Woodstock Maine

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2021 in Adversity and Adventures: Keeping it “low and local”—and conserving special places

 

Bucks sunset

Happy New Year! Last year at about this time, I blogged about the dumpster fire from hell that was 2020 and wrapped up my hiking year in the post, “2020, Oxford County, and hiking ‘low and local’.”

2021 started off with lots of hope—vaccinations were nearly within reach for most of us, the prospect of gathering again with friends and family was real and exciting, and we actually dared to imagine an end to the scourge that is COVID-19.

I got to hug my granddaughter, my siblings, my college friends; I went to Connecticut with my best friend to visit her parents for Mother’s Day; I went to the movies and ate in a restaurant or two—all in the first half of the year, before things went seriously off-track again, before variants started popping up like a game of Whack-a-Mole, before we put our masks back on and went back to Zoom meetings and FaceTime family gatherings.

If 2021 was an improvement over 2020—and I guess that’s a matter of personal opinion—it was in part because we were more accustomed to our new reality, less blind-sided by the adjustments we had to make to stay safe, and perhaps more adapted to solitary pursuits and small-group activities, far enough removed from large parties and indoor concerts and crowded festivals to miss them less. (I’m speaking here for those who actually enjoy those things; as a confirmed introvert, my own adjustment to solitude was, from the beginning, pretty swift and painless.)

One way in which 2021 was a measurably better year, for me, is that I did 128 hikes, besting my 2020 total by one. Whoo-hoo!

A deep dive into my obsessively-tracked data for the year reveals that I hiked about 28 miles further than the year before (457.8) and my average hike was a bit longer (3.58 miles in 2021 vs. 3.4 miles in 2020).

Although my total mileage for the year (hiking, walking, running, and snowshoeing combined) was 1,235.1, which was about 38 miles less than in 2020, I’m giving myself a pass for that, because in addition to some kayaking, canoeing, paddleboarding, and yoga (none of which give me mileage credit), I’m pretty sure I swam more often last year than the year before, and I definitely increased the length of my summer morning swims.

By combining all of these forms of exercise, I managed not to break my Obsessive Exercise Streak (consecutive days with at least 30 minutes of exercise), which—if my good luck in avoiding illness and injury continues—will reach a ten-year milestone on April 6, 2022.

Not too bad for a perpetual last-kid-picked-in-gym-class who spent most of my first half-century avoiding exercise whenever possible.

As in the past few years, Eli the Wonder Pup was my most reliable hiking partner, accompanying me on more thanEli and me on Bucks 80 of my hikes in 2021. He’s the only one I ever invite to hike with me who is never too busy, too tired, or just not in the mood.

Eli brought Will along on 47 of our hikes. Will is exactly half my age as of right now, and I consider myself very fortunate that he doesn’t mind being slowed down by his aging mom, especially on the downhill stretches, where his built-in shock absorbers let him charge full-speed down the steepest slopes, while I pick my way along with my trusty hiking poles and wonder how long it’s going to be before I need to consider knee replacement.

Once again, I stayed close to home for nearly all of my hikes last year. In fact, by pure coincidence, the exact same number—124—were within Oxford County in 2021 as in 2020. (The other four were in New Hampshire.)

Not only that, but 101 out of 128 hikes were either right here in Greenwood, my hometown—46 hikes, on ten different trails—or in neighboring Woodstock (my second hometown), where I hiked by far the most often, 55 times—yes, you read that right—on the remarkable trail system in the proposed Buck’s Ledge Community Forest.

Me on MoodyWhy on earth would I choose to hike the same trails over and over, when there are so many trails to choose from?

For one thing, in the summertime when we’re at camp on North Pond in Woodstock, Buck’s Ledge is quite literally right in my own backyard, so a morning hike before work entails simply walking out the back door and heading uphill.

The trail to Buck’s Ledge from our camp is very short (about six tenths of a mile) and very steep, perfect for a quick workout when I don’t have time to drive to a more distant trail. I don’t think there’s been a summer of my life when I haven’t been up there at least once, although I expect I probably made my first few trips on the shoulders of one of my three big brothers.

The view from Buck’s Ledge is inarguably one of the best “bang-for-the-buck” views in western Maine. It overlooks North Pond, faces Mt. Abram, and provides stunning sunsets from the west-facing ledges. On a clear winter day, you can see beyond the Carter-Moriah Range in the White Mountain National Forest, all the way to the Presidentials—Washington, Jefferson, Adams, and Madison are all visible, especially when capped with snow.

Buck’s Ledge (1,180’) is just one of three scenic peaks of Moody Mountain, which is relatively low (1,424’ at its highest point) but sprawling, with a wide footprint and a nearly mile-long ridge between Buck’s Ledge and the true summit. The third peak is Lapham Ledge (1,180’), which faces southeast and offers sunrises that rival Buck’s sunsets.

Until recently, there were just a couple of miles of trails, plus a logging road/snowmobile trail, on the 634-acre parcel that the Woodstock Conservation Commission, in partnership with the Mahoosuc Land Trust, hopes to purchase and conserve in perpetuity as a community forest.

BL trail signOver the past couple of years, volunteer trailbuilder and Woodstock neighbor Jurgen Marks has located, flagged, and cut, first, a new trail from Buck’s Ledge to the Moody summit, then a steep connector up to the summit from the logging road, then a trail from the summit of Lapham Ledge down to the logging road, and, finally, a trail leading from the Lapham trail to the Woodstock Elementary School.

As a result, WES students have direct access to the trail system, and hikers now have about six miles of trails on a wide variety of terrain to explore year-round.

Last year, I watched the sun set from Buck’s Ledge four times, and I watched the sun rise from Lapham Ledge 17 times. I hiked to the summit of Moody Mountain 22 times; on 12 of those hikes, including ones on the very first and very last days of 2021, I made a 4.5-mile loop, hitting all three peaks.Lapham Sunrise with Eli 3_16_21

Every single one of these hikes was different. Even when I retraced my steps at the same time of day, two or three days in a row, there was something new to see each time. Was the horizon more pink, or tangerine, on this morning? Had a quick change in temperature left intricate ice sculptures for me to find along the trail? Would I catch a glimpse of the deer who had been bedding down in the plentiful oak leaves behind Buck’s Ledge?

And despite the hundreds of hikes over six decades that I’ve taken on these trails, becoming part of the effort to ensure that they will be kept open and available for future generations has made me see them in a whole new way.

At the beginning of the year, the idea of purchasing the 634-acre Buck’s Ledge parcel to conserve it forever as a community forest was just beginning to take shape, and as the year ended, the project was well on its way to achieving its local fundraising goal of $175,000, with the balance of the $850,000 cost expected to be met through state grants and foundations.

Next year at this time, when I reflect on the events of the past year, I hope I’ll able to say that the pandemic is truly behind us, and that life is finally “back to normal,” whatever that looks like to both the extroverts and introverts among us.

And I hope that I’ll be able to report that the dream of creating the Buck’s Ledge Community Forest has become a reality.

Here’s how you can help: A volunteer Planning Committee meets on the third Wednesday of each month at 5 PM at the Woodstock Town Office, and all are welcome. Donations can be made at www.mahoosuc.org/bucks-ledge or by mail to the Town of Woodstock, PO Box 317, Bryant Pond, ME 04219. Thank you!

BLCF trail map

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Sitting right here, watching the leaves turn color

Leaves_2012_1

I wrote this three years ago on Columbus Day, when we were pushing back hard against the end of summer, and stayed at camp until mid-October. This year, we moved home three weeks earlier, on September 21. We had fall projects to tackle, and the nights were turning cold; a few mornings in the 20s have convinced us it was the right decision. But yesterday afternoon, with the temperature reaching 70 degrees, the sun shining, and the fall foliage as beautiful as I’ve ever seen it, I couldn’t resist spending a little time at camp. I went for a last kayak paddle around the lake, then I sat on Sunny Rock for a while…just sat right there and watched the leaves turn color.    

October 8, 2012

One year, when I was about thirteen or fourteen, on the evening before we were to leave to return to Connecticut from Maine at the end of the summer, as we ate our last camp supper on the screened porch, my mother looked out at the lake and said, in an almost defiant tone, “Some year, I’m going to sit right here and watch the leaves turn color.”

I was a teenager—self-absorbed, unsympathetic, dismissive. I wasn’t thrilled about leaving camp, either, but hey—at least I’d get to see my friends, and school might not be too bad this year, and there would probably be some boy on whom to develop an unrequited crush. It was the end of the summer, not the end of the world.Leaves_2012_2

A year or two later, as we were packing up to leave again at the end of another summer, my mother sighed. “This year was going to be the year when I would get to sit right here and watch the leaves turn color.” It must have been 1974, the year my father would have turned 62, the year he would have planned to retire and move back to Maine. They would have stayed on at camp as long as they wanted to that fall—sitting right there, watching the leaves turn color—then relocated for the winter to the snug little year-round home “on a hill in Bethel” that they had always talked about.

Fate, in the form of unexpected widowhood, then my (equally unexpected) arrival, intervened. My mother eventually did retire to Bethel, in 1982, but I don’t think she ever really did get to “sit right here and watch the leaves turn color.” She plunged directly into a hectic retirement schedule that included volunteering, church activities, bridge club, and babysitting (she was “Gramma Wight” to half the families in Bethel), and by Labor Day it was time to get back to her house in town before things fell completely apart without her.

Now that I live three miles away from camp, I’ve been pushing back against the end of summer just a little harder every year. Last year we moved home from camp on September 29th, and we’ve already beaten that by over a week this year. Of course, we’ve had a fire going in the woodstove almost steadily for several weeks, and we’ve probably burned at least two cords of wood that should probably have been earmarked for heating our “real” house during the “real” heating season. But when you’re married to a logger, wood seems cheap and plentiful (it’s not, really) and it doesn’t seem like such a big deal to heat a drafty, uninsulated summer camp in order to squeeze a couple more weeks from the season. (Next year, we’re thinking, with some insulation in the roof and walls, we could target November first. In the more distant future, with new windows, and some heat tape on the water line, could we make it to Thanksgiving?)

Leaves_2012_3_moon

We’re planning to move home this coming weekend—really! I know I’ve been saying that for the past two or three weeks, but every day I see something—a sunset, a flock of noisy geese, the full moon reflected in a lake that’s as still as a mirror—that makes me think, if we had moved home yesterday, we’d have missed this. Life is so much simpler here that it’s hard to think about leaving.

Besides, I’m doing it for Mom…sitting right here, watching the sun set. And the moon shimmer on the water. And the leaves turn color.

Leaves_2012_4_sunset

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Camp turns 60

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Camp, c. 1957

Sixty years ago today, on August 27, 1954, my mother signed her name as the “Grantee” on a warranty deed in a South Paris attorney’s office, handed over $200 to Earle Palmer, who represented the Mann Company (the “Grantor”), and became the owner of “a certain lot or parcel of land situated in Woodstock, in said County of Oxford and State of Maine.”

I’m not sure why it was my mother, and not my father, or both of them, who signed the deed, and no one else seems to know, either. So I’ve made up my own story about it, some of which I can be pretty sure is true, thanks to the fairly reliable memories of my four older siblings, especially those of my two oldest brothers, who, although they may not agree on all of the details (did the family later buy a used Rangeley boat, or was it a Casco Bay boat? And what, exactly, is a Casco Bay boat, anyway?) generally agree on important things, like where the family went on vacation in 1954 (North Pond), whether it was a rainy two weeks (it was) and which kid most often got stuck riding in the way-back of the station wagon on that trip (Andy).

The story I’ve made up goes like this:

In early August of 1954, my parents and their four kids, for the second year in a row, rent a camp from Ada Balentine, a friend of my grandmother’s, at the far end of North Pond, for their annual two-week vacation. It rains a lot of the time they’re there, but the kids have a blast at the lake anyway, and my father, to keep from getting antsy, uses the rainy days to build and install kitchen cupboards in Ada’s log cabin, which is only a couple of years old. (Ada’s cabin, and the cupboards, are still there.)

Camp lots have just been offered for sale along the undeveloped east shore of North Pond, and, on one of the few days that it doesn’t rain, my parents, who are native Mainers, but living in exile in Connecticut, go over to take a look. They are both longing for a little piece of their home state to call their own, and as soon as they lay eyes on “Lot #10, in Mann Camp Lots Hamlin Grant #13,” with its pine and hemlock trees and wild high-bush blueberries and, especially, the enormous flat-topped boulder perched on the water’s edge, they know they’ve found it.

They take the kids along the shore in Ada’s boat to show them the lot, and surprise them with the news that next summer, they’ll be camping on the lake on their very own lot. Not only that, but my mother and the kids will spend the whole summer there, with my father joining them on weekends and during his vacation.

In my story, my father meets with Earle Palmer the next day, pulls a $20 bill from his wallet and hands it over to secure the deal. The closing is set for August 27th.

The kids, of course, are beside themselves with excitement. Leslie christens the boulder “Sunny Rock,” and it becomes their touchstone. Driving out the Gore Road as they leave Ada’s camp to head home to Connecticut at the end of their vacation, my father stops for a moment where the road comes closest to the lake. They all get out and look across to the unbroken east shore, where, even in the rain and fog, they can easily pick out their lot—“It’s the one with Sunny Rock!” Leslie says.

My father has used up all of his vacation time, so a couple of weeks later, on August 27, 1954, a Friday, my mother drives back to Maine, taking Leslie along for company. They stop in South Paris and my mother signs the necessary papers, the hand holding the pen shaking slightly with excitement.

They’ll stay overnight in Bethel with my grandmother, then drive back to Connecticut the next day. Although she hasn’t planned to drive in the road to the camp lot on this trip—there’s not much there to see, really—my mother can’t resist taking the right turn off of Route 26 when they get to it. They bounce over the muddy mile of new dirt track, twigs scraping against the car windows, and park in the road at the top of the lot. They get out and clamber over the brush left behind by the logging operation that cut all the marketable timber off the lots before they were placed up for sale.

The lot slopes steeply down from the road and is littered with discarded treetops and limbs. Stumps, with roots like bony knees where the water has rushed down from Moody Mountain, which looms over the east shore, and eroded the dirt around them, poke up from the uneven ground. There isn’t a level place to be found big enough to pitch a tent on. My mother has a brief but intense what-have-we-done? moment.

Then Leslie takes her hand. “Come on, Mommy,” she says. “I’ll help you jump across the moat to Sunny Rock so we can look at our lake.”

They stand together on the sun-warmed boulder and look out at North Pond, which, on this cloudless, not-quite-fall day, is an improbable cobalt blue.

Just as it will be on another cloudless, not-quite-fall day, sixty years later.

CAMP 2014 2014-08-27 003

The view from Sunny Rock on August 27, 2014.