only have 6 more legs, but many of those will have to be round trips, unless I can convince someone to shuttle us around. Sigh. I want to limit each day’s walk to 6 to 7 miles or so, so that means there will be 12 more days of our walking the Midstate trail until we get to the end in northern Rhode Island.
For now, it’s home and rest, until it’s time to head out again.
There’s a Waldo in there somewhere!
Sometimes the trail is not so obvious.
Strength does not come from physical capacity. It comes from an indomitable will.
— Mahatma Ghandi
The Midstate Trail lay fallow (at least from our feet being planted there) all summer. Now we’re in a relative cool spell where Waldo and I can find a 3-hour period that isn’t too hot to trek on its hilly, root-and-rock filled, meandering paths. An added bonus: Phyllis has found a window of opportunity in her busy schedule and she’s coming with us! The plan is to start where we left off, just outside of Rutland, MA, and continue southish for 6 miles to a place where we can leave our car, north and east of Spencer, MA.
We meet at the dropoff point and take Phyllis’s car back to where we start. The temperature is in the mid-60s, the sky is mostly clear and the ground is dry. Our pantlegs are tucked into our socks and our exposed skin is lathered in insect repellant. We cross Rte 122 and take up the dirt path that plunges deep into woods. The trail is mildly hilly, rough, filled with the expected roots and rocks, narrow and recognizable mainly from the crushed leaves underfoot. Off trail is also full of leaves, but they are, more or less, intact. The usual oaks, maples and birches, with occasional white pine, here and there, surround us on all sides. They are all small-bole trees, less than 100 years old. Weeds of various kinds grow high next to and, all too often, over where we have to walk. Waldo is loving the near-bushwhacking and is up ahead at the extreme front end of his leash, pulling us eagerly forward.
It’s been a long while since Phyllis has joined us and she hasn’t been doing a lot of walking. She’s also complaining of a little knee pain, which, she says, happens to her sometimes. This makes the going a little slower than what Waldo and I are used to, but it gives Phyllis and I lots of time to talk. We have texted and talked over the phone this summer, but now we are each other’s captive audience and we use the time to fill in the details of what’s been going on.
Phyllis took a canoe trip up into Canada and spent a couple of weeks camping on the shores of Reindeer Lake. There are no roads into the area and they had to fly in on a float plane. Unfortunately, that was also near where all the fires were burning in the middle of Canada. They could see the smoke in the sky, but they were never in any great danger and had a great time. She also fills me in on how things are going with her new boyfriend – things are going well in that department. Of course, I tell her about what’s been happening with Waldo and me, most of which you know if you’ve been following this blog. Anyway, my attention is split between our conversation and keeping an eye on my footing and I haven’t been on the lookout for trail markers.
The trail is well marked with the plastic Midstate yellow triangles at places where they’re needed. Even so, after a couple of miles, I look down at the AllTrails map on my phone and see that we have, somehow, wandered off trail. We will have to backtrack a good ways to get to the place where we went astray.
“Oops,” I tell Phyllis. “We wandered off trail a bit.”
“Are you sure?” she asks, with a hint of disappointment in her voice.
“I’m sure.”
“How far?”
“A ways.” That’s always a satisfying answer to that question, isn’t it?
We turn around and have to hike back a good 3/8 of a mile to get back on trail. Sigh. This is something that has happened to us a lot in the past and is bothersome only because it adds to the total distance (in this case ¾ of a mile). But Phyllis is having a bit of a hard time and the added distance is not welcome. Still, she’s a good sport and takes the bit in her teeth and doesn’t whine about it. We find where we erred and it’s clearly marked. Oops.
Up and down some more small hills and we come to a large pond. I’m surprised (but pleased), because there is no low-lying swampy area nearby. The entire hike has been in dense woods, something that is unusual, but welcome. There is some evidence, and a sign here and there, of logging going on, something that we don’t like, of course. A walk in the woods is just not the same if you cut down some of the trees.
After the expected, “How far do we have yet to go?” with the only acceptable response, regardless of the true distance, “A mile or two,” and we are at the Waldo-car. We passed no one on this leg of the trail. A bit sweaty and fatigued, we settle into the car seats and head back to Phyllis’s car.
“I’m sore and my knee hurts more, but I’m awfully glad we did this,” says Phyllis.
“And we are so happy to have you back with us,” I say. “I just hope that your knee heals enough so we can do this again, without making it worse.”
“I’ll be fine, but I am going on another trip next Friday…”
“Of course, you are. But there’ll be other opportunities to walk with Waldo and me in the woods. There always are.”
“Until next time, then,” says Phyllis.
“Until next time,” I reply.
Waldo wags his tail.
Phyllis gets into her car and heads home. Waldo and I head back to balcony and recliner. Another 6 miles (6.75 with the added detour), with 551 feet of elevation gain, toward our ultimate goal. It did take us 4 hrs and 5 min, which is a long time for the distance we walked, but the company was excellent.
Now I have to plan out our next leg of the journey.
Just follow Waldo, Phyllis.
The completed Bruce Freeman Trail.
Variety is the very spice of life, that gives it all its flavor.
— William Cowper
The Bruce Freeman Trail (the finished, paved part) runs a little over 21.25 miles pretty much due south from Lowell to Sudbury, Mass. Waldo and I have walked the whole thing (including the unpaved, unfinished part that continues into Framingham) in the past, some sections more than once. In earlier incarnations, the trail was the Framingham and Lowell Railroad, operated in its later years by Conrail. The last train to travel on it down to Sudbury was in 2000. The last pieces of the railroad to carry a train anywhere was in 2006 to 2008. The first part of the Bruce Freeman trail opened in 2009. Just this last year, the piece from Concord to Sudbury opened to the public, although many (including us) used it before that.
Today is a clear sunny day with temps in the high 60s and it seems like a good time to revisit the trail and see how the southern portion has changed since its completion. We start at the South Sudbury Train Station, at the spot where the Bruce Freeman crosses the Mass Central Rail Trail, and head north. Weeds have had a good year and grow up and over the tarmac, making it look narrower than it is. Places where white paint on the pavement once read, “ROAD XING,” now read, “OAD XIN.” The trail runs in a straight line north for as far as I can see.
For the first half-mile or so, we’re walking in the back yards of commercial buildings off to our right. One thing that is new is that several signs have been put up that provide a history of the place. One of the signs explains why there are light signals (old, rusting and no longer functional) in the middle of nowhere, next to what once was the railroad. It takes a long time for a big heavy train to slow down, so these signals were put up a mile from an intersection to warn the engineers if they needed to slow down before they got there. Other than historical signs like that, little else has changed since we were last out here.
We cross over a street and walk beside a very large commercial nursery to our left. It belongs to the Cavicchio family and used to be their family farm. The story goes that Henry Ford came into the area and wanted to build an assembly plant nearby, but the family refused to sell their water rights out of fear that the plant would pollute the water. Because of that, and other reasons, the plant was never built. Even so, Ford did leave an imprint on the area, but that’s another story for another time. After the nursery, we’re deep in forest green.
Waldo is having a good time. I swear he enjoys going to new places as much as I do. His gait is totally normal and he’s lost in the plethora of sensory input that bathes him. He has a propensity to want to trek off onto any dirt paths (of which there are a few, wandering off whither, I don’t know) that veer off from our paved path. When he isn’t doing that, he’s prancing in the weeds just to the side of the tarmac. I swear the dog loves to bushwhack. Fortunately, there is no burdock around and only a very little ticktrefoil.
There aren’t too many people out here – it is midmorning and midweek, after all. We pass a few joggers and a few people walking their dogs, but there seems to be more bicyclists out here than what we normally see on the Assebet Trail. The Bruce Freeman does run through the town of Concord, a couple of miles further north, which is a ritzy part of the state, and Sudbury itself is known to have a lot of money. Perhaps that means that the percentage of people who enjoy being outdoors is skewed a bit in favor of bicycles, I don’t know.
As we penetrate further and further northward into the woods, the nature of the plants growing off-trail changes. At first, the trees are mostly deciduous, mainly oaks. A bit further along and the trees are mainly white pine. Where we’re walking, the trees were almost all cut down over a hundred years ago, to clear the ground for farming and grazing. By 1850, the land was pretty much stripped of trees. Then things opened up out west, where the land was better suited for farming, and people moved on, leaving the land a chance to recover. Today, the forest has returned and the farmer’s fields, with few exceptions, are gone. The trees there are, though, are mostly younger than 50 and very few are older than 100 (you can tell by the diameter of their trunks).
After just over 3 miles, we turn around and head back to the car. The temperature is increasing into the low 70s and Waldo’s tongue is starting to loll out and flop around. I should have brought his water along, but I didn’t. I failed to take into consideration that, whereas the air temperature may be on the cool side, the sun beating down from a clear sky will make things hotter.
About 1.5 miles from the car, I notice a water fountain next to the trail that I didn’t see on the way out. The thing that grabbed my attention was that it has a specially designed piece for filling water bottles. I’ve never seen anything like that before. Then I look down and, right next to the ground, there’s a basin sporting the same kind of faucet as on water fountains built for humans. But the basin is way too low for any people to be able to use, even a young child. It is, however, placed perfectly for a dog to lap up his fill. “Waldo, want some water?” I ask.
Waldo immediately goes to the basin and paws at it, apparently also recognizing what it is for. I push a button, water flows into the basin, and Waldo slakes his thirst. There really is a lot of money out here if someone has gone to effort to provide a doggy water fountain for thirsty canines on this rail trail in the middle of the woods.
The doggy now rewatered, we continue on our way and are soon back at the car. It has been a very pleasant walk. We’ll have to come out here more often.
But, first, we have to finish the Midstate Trail.
Waldo enjoying the doggy water fountain.
Intersection of the Mass Central Rail Trail and the Bruce Freeman Trail.
Wandering re-establishes the original harmony which once existed between man and the universe.
— Anatole France
Continued from before…
As we head back toward the Lotus Blossom, I’m thinking about those “Do Not Enter” signs. They make me a little angry. The railroad bed goes nowhere that is dangerous to either the walker nor the people who control the right of way. Why should anyone be allowed to prevent another’s urge to wander down there? I know I’m not alone in this.
In the early 20th century in Britain, people who wanted to escape city life and wander in the country, but who were prevented from doing so by wealthy land owners, organized and lobbied Parliament. They organized large protest hikes that crossed boundaries, physical and legal, and brought the issue to public attention. They argued that land owners shouldn’t have the right to prevent them from walking on the land as long as they don’t interfere with business, like farming, or damage the property.
In 1935, the Ramblers Association was created and Parliament was forced to respond. For decades, regulations were generated that opened up the land for more public access. In the 1980s, the Ramblers pressed Parliament and, in 2000, the Countryside and Rights of Way Act 2000 was passed into law. It granted public access to mountains, moors and heaths in England and Wales. In Scotland, the Land Reform Act 2003 codified universal access.
The Countryside and Rights of Way Act gives the general public the right to wander across other people’s land as long as it is wilderness (excluding developed land, gardens and some otherwise designated exceptions – buildings, courtyards and gardens, land within 20 meters of a dwelling or building with livestock, land used for active mineral workings, quarries, aerodromes and railways, golf courses and racecourses, plowed or planted land within the last year and military firing ranges and land under the Ministry of Defence byelaws). One is allowed to wander freely across open country or common land as long as you follow the Countryside Code (such as keeping dogs under control and closing gates).
Yes! Down with NIMBY(Not In My Back Yard)ism! Long live the right to wander freely! But this is America and we have… issues. Sigh.
Once we pass the restaurant, the trail continues into Hudson as straight as a laser pointer. In less than a mile, we come across the spot where the Bruce Freeman Trail, also a rail trail, crosses the Mass central Rail Trail. Someone has built a large stone circle at the intersection, on top of which are the old rails where the two railroads crossed in an X. The developed part of the Bruce Freeman Trail stops here, although there are plans for it to eventually go on into Framingham.
Continuing on, we pass through forest on both sides, with some commercial buildings and a few homes appearing here and there, once in a great while, off through the trees. NIMBYs lost a court battle to prevent the construction of the trail through here, but there are many “No Trespassing” signs posted nearby on tree trunks, bearing witness to continued ill feelings among the landed gentry. I know, from previous walks, there is more lowland swamp further down the way, but we turn around and head back to the car after going only 2 more miles from the restaurant. That completes our 6-mile, self-imposed, distance.
It’s been a nice walk, excluding the damned ticktrefoil (yet one more floral enemy we have to contend with). We passed one other person doing the doggy duty and some joggers. Several bicycles passed us by; 4 had large panniers (saddle bags) and other bags attached. “Where you going?” I asked.
“Montreal!” they gaily replied, as they whizzed by.
God bless them. Damn! That’s some 320 miles away. It is really nice to see people out here walking, jogging and biking, using the land the way God intended.
Soon, we’re back at the car and heading home. Now I have to look forward to brushing all the ticktrefoil seed pods out of Waldo’s fur. That’s going to take a while.
Then, at last, I can retreat to my recliner and rest some weary muscles.
Can’t get much straighter than that…
Station house at the beginning of our walk.
You have to try different things, meet different people, and travel to new places to grow.
— Kunal Kapoor
Today, I decided Waldo and I would mix it up a bit. There is a portion of the Mass Central Rail Trail, newly paved, that runs from Sudbury to Hudson, about 7.5 miles. We have walked it before, including when it was choked with weeds. The last time we were out here, a bit over a year ago, construction was still going on and the path was compacted dirt with spots that had large muddy puddles. The trail crosses Rte 20 in Sudbury, near the Lotus Blossom Restaurant, and whenever I pass by there, I look both ways to see how the construction is coming along. From what I can tell, it has been finished for the better part of the last year.
We park at the Lotus Blossom, cross Rte 20 and head east. It’s only 1.1 miles to the eastern end of this section of the rail trail, so the plan is to turn around there, then head west past the restaurant and go until we’ve gone far enough that we will have gone 6 miles by the time we turn around again and get back to the car. The temps are in the low to mid 60s, the air is a bit muggy, the sky is completely overcast and there is next to no wind.
Just on the other side of Rte 20 is a small, wooden B&M (Boston and Maine) Railroad section house, the only one known to still exist in New England, built circa 1890. The trail is now asphalt and it takes a shallow turn to the left into a heavily wooded area. Here and there, there are newly built wooden fences. There is even a place where the railing has been taken out by a fallen tree, now cut up, with its pieces cast aside of the trail. There are two signs erected that give a bit of the history of the railroad and the surrounding wetlands.
Waldo is genuinely happy about being out here and he trots out to his usual place at the front end of the leash. The trees are all small bore and I see none that have been there for more than 100 years. Lush green weeds grow up close to the tarmac and seem quite healthy from the heat and rain we’ve gotten this year.
Waldo loves to walk in the weeds, I think he misses bushwhacking, and purposely goes close enough that he rubs his head and side up against them. We haven’t gone a half-mile and I look down to see his right side covered in panicledleaf ticktrefoil seed pods. The plant grows about 3 or 4 feet tall and, at this time of year, has long strings of triangular burs, that look like tiny green rip saw teeth, dangling tenuously on thin delicate stems. The seed pods have little hairs that reach out and grab your clothing, or fur, with the slightest touch. There’s so much of it stuck in Waldo’s fur that it looks like he’s in camouflage. It even covers his face. Sigh. Soon, he is biting at his fur, trying to dislodge the stuff. There’s not much I can do to help until we get back home, to a brush, so we continue on.
The trail skirts by a swampy area, off to our right, that we can see through the trees. It is now a conservation area, but was once a site for many mills. The mills used the river that feeds the wetlands for power, but are all now gone.
Further along, we pass by an old signal light, in the middle of nowhere (God knows what it was signaling), that I remember from previous visits out here. It is now turned into a rusted vine trellis. Off to our left, surrounded by new-growth trees, is an old car, rusted and stripped to its bones. There is no obvious way it could have been driven in there through the trees. It must have been sitting there for decades, given how big the trees are.
We pass a man walking his dog, a toy golden doodle. I tell him, “This is Waldo. He’s in camouflage.”
He gives me a knowing look. “You’ve got your work cut out for you,” he says.
“I know,” I say, sighing. “I know.”
We continue to the eastern end of the trail, where it meets s street in a T intersection, as per plan. On the other side of the street, the railroad bed continues, but there are two poles, one on each side, holding signs that have large red circles bearing a white bar in the middle. Around the circle is the message, “Do Not Enter.” There is a well -trodden footpath that runs between them that makes it clear that people do not take this seriously. Waldo and I have been down there at least three times and never had an issue. It’s unclear who put them there, or why. I would certainly ignore them, but we turn around and head back west.
To be continued…
Waldo in full camouflage.
Out for our morning constitutional.
In all things of nature there is something of the marvelous.
— Aristotle
Waldo is still limping a tiny bit, but he’s slowly getting better, despite our increased level of exercise. We are now walking 6 miles every other day, interspersed with 3 miles on the other days. With a day off, every once in a while. He’s still eager to go and seems to walk quite normally when we’re out and about. It’s funny, he seems to favor his gimpy leg more after he’s been resting for a bit. But then I’m stiff and sore getting out of the car after a long walk. Anyway, Waldo seems no worse for the wear and we are continuing to increase our weekly mileage. Good thing – we’re going back to the Midstate Trail soon.
Today, it’s nice and cool, with temps in the mid-60s, as we start out for a 6-mile jaunt. The skies are blue and the sun is hot, it is still summer, but the subarboreal shade is pleasant. There are stretches, like next to the new park and the Assebet athletic field, where there are few trees, but most of our rail trail goes through forest and is quite sheltered from direct sunlight. In one place, there is a retaining wall that casts a narrow shadow on the tarmac. Waldo usually goes over to that side to get out of the sun, but I’m taller and all it does is shade my legs. The result is a short walk through radiant heat, with sweaty goosebumps, followed by sighing relief in the understory, accompanied by a chilling light breeze.
It’s just after 8 AM when we start, so most of the morning bird-chirping has subsided. I do hear an Emmy bird somewhere off in the brush, who responds to my calls, but doesn’t venture down from their catbird seat and I don’t see them. There is also a cry from a bluejay and, occasionally, some squirrel chatter, but little else. Ubiquitous city noise, like the sounds of passing cars and trucks, do filter through the foliage, but it is dampened down, so Mother Nature can be heard. There is not much in the way of insect buzzing and mosquitoes are blissfully absent. Earlier spraying by the city must be effective. We’ve certainly battled with the buggers in the past.
The browning of late summer has not yet started. Except for the godawful burdock. Their big spikey balls are all fully taupe now, and the stalks and leaves are wilting. Not long ago, I bought a standing weed-puller for the express purpose of ridding the trail of burdock. It had a long wooden pole, with a hefty cast metal device at one end, designed to grab weeds at their base and uproot them with a levered pull. A week or so ago, I brought it to the trail to see how well it worked. The hardwood pole cracked and broke, without dislodging the damn weed. Burdock: 1, Byron: 0. Time to retreat and restrategize.
As we walk along, we pass a few bicycles and people out for a stroll in nature. Some, we know and we share greetings, but little else. The exchange usually starts with a “Hello, Waldo!” and ends with a comment about the beautiful day. The trail has become a preferred place for people, like me, to exercise their doggy-duty. Those interlocutions usually last a bit longer and almost always involve treats and pats and pets for the dogs. Waldo is very familiar with my habits of canine socialization and patiently waits for me to finish my fraternizing, knowing full well that a treat will soon follow for him as well. It is rare for a dog kerfuffle to happen and when it does, it’s always the other dog whose hackles are raised and teeth are bared, at least at first. Afterwards, I ask Waldo what in the world it was that he said to the other dog, but he just gives me the Waldo equivalent of shrugged shoulders and walks on as if nothing important happened. He has a gentle soul.
We pass a younger woman (at this stage in my life, nearly everyone is younger), in her late 40s, I’m guessing (as dangerous a habit as that is), who we’ve talked to before. “I’m heading out to Spain soon,” she tells me.
“Ah,” I say, “the Camino trip. How far you going?”
“100 miles this time, then taking a break and doing another 100 miles later. After that, we’ll see.”
The entire Camino de Santiago is around 500 miles long, starting in southern France and ending at the Atlantic coast near the city of Santiago in northeastern Spain. “How many miles a day?” I ask.
“About 10,” she says.
Damn, that makes me jealous. “Well, you have a very good trip,” I say and we continue on our separate ways. I have long been tempted to do the Camino. The problem is, it is no easy nor cheap thing to do to get Waldo over there. Sigh.
I love the fact that there are so many people on the trail who also like to travel and go on adventures. I suppose there is a selection mechanism at work here.
Eventually, Waldo and I get back to the car. “Well, Waldo,” I say as I get in the car, “another day and another 6 miles.”
He lays down, curled up on the passenger seat, and rests his muzzle on the console between us.
Waldo is always on the lookout for bikes behind us.
Beautiful morning on the Assebet River Rail Trail.
Fall seven times, get up eight.
— Japanese proverb
Waldo’s limp is improving and now subtle, but still present. He’s soon to be 8 years old, 55 in Waldo years, and, as I can attest through personal experience, is old enough to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous age aches and pains. His limp is now so subtle that I have to look carefully to see it. It bothers me that it’s still present, after around 8 weeks, but it is, albeit slowly, getting better. I’ve been in contact with Waldo’s vet and I’ve decided, for now, to increase his exercise, by increasing the distance we walk, and see if his condition continues to improve, or worsens.
We’ve taken some time off from our long walks due to the heat and Waldo’s limp. But with an improving gait, he is also having an increased desire to romp and exercise. On the short walks we go on, he pulls at the leash, pokes me with sticks to tempt me to play tug-of-war and chases after any soccer ball the local kids leave out on the grass. Cabin fever in the middle of the summer is not pretty. The temperature has now fallen adequately, for a long enough period of time, that we can walk 6 miles on the rail trail in the mornings. So I’ve decided to go back to the rail trail, walk our usual 6-mile route, and see how it goes.
It’s just after 8 AM when we start. The ground is dry, the weeds are tall, thick and green and I hear an occasional Emmy-bird calling somewhere off trail from its catbird seat. Waldo charges up front at the end of his leash and is eager to go. He’s pulling, which is encouraging, because that requires his driving himself (and me) forward with both hind legs. It’s not long, though, and he remembers that, oh yeah, damn, there be bikes in these here woods. He stops, turns to the rear every minute or so, then continues on. There are no bikes, yet, but he knows, from experience, there likely will be. His gait is otherwise normal, as far as I can tell.
There is some scattered burdock just off the trail, fewer than a half dozen bushes, with tall, thick stalks budding large clumps of the godawful spikey balls. They are still green, but, just the same, all too sticky for Waldo’s fine fur. I stop and try to pull one up by the roots, which I’ve been successful at in the past, but to no avail. Maybe I’ll come back with some gardening shears and cut ‘em down. That won’t keep them from coming back in future years, they can grow from the roots left behind, but for this year and next (the burs are biennial), they won’t be a problem. For now, I’ll just have to be on the lookout for ‘em and steer Waldo a good distance away.
We pass fellow denizens, some with dogs, some without, and a few joggers. Many stop and say they’ve missed us and were worried about where we’d gone and why. Some know that we often, when the weather is good, go elsewhere to walk, but they miss seeing us just the same. I tell them about Waldo’s gimp and we share frustration at it being so hot for so long this summer. I call the dogs by name and offer them treats, but I have no idea what the people’s names are. It doesn’t seem relevant, somehow. We’re all out here to enjoy nature, not socialize. Everyone knows Waldo by name, though.
It’s not long and a bike approaches us from the rear. I can tell, without looking, because Waldo starts walking sideways, off to my right and slightly ahead, with his eyes turned toward where we have just been. The bike passes us and Waldo then continues on, eyes to the front, with frequent back glances. If a bike approaches us from the front while Waldo’s attention is directed toward pee-mail, or some other doggy attraction, I’ll call out, “Bike!” and Waldo will jump — ears back, eyes forward and distraction forgotten. He doesn’t bark or growl and never chases after them. His tail isn’t tucked and his hackles are not up. I don’t think he’s afraid of them, he just doesn’t like those fast movers out there without the appropriate guidance, from a well-bred border collie, as to where and how to be. And from the rear? No well-meaning sheep, even those on wheels, should ever be behind him. Don’t they know they should be up front where he can share his wisdom and insight?
We soon come to our turnaround spot and head back to the car. At no time has Waldo slowed, limped, or laid down for rest. His gait has remained normal throughout the walk and has offered no complaint or hesitancy to continue. And he has shown a great deal of appreciation to be, once more, out in the woods. Even if there are a few errant two-wheeled sheep out there.
We get back to the car and Waldo jumps up onto the passenger seat without a glitch. I now will watch him carefully at home, to see if the additional exercise makes his gait any different. I know from personal experience that purely benign soreness and stiffness often follows extended exercise, so some is expected. But if he is clearly worse, we’ll go see an orthopod. If all goes well, though, we’ll be back out here after a day of rest.
For now, it’s back home to water, food and rest.
Out here, you wouldn’t know Waldo has a limp.
The walk started out kinda gray.
It does not matter how slowly you go as long as you do not stop.
— Confucius
Waldo’s right hind leg is better, though not normal. His gait is now normal and he pulls at the leash as he always has (which requires significant thrust from both of his hind legs). But I know it still bothers him a little, because he sometimes doesn’t put full weight on it when he’s standing. His vet and I decided to just watch him and advance his activity slowly, for now. I’ve decided to take him back to the rail trail today and see how it goes.
The weather hasn’t been the best – high temps in the mid to high 80s, with high humidity, and some recent heavy rain. Today, the forecast is for temps in the high 60s with a 20% chance of rain. That usually means a light shower, not much more than a thick mist, but the one reliable part of the forecast is that the weather is unsettled. So I decide to take along a rain jacket, just in case. I don’t like taking an umbrella, because that would make both of my hands full – one with the umbrella and the other with dog. I roll the jacket up and tie the sleeves around my waist so it’ll be there if I need it.
The temps are as advertised and the day is gray, as we start out. The air has a fine mist and the tarmac is still damp from an earlier rain. There is only a slight breeze. Waldo charges up ahead to the end of the leash, obviously happy at being back here in the woods. He visits the side of the trail and says hello to his friends, the bushes (both with a sniff and some watering). His gait is normal and he’s tugging at the leash.
It’s interesting to see how the dominant species of weed changes with the weather. In dryer years, there was a carpet of Japanese clover alongside the trail. This year, I’ve seen almost none. The Japanese knotweed, always present, doesn’t seem as thick and tall as usual. There are only a couple of burdock plants with burs. I don’t know if that’s due to the weather, or because I uprooted so much of it last year. The plants that are there are tall, have many stems and are already blossoming with burs. The burs are green, not all dried out and brown, like they get in the early fall, but they’re still quite sticky. Waldo picks up 3 of the damn things by just walking within a foot of them. It’s like they have a negative charge attracted to his positive charge. I’m going to have to come back here with my weed puller and get rid of the cursed things sometime soon. Thank God there aren’t many.
We say hello to our old friends, the rock garden, the covid garden and the new park, as we walk by. When we get close to the athletic field, I keep my eyes open for the beginnings of the 2 paths that lead off into the woods and thence to the Fort Meadow Reservoir and the Grove — places we explored not so long ago. I do it just to reassure myself I can still find them; they’re not obvious and easily missed. When they do show themselves, I consider wandering out thataway. Not today. Things are too damp and the going is likely to be muddy.
Waldo is still out front, pulling at the leash. It’s like he knows he’s less likely to have to contend with any bicycles in this weather. He misses these walks in the woods, as do I. The birds are quiet, with only an occasional tweet from a northern cardinal, or a house sparrow, somewhere off in the distance. The oaks, birches, maples, locusts and aspens are all fully leafed out and make the air itself feel green. There are sensitive ferns and various species of moss about, but not so much as there has been in the past. Maybe they prefer cooler times.
We pass a few people, some out walking their canine companions. Bikes may avoid wet weather, but doggy duty knows no unwalkable weather. There are a few joggers that pass us by too. We say hi to the local denizens and I explain why it’s been so long since we’ve been out here. They tell us that our absence was noted and that they’re glad nothing bad happened to us.
After we turn around, we are hit with the 20% rain. I’m not sure what the other 80% is, but I’m definitely 100% wet. It’s only a light drizzle, but it’s enough that my shirt is soaked in just a couple of minutes. I untie my rain jacket and put it on.
The walk back to the car is uneventful and we pass a few, but not many, other intrepid folks who were also caught in the rain. I’m pleased to see that, despite a 6-mile walk, Waldo’s gait remains normal. We climb in the car and head home. Tomorrow will tell me how Waldo is faring, after he’s had a chance to rest and get sore.
I sure hope that we’ll get back out here on a regular basis sometime soon.
It then turned wet and even felled a tree.