Thoughts and reflections inspired by the Wapack Trail
When I "cleared" my house site many years ago, I was forced into decisions about which trees to cut, and which to keep. The dozer and backhoe people were annoyed and frustrated by my refusal to clear my land bare to make their jobs easier. Years later, while cutting trees to make room for an addition to my house, I was cutting one of the trees I had fought to keep, - a maple that always made a beautiful red, orange and yellow show of foliage in the fall. When I cut it, the limbs of young pines broke its fall, and lowered it gently to the ground.
| Our lives are lived in the shelter of trees.... | I have other favorite trees in my yard. There are ancient oaks arching over my driveway. Several large white birches and maples still show off their fall colors. Perhaps my favorite is the apple tree I planted 20 years ago. An antique variety, it is highly susceptible to every apple disease, has a growth habit that requires extensive pruning, and produces the most wonderfully flavored, though imperfect, apples. |
Memories of trees are like memories of old friends. I think children notice trees more than adults do. I remember the ash and weeping willow behind my parent's house. Both trees had convenient child-height branches for climbing. It seems some days I spent as much time in these trees as I did on the ground. As a child, I would survey the Wapack ridgeline wondering what it was like up there. One tree stood out on that ridge, a spruce on Pratt Mountain that towered above the others. Once, while rowing across Pratt Pond with my grandfather, he pointed to the mountain and said: "See how that tree is so much taller than the others?" Well, that was it. My summer mission was to find that tree! I did find it. It turned out the spruce was no taller than the trees around it, - it stood on higher ground. The search for that tree marked my first exploration of the Wapack range. I'll bet most of us can recall "tree" memories from our childhood.
Thoreau would often visit trees on his Concord walks. In Walden he writes: "Instead of calling on some scholar, I paid many a visit to particular trees... some taller mast of a pine, or a more perfect hemlock than usual, standing like a pagoda in the midst of the woods… These were the shrines I visited both summer and winter." For me, a solitary hike on the Wapack is like a visit with old friends - there is the giant beech on the Temple Mountain ridge, and that tree on New Ipswich Mountain that looks for all the world like the tree on the Friends of the Wapack logo, with Mt. Monadnock in the distance. Trail work provides the opportunity to become familiar with hundreds of trees along the trail as you decide which branches to trim, and which trees to adorn with a yellow blaze. Then there is that spruce on Pratt Mountain, no longer visible on the ridge. I think it's time to check up on an old friend!
Our lives are lived in the shelter of trees. Trees connect earth and sky, and the generations that pass beneath them. They grow and change in season, reminding us of the passing seasons of our lives. Vigorous saplings that spring from tree stumps give us hope for new beginnings. Though friends may have fallen in spring and summer, there is the certain promise of healthful apples and of brilliant foliage in the fall.
| ...my connection to the trail has kept me whole. It is a reminder of childhood, of the pure delight of just being in the woods. | I am writing this in a ski lodge in Lincoln, New Hampshire. A remarkable thing happened to me while skiing today. My wife and I took the gondola to the summit of Loon Mountain. While we were studying the trail map, a gray bearded gentleman wearing a Mountain Ambassador's jacket asked us if we needed any help selecting a trail. While he was explaining the trails from the summit, I noticed his nametag. After turning to leave, I turned back to ask, "Did you ever teach college?" |
He said yes, at Plymouth State.
"Well, I was your student!"
He said that he thought he had recognized me.
"'68, wasn't it?"
"No, '69-'70" I replied.
"Yes, I remember you. I've often wondered what happened to you."
"I transferred after my sophomore year."
"I met your father skiing once."
"I remember that."
"So, what are you doing now? I wonder what English Majors end up doing."
I told him how my literature studies have served me well in the high tech field.
"Just being able to write a coherent email message today goes a long way." He
told me that he had retired last year, and Mountain Ambassador is his new profession.
"The pay isn't so good, but I enjoy the benefits!"
After a few more words, he had to get back to his duties as Mountain Ambassador, and me to
my run.
This remarkable encounter, thirty years later, brought me back to the me of age 18. 1969 was a crossroads year with several trails to choose. I could never have envisioned my high tech job. I never even considered a career in business. As I approach my 50th birthday, I have naturally been reviewing my life. Looking back at the young Thoreauvian who planned on writing essays and living humbly in the woods, I wonder if I would recognize myself. I read these lines recently which drove the point home.
"A little band of dedicated Thoreauvians would be a sorry sight indeed: fellows
who hate compromise and have compromised, fellows who love wildness and have lived tamely,
and at their side, censuring them and chiding them, the ghostly figure of this upright
man, who long ago gave corroboration to impulses they perceived were right and issued
warnings against the things they instinctively knew to be their enemies. The author of
Walden has served as my conscience through the long stretches of my trivial days."
- E. B. White, A Slight Sound at Evening.
My concerns today are quite different than they were when approaching 30, which was another crossroads year. Then I was concerned about falling behind; not earning enough, not advancing, not respected, missing the high tech wave. Now in my 48th year, I am acutely aware of what I have missed: the canoe trips not taken, mountains not climbed, people not helped, books not read. My employment has been rewarding, but at what cost? My time is the cost. At the mid century mark, the need to take control of my time is most important; and I need more time outdoors.
My only persistent connection to the "wild" has been the trail. My association with the Wapack Trail goes back to childhood. It was on this trail that I first felt the spiritual connection between man and nature. As my work requires longer commutes, and becomes more sedentary, technical, and detached from nature, my connection to the trail has kept me whole. It is a reminder of childhood, of the pure delight of just being in the woods.
If you feel that you have lost touch with nature, you do not have to go to the Himalayas to find your connection. You can find it right in our back yard. A weekend walk along the Wapack makes my days less tame. My old friend Thoreau chides me a little less, and my day is less trivial, on the trail.
| There is a peace that comes from contemplating one's life while walking in old familiar paths. | I remember hiking the Wapack with my best friend. I was 12 years old. We were on New Ipswich Mountain on a hot summer day. The trail seemed ancient to us then. The faded white blazes, in our imaginations, were put there by native Americans. Every sharp rock was an arrow head. Every cairn was an altar to the mountain gods. I decided then that this was the best place to be in the world. |
When my high school English teacher told us to write an essay about our favorite place, the choice was easy. In the essay I described a spot on the Wapack Trail on Pratt Mountain with a view of Mount Monadnock. Our teacher liked it so much that he read it to the class. Though I have since found more scenic vistas and more beautiful places, when I am in a difficult situation, wishing I was somewhere else, it is always this spot on the trail that comes into my mind. I'm sitting on sun warmed granite. I can smell the evergreens. I hear the cicadas. I see the clouds drifting over Monadnock, and the sun reflecting off of the lakes below. Some years I don't get to this spot physically, but I visit it often.
Because of my long association with this trail, every section holds vivid memories. When I pass the bolder on the summit of New Ipswich Mountain, I think of my late friend. I pass a stone wall and remember a hike long ago. A vista reminds me of an important conversation. I step over a waterbar and see again the volunteers at work. A blueberry patch reminds me of picking berries with my wife twenty years ago. A stretch of trail reminds me of clearing brush with my Dad. These are my home mountains.
For nearly seven years I have enjoyed writing my quarterly "On the Trail" reports for the Voice. Looking back on what I have written, I find my thoughts through these years expressed in the context of the trail. Walking a path or road is a universal metaphor for our journey through life. Robert Frost's "Road not Taken," James Taylor's "Country Road," Thoreau's "Old Marlborough Road," and many other examples from literature and song come to mind. The true destination is not the summit or the next town. You may call it New Ipswich, but it is not New Ipswich. The true account of it is not in the Town History, but in our personal mythology.
Now that I am 45, I feel older, but the trail remains the same. Oh, it's a bit eroded in places, and the trees are bigger, but it is aging much better than I. There is something about walking an old path, with so much history, and so much of my history, that puts my life in perspective. There is a peace that comes from contemplating one's life while walking in old familiar paths. My whole life, it seems, is a walk on the trail.
"Stand ye in the ways, and see, and ask for the old paths, where is the good way,
and walk therein, and ye shall find rest for your souls."
- Jeremiah 6:16
| The quickening elements seem to break up the frost in me as well. | What a winter! Have we ever anticipated spring more? The usual January thaw seemed to elude us this year, making the winter one long deep freeze. I am writing this on February 20, as we experience our first thaw, the first early prospect of spring. Yet, I am reminded by Thoreau: |
"We talk about spring as at hand before the end of February, and yet it will be two good months, one sixth part of the whole year, before we can go a-maying. There may be a whole month of solid and uninterrupted winter yet, plenty of ice and good sleighing. We may not even see the bare ground, and hardly the water, and yet we sit down and warm our spirits annually with this distant prospect of spring." -Journal March 2, 1859
Still, today DOES feel like spring. Though there are no spring birds or swollen buds,
the first signs are evident. A walk to Binney Pond shows the mineral world awaking. As
frost leaves the ground, gravel is washed into leaf like deltas by the melting snow. Soft
ice crumbles beneath your feet, or emits a drum sound like a hollow log. Water, long quiet
in solid form, now greets you on every side.
"This is frost coming out of the ground; this is Spring. It precedes the green and
flowery spring, as mythology precedes regular poetry." - Walden.
In the seeming absence of organic life, the inorganic appears more alive in early
spring than in other seasons. Earth, water and air awaken first in this season. They are
not separate from organic life, they are its source and support. The quickening elements
seem to break up the frost in me as well.
"Ere long, not only on these banks, but on every hill and plain and in every hollow,
the frost comes out of the ground like a dormant quadruped from its burrow, and seeks the
sea with music, or migrates to other climes in clouds." -Walden.
Listen to the streams and spring freshets along the trail. It is the sound of life awakening. It is the voice of the Wapack.
| The Lodge is gone, but with your help, the Trail endures. | The big Wapack related story of the summer is the loss to fire of the Wapack Lodge. The history of the Lodge has been related often during this seventieth anniversary year of the Wapack Trail, so I won't go into it here. I would rather focus on today, and the future of the trail. The lightning bolt that destroyed the empty Lodge dramatically closed a chapter of Wapack history. The story of the founding of the trail, and the Lodge itself, now permanently belongs to the past. |
The evening of the fire I drove up to the Lodge. I was soon joined by John Flanders, president of the Friends, and his wife Jill. Neighbors also turned out. There was Al Jenks from Windblow cross country ski area, who spoke so eloquently at the Lodge on our seventieth anniversary celebration on June 5. The Eggers were there, who also own part of the trail. Wilfried Eggers, who once lived in the Lodge, shared information about the Lodge and it's history. It was great to finally meet them. And Cecile Hyatt was there. She lives in the house across the street from the Lodge that was Marion Davis' last residence. She related how proud she was to be living in Marion's house. One of her prize possessions is Marion's cane. Cecile's brother and sister, Fr. Normand Pepin and Gabrielle Pepin, who were visiting, were also there. At the time that lightning struck the Wapack Lodge, Cecile's brother, who is a Catholic priest, was celebrating Mass in Marion Davis' house. Was it providence that an empty building was struck by lightning instead of the occupied home across the street?
The future of the Wapack Trail demands our involvement today. The Wapack Trail is a valuable regional resource, and a living legacy to the work and vision of Marion Davis and Frank Robbins. The Lodge is gone, with your help, the Trail endures.
I have found another Wapack related quote from Thoreau that I would like to share.
With frontier strength ye stand your ground,
With grand content ye circle round,
Tumultuous silence for all sound,
Ye distant nursery of rills,
Monadnock and the Peterborough hills;-
Firm argument that never stirs,
Outcircling the philosophers,-
Like some vast fleet,
Sailing through rain and sleet,
Through winter's cold and summer's heat;
Thoreau wrote the above lines in the 1840's, describing the view of this region from
the hills of his native Concord Massachusetts. Further in the poem he also mentions
"Watatic Hill" as he scanned the ridges that are today traversed by the Wapack
Trail. This "fleet" of hills and mountains provided his favorite view from
Concord. They were both frontier and flotilla, the solid ground for his convictions, and
the vessels which gave inspiration and direction to his thoughts and verse. Today, these
mountains still form the character of this region, and the inspiration for many. Access to
these heights is provided by the Wapack Trail, a seventy year old trail that we as
"Friends" are committed to preserving and maintaining. As we begin this
seventieth year of the Wapack Trail, I want to give special thanks to the many volunteers
and land owners who continue to protect this valuable local resource.
I was just thumbing through my new Wapack Trail Guide when one of the old photographs caught my attention. The caption read "Volunteer Wapack trail crew, 1940's." Though this trail crew and the trail crews that I have worked with this year are separated by five decades, the impression is of one trail crew, past and present. Sure, the clothing may be different, but the tools are the same, the smiles are the same, and the purpose is the same. They could be volunteers from fifty years ago, seventy years ago, or this summer. Looking at that picture, time seems irrelevant. The hills were more open seventy years ago when Marion Davis and Frank Robbins first laid out the Wapack Trail, but they crossed the same stone walls, looked out at the same lakes and mountains, and observed the same landscape. The same could be said for the original settlers who built the walls, and for the Native Americans who walked these hills before. On much of the Wapack, time has little effect. The mountain tops are largely untouched by development, and modern distractions are few. The hiker easily imagines earlier times. Is it imagination or memory? Perhaps it is what President Lincoln called the "mystic chords of memory" that tie us to the land and to those who walked here before. The hiker does not so much hike north or south, but inward and back. These mountain tops are more than real estate, the Wapack Trail is more than a path. Their value cannot be estimated.
| The hiker does not so much hike north or south, but inward and back. | While reading Thoreau's Journal recently, I came across what may be the earliest reference to the Wapack Trail. Of course, the Wapack Trail as we know it did not exist at that time; the trail was not necessary since the land was largely open pasture. However, the hike which is now made possible by the trail was clearly anticipated by Thoreau in 1860. It occured to him while on his last trip to Monadnock, when, after observing the Wapack Range from that summit, he penned the following in his journal: |
"It would evidently be a noble walk from Watatic to Goffstown perchance, over the Peterboro mountains, along the very backbone of this part of New Hampshire - the most novel and interesting walk that I can think of in these parts." (The Journal of Henry D. Thoreau, vol. XIV, page 39, August 9, 1860.)
Well, you can't hike the Wapack to Goffstown (yet), but it does provide what an increasing number of people believe is "the most novel and interesting walk" in this part of the state. This walk is possible because of the generations of volunteers, property owners and trail workers who have worked to protect the trail and to keep it open to the public. Credit is also due to today's Friends of the Wapack, for their part in this continuing effort.
Copyright © ; 1997 & 2003 Richard E. Blanchette. All Rights Reserved
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