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| A small stream flows beneath High Ledge in Patchaug State Forest |
Friday
I signed out from the videoconference, flipped my laptop shut, reached for my rucksack, then stepped out into a bluebird Friday afternoon. Memorial Day weekend had begun. I intended to capitalize on every minute.
The Covid-19 pandemic has changed many things in our lives, including the way people travel. Fortunately, my preferred travel medium, the doorstep adventure, did not require any fear-filled plane rides or dubious highway rest stations.
My doorstep in southeastern Connecticut would be the start and finish line for a 60+ mile trail loop through Pachaug State Forest —the largest state forest in Connecticut. There were parts of this forest in the south that I knew very well, but there were also other places in its northern reaches where I had never set foot. I found myself deeply curious about what the trails would be like up there.
Since this was a doorstep adventure, I had to get to the trailhead under my own power. I started shambling through the neighborhood, loaded pack pressing on my shoulders. While the weight made it too heavy for me to truly run, I found I could move slightly faster than walking speed if I broke into a granny-gait on the flats and downhills.
I ducked into the woods for a quick shortcut, then popped out again at at the base of Lantern Hill, where (no surprise) the road was lined with hikers’ vehicles. There were exactly zero people on the abandoned trolley line nearby however, which worked out nicely.
It used to be possible to follow the trolley line all the way to the Narragansett Trail, but when I tried to explore that route last year, I’d found someone had set up No Trespassing signs and an electric fence — which I’d avoided by pushing through a wall of briars and climbing up a stone dam.
To avoid doing this again, I cut into the woods early, sloshed across a mucky stream, and came out near a graveyard on Route 2. I shuffled along the roadside for a half-mile or so before reconnecting with the Narragansett Trail in a half mile.
The trail was marked with the blue blazes that indicated that it was maintained by the Connecticut Forest and Park Association— the organization which maintains over 700 miles of these blue-blazed trails throughout the state.
The Narragansett Trail would be my companion for the beginning of this adventure, before I turned north onto the Pachaug Trail. The companionship started rocky, with a butt-kicking climb up a steep ridge. The trail dropped down again into the Yawbux Valley, along a heartbreakingly beautiful stretch of beaver-dammed brook.
The trail wended past a second beaver pond, then took to the hills again, through old stone walls, beneath tall, dark outcrops of layered schist. Often, I think the tortured rock formations in the Connecticut woods go unappreciated simply because they are so deep in the trees. You don’t see them until you are right in front. Moss and mountain laurel often favor such places. They have their own brooding flavor. I passed over the geologic chaos of High Ledge and Bullet Ledge, where the rocks are cracked and jumbled violently atop one another.
For camp, I climbed another ledge off the trail, and draped my tarp over a fallen branch.
The mashed potato dinner was bland, but enjoyable. I’d shattered some potato chips into the mix earlier, which added a nice oily quality to the meal. I zipped myself into the bivuac sack, shut my eyes and waited for sleep.
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| (Top to bottom) I start on the roads, Yawbux Valley, Beaver Dam, High Ledge, dinner |
Saturday
It poured that night. At one point, I had a troubled dream that I was sitting in on another video conference, but in every square, instead of a human face there was a whining mosquito. When I awakened I realized that I was, in fact, surrounded by a mosquito swarm. They probed at the defenses of the netting, looking for a weakness.
I listened to the whining chorus until I could take it no longer. I shot out from the bag and started packing like mad. By 5 a.m. I was already picking my way back down off the ledge and going for the trail. Breakfast could wait.
The night’s rains had suffused the woods with brooding fog. The trail went down and down into a ravine, where I filled my hydration bladder in the swift-flowing brook that ran along its bottom.
Further up, the trail joined the gravel Legenwood Road and headed east. A sign announced that due to a property dispute, that I couldn’t just follow the blue blazes back into the woods, but had to take a detour on the roads for the next couple miles.
I minded this far less than I thought I would. Traffic was light enough that it hardly bothered me. Stone-walled farm fields were ethereal in the gray mist. I was making incredibly good time with my early start and the roads allowed me to take on even more miles. When I had the chance to rejoin the Narraganset again earlier, I opted instead to push on along the pavement to the next crossover — saving myself 30 minutes or more.
I re-met the trail at the Green Fall River, which cuts a narrow canyon through the rock. It was an area of perpetual shade, with cedars and hemlocks growing thick along the ledges, while ferns and moss flourished in the understory. The river’s cola-brown waters foamed and gurgled below in a series of small falls. The path crossed the river, followed a boardwalk, then climbed past a dam to the quiet shoreline of Green Fall Pond.
I remembered these places from elementary school when my summer day camp would take everyone out there in vans, our teeth rattling as we drove along the bumpy forest roads. It had been many years since I’d hiked there last, and I wondered if, all these years later, I might no longer find the place so alluring and beautiful. I needn’t have worried.
Though I had been travelling in known territory, that was about to change. At the north end of the lake, I found another blue-blazed route. I consulted the pages from the Connecticut Walk Book that I’d brought with me to confirm that this was, indeed, the Pachaug Trail.
I followed it north, winding through another series of dark, rocky ridges and shattered boulders.
Further along, the trail flattened out onto a plain of glacial silt. Pitch pines, with their distinct, lizard scale bark and urchin-like needles grew comfortably here.
An hour later, I emerged at a highway where the blue blazes led me toward Beach Pond. The pond is actually a three-mile long lake, straddling Rhode Island and Connecticut. Today, it was gray and still. A solitary fisherman cast his line from a canoe.
Rhode Island still officially required out-of-state visitors to undergo a two-week quarantine. Judging by the stream of Rhode Island plates flowing past along the highway, it didn’t seem that the state’s residents were taking things too seriously. I crossed the line, then turned north off the highway as the trail re-entered the trees.
The trail went up and down along the lakeshore through groves of pitch pine and beech trees. I cooked hot breakfast along a boulder at the water’s edge. A light rain prompted me to wrap myself in a tarp — probably a strange sight for the water skier that went buzzing past.
The rain diminished by the time that I packed up. I crossed back into Connecticut, then proceeded north beyond the lake. My goal for the day was about 10 miles or so to the north. This would be the northernmost extent of the Pachaug Trail before it bent west. It was also at a 560-foot hill called Pharisee Rock, that I intended to climb.
The woods were darkening now; the air became oppressive, heavy. Sure enough, I started to hear the splat of droplets on the leaf canopy. A nearby collection of fallen rocks made a decent-sized cave. According to theI crawled in to eat a Clif bar as the rain began to splatter, then thunder in a steady downpour as the wind shook the branches. I waited 15 minutes to see if it would pass. When I saw that it wouldn’t, I wrapped my pack up in the tarp and threw my poncho on.
The next hours were a soaking slop show. I sloshed through ankle-deep puddles as the rain fell and fell, clutching myself beneath the poncho as I jogged. I was mightily tempted to put on warmer clothes, but also reluctant to dampen anything that I would sleep in that night.
When I saw the sign for the Pharisee Rock trail, I laughed out loud. The rain was slacking, and I decided that it was as good a time as any to pitch camp.
I pulled on all my warm clothing, and my insulated hat, then lay in the sleeping bag for the next hour, clutching at myself to get warm. I partially extricated myself to cook dinner again, but then got back in the cocoon. Despite my efforts, damp had found its way in. I clenched myself harder. I wasn’t hypothermic, but I was far from comfortable. At least it was too cold for the bugs.
Narrow section on the Pachaug Trail, The Rhode Island line, shelter
Sunday
I was awake around 6 am, feeling miserably cold and pessimistic about whether getting out of the sleeping bag would make things any better. Eventually, the need to answer the call of nature forced the issue. Once on my feet, I discovered that those feet were sore — so were my legs. Everything was battered and creaky. I started up the trail, packless, toward the summit of Pharisee Rock.
My efforts were rewarded with a lackluster summit view. The only thing that I could see through the trees were the tops of other trees, slightly that were further off. No matter. Sometimes things just work out that way. I stumbled my way back to camp and packed things up. I was back on the trail a little before 8 am.
Even if Pharisee wasn’t much to write home about, I got an unexpected lift from the road-walk section of the trail as it followed a high ridge above farm-fields with a panoramic view toward hazy hilltops. The sun was starting to slash away the clouds now and droplets on the hay scintillated like incandescent pearls. Dozens of tiny birds flitted in and out along the fence line in a tittering cacophony. A watchful hawk soared high above it all, looking for its next meal. A bouquet of flavors rose wafted out of the warming grass and into my nostrils. I felt serene and joyous.
Just as a sponge takes in more water, the longer it soaks, so do travelers take in more the longer they spend in the works of nature. I believe the length of time spent is often more relevant than the location. Even hiking along pavement, now that I was on the third day of my trip, I felt a serenity on par with anything that I’ve felt in a National Park trail.
A sign outside a recent high school graduate’s house let me know I was in the town of Sterling now. I’d really gone north, almost halfway to Massachusetts now. Often, living in Connecticut, I overlook these parts of the state because I get so taken by the coastline. Now I thought that I ought to have been looking over my shoulder more. The Connecticut Interior had its own peaceful beauty that I was appreciating more and more with each step.
I followed the trail back into the woods where a crow-sized pileated woodpecker soared over my head, then regarded me from the side of a tree trunk. I could perceive a distant lakeshore through the trees and heard its chorus of peepers and bullfrogs. New smells of hot pine needles wafted up from the ground. All these sensations enlivened me as much as the roadside had. I broke back into my granny gait.
I was making good enough time that I decided to add some miles by hiking over to the adjacent Quinebaug Trail. I took a connector through the woods over to Phillips Pond where a sunny picnic table by the lake’s edge made for an attractive picnic spot.
Once again, I was glad I’d waited to eat along the trail instead of shivering through the motions in camp. I kicked my shoes off and set up damp clothing in the warm sun. I enjoyed a languid breakfast, finishing the last of my oatmeal in a double ration while my clothes dried out.
I continued south along the blue blazes on the Quinebaug Trail, joining a rutted-up forest road. A set of dirt-bikers zoomed past from the other direction.
Then I saw the sign: “Timber Harvest in Progress: Area Temporarily Closed for Your Safety.” It was Sunday, so I seriously doubted any of the big equipment would be rolling. Still, I hesitated. I had a history of getting lost in logging areas with their morasses of confusing skidder paths. Turning around would mean backtracking two miles to the Pachaug Trail, however. Maybe, I could finesse my way through this time.
Following the main track seemed to be easy enough. Sometimes there were even blue blazes on trees that hadn’t been toppled. By the time the bulldozed path came out at a forest service road. It seemed that I had navigated my way through successfully. After 45 minutes of kicking along the gravel with no sign of a blue blaze anywhere, I concluded that I had screwed up. The forest roads were not so much fun in the high sun. The trees were cut back far enough from the margin that I enjoyed approximately zero percent of their shade. There were other trails leading into the woods, but I still didn’t see any blazes. What had happened?
I finally made the ultimate capitulation and (ugh!) took my phone out to find my location. I eventually figured out that I had come out of the woods to a different road than I had expected. The good news was I could regain the trail in about a half mile of road walking.
Finally, I got back to the blue blazes. I had switched over to the Nehantic Trail, which would loop me back to Green Fall Pond. I followed the path up a slope to the top of Mount Misery, a popular overlook where I had to take turns with other Memorial Day hikers to appreciate the view.
The parking lot at the base was crowded with vehicles and hikers. There was a large, closed-up campground where the state had stacked picnic tables atop one another so people wouldn’t use them. At another site, I saw a large group gathered having a cookout. It didn’t look very socially distant. Sure enough, a ranger pulled up soon afterward to talk with them.
Shortly thereafter, I missed another key turn and walked for a miserable stretch of busy highway before I realized I needed to turn around. Finally, I got back into a long stretch of woods for me to walk and jog.
I popped back out at Green Fall Pond at around 5 pm. I had completed the lasso. Now I just needed to retrace the Narragansett Trail to get home. Much like Mount Misery, the area was busy. Crowds of people paddled along the lake and gathered on the ledges above the water. Almost all of the vehicles in the lot had Rhode Island plates.
At this point my legs were pretty shot. I hiked back through the Green Fall canyon and onto the section of trail I had skipped the other day. I found a flat section to set up camp near the river’s edge. Of course, being this close to water meant that the bugs came out in droves.
I cooked dinner quickly, then zipped myself into the bivy while Mosquitopocalypse swarmed in.
They climbed the mesh of the bivy sack like pirates crawling up the rigging of a Spanish galleon but thrust their blood-hungry proboscises through the nylon in vain.
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| Morning in Sterling, CT; Why yes, I've been wearing fingerless gloves, how could you tell?; logging; view from Mount Misery, not a picnic spot |
Memorial Day
The last morning on the trail was gray again and misty. I had to walk carefully over slippery rocks and through muddy stream crossings. I ran the roads back to Legenwood, and then skipped the whole Bullet Ledge section of trail. At the base of High Ledge, I stopped to pick a bunch of stinging nettles to cook for dinner that night — I hadn’t enjoyed eating nettles since Washington. Just to make sure they were the real deal, I ran the back of my hand over the leaves until I felt the painful sting. They would be far more enjoyable after simmering in a frying pan.
The Yawbux Valley was particularly beautiful in the gray. I stopped to watch the antics of a family of geese leading their goslings through the trees around pond. I loitered around the sprays of wild azalea blossoms sticking my nose in them in search of fragrance. I hadn’t seen a soul along the trail all morning.
In the next couple hours, I would retrace my way along Route 2, the trolley line and the remaining roads leading home. I would log about 68 miles of trail over one Memorial Day weekend.
I stopped to fill my water one last time, nestled in the cool beneath the hemlocks along Yawbux brook.
I paused and listened to the conversations of the birds, watched the dark water swirl around mossy rocks. Bubbles and flecks of foam spun in tiny eddies. Water bugs skittered across the surface on their separate missions.
To be sure, the small place was easy to scoot past on the way to more dramatic sights, but it also had its own patterns and stories to tell. Taking time to appreciate such things fit nicely with the theme of my morning — with the whole doorstep adventure.
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| Trailside stinging nettle and wild azaleas |
