Emery/Six Ponds East Preserves, November 8, 2009

The first dry - and warm day in weeks, so I suddenly announced I was going for a walk. I had been promising myself I would walk at least a portion of the Emery Preserve for months, ever since I noticed the signs that had gone up in the area: one that I thought to be its northern trail head - just south of Clark Road on the east side of Long Pond Road, and the other on Ship Pond Road. The Long Pond Road site had once been an old dump of sorts - a spot that the town had blocked off with large boulders and where occasionally you still see large quantities of yard waste left.. A place as well, where town police - by backing up into the cleared space just south, often try and catch speeders that accelerate on that one straight stretch of roadway.

But now, or so the signs promise, instead of a place where locals once gave a quick heave to unwanted buckets, bottles and such, it has become the entrance to one of the town's newest nature walks - part of the Wildlands Trust. The green and white sign uses large letters to indicate that the area is a Wildlands Trust property, but the actual name of the preserve is small, nearly impossible to read as you drive by. I assumed the Long Pond Road sign said "Emery Preserve" because I am acquainted with one of the former owners who now lives nearby, along the Pond itself, and because of a Wildlands Trust parking lot that has been carved out of the woods bordering Ship Pond Road, to the south. One day during this past spring - as I was cutting through that area to get to the Indian Brook baseball fields on 3A, I had noticed the similar signage, and had pulled over to read the smaller print. The small print on the sign on Ship Pond Road read "Emery Preserve"..

The Ship Pond Road trail head is literally just two minutes from my home, so that's where I began, expecting to walk north on the trail, reach the Long Pond terminus, and then backtrack to my car.

Once you turn into Ship Pond Road off Long Pond road, the parking area (on the left) is just a few hundred yards in. I arrived about 10:20, and though the weather was warm, the sky bright - I was alone. I parked and took my bearings. The entrance is flanked by two upright logs, and just a few feet into the woods there is a new bulletin board where you might expect to find a map of the area and the available trails. But under the glass I found only general descriptions of the work of the Wildlands Trust [Note that if you go to their website the Emery Preserve is not listed yet among its catalogue of woodland walks. Instead, you can watch a video of Charlotte 'Emery' Russell (who still lives nearby) describing why her family donated the land that comprises the preserve to the Wildlands Trust].

So.. without maps the first thing you must consider is the trail itself, and whether it will present any particular challenges. At this time of the year - under mid-Autumn's bounty of leaves, fallen branches and other detritus, (and considering that it is a new trail that has not seen many visitors), the trail is not easy to follow. Fortunately the first portion is well marked with the Wildland Trust's diamond-shaped, white metal marker. These markers are affixed to healthy trees, about 7 or eight feet off the ground.

10:26 a.m. From the trail head on Ship Pond Road it takes only a minute or so of walking before you begin to head downhill - noticing changes in elevation that for a hiker are appreciable, but that you would be likely to ignore in your car. Be careful in this early going because the trail bobs and weaves a bit, and after a short time takes a sharp turn to the right that is easy to miss. Go slow, and look for the markers.

Whatever its other attributes, deep woods silence is not one of the benefits of this walk. Most of the Emery Preserve is within 15 minutes of either Long Pond Road, Ship Pond Road, or the State highway. Consequently - especially in the early going, you should expect to hear cars, motorcycles and such. Less than ten minutes in the trail approaches, then skirts the edge of a fairly deep kettle (if you have time, mark your location and inspect the geology of this glacial depression) - about an acre or so in diameter and perhaps 30 feet deep.

After about 20 minutes or less of hiking (I meander, take photos, notes - so you may cross the same terrain in much less time) the trail comes to a T where there is no additional signage. You have to go either left or right or turn back. If you go to the left, your senses will tell you, you will probably come rather quickly to Long Pond Road. To the right - given the lack of trail maps or descriptions available, it is hard to tell. I didn't want to leave the relatively quiet sanctuary of this middle ground too soon so - hoping that a right turn was actually just a longer, roundabout way to reach the old dump off Long Pond Road, I took that direction. Before I did so though, I noticed a different marker about ten yards down the left fork (westerly). It was a circular, metal marker, and it bore the inscription: "Plymouth Wishbone Walking Trail" - with the center listing the Town of Plymouth, the DCR (a State organization) and the Wildlands Trust as sponsors. I was unfamiliar at the time with the 'Wishbone' Trail, so that was no help to me at all. I took the right fork anyway (easterly) and shortly thereafter came across another 'Wishbone' marker, and then the triangle of the Wildland's Trust. That right turn kept bending to the right, went over a small ridge, in a few minutes seemed to be heading south (back to my parked car?). This is where I saw the "H" (pictured above) made by two, bare trees: one with a long branch that crossed the path, and the other that formed the right pillar of the 'H'. I passed under this H and a few minutes later moved down into a low area of briars and bushes, berries and vines - and heard the rustle and chirping of a number of birds that were probably attracted by the food. At this low spot I also noted that the sounds of vehicles was growing louder again and - sure enough, in a few seconds came through the trees out onto Ship Pond Road again, just a few hundred yards up the road from where I had parked.

I had only been walking for a half hour at this point, so I simply turned around and headed back to that T intersection, intending to go straight through the T and see how quickly I would come upon Long Pond Road. Though there is no parking area where I came out on Ship Pond Road, if you want to enter from that point note that there is a small post with the number '17' inscribed near the top, along with another large green Wildlands Trust sign .

It only took me 15 minutes to get back to the T intersection even though I stopped a few times to take pictures and notes. The sun was right above me then, and I was particularly impressed with the variety of color from still-green ground cover, rust-colored oak leaves, the occasional white and golden brown mushrooms, various mosses and lichens - and the gray backing of scrub pine bark.

On the way back I was particularly interested in seeing if I could find a landmark that would help hikers avoid missing the turn back to the Ship Pond parking area, and that is when I came across what I will call "the Hula Tree": a scrub pine tree with no limbs for the first ten or fifteen feet and a trunk that undulates like a hula dancer.. sort of. About 30 yards after seeing this dancing pine tree you will come across the left turn for the trail back to the Ship Pond parking area.

When you take the trail past that intersection it drops down quickly and in a less than a minute you will find yourself in a thicket and have to dip your head and lift  your feet to avoid becoming entangled in briars, to get through. Once through the thicket the trail moves uphill and to the right (northeast?), and the sounds of Long Pond Road grow louder with each step.Unfortunately, there are no longer any trail markers - at least not the traditional variety. A little further on you do see - dangling from tree limbs, the faded pink remnants of property ribbons. Those seem to be the trail markers here. Soon though, those ribbons disappear as well. It's tricky here: hard to tell if you are on the trail or not. I was not too concerned given the nearby road, but I stopped to reconnoiter. Looking around I saw a strange sight about 40 yards away: a large, rusted teak kettle and a metal bucket, hanging from the limbs of a tree. After marking  my spot, I pushed through the undergrowth to this decorative tree. I noted that both objects were bottomless (completely rusted out), and looked to be at least 25 years old. I made my way back to the area I had left, then pushed on in a northerly direction for a minute or so, but soon concluded that I had lost the trail. I  backtracked toward the last sight of the ribbons and as I passed sight again of the rusted metal objects, I wondered if they were not some kind of property marker. I walked back over to them and - looking to my right, saw the faint outline of a trail and, further south, realized that I had missed a sudden turn that was marked - only after the turn, by a few more faded ribbons.

I should confess now that a day later I drove to the Long Pond Road trail head and was surprised on two accounts. First, the small print indicates that this spot is part of the "Six Ponds Preserve - East" property, not the Emery Preserve. And secondly, as far as I can tell there is as yet, no trail head at all.

Though the trail head on Ship Pond Road and the path up to the 'T' have nice new trail markers, this section of the trail appears to have no traditional markers at all. I walked north for another ten or fifteen minutes, relying on many other 'rustic' markers, including a cast iron skillet hanging from the stub of a branch, but I am not sure if I was on the future site of a Six Ponds East Preserve trail, or just walking along an old property line. Perhaps the land to the east of the buckets and skillets was part of the Emery Preserve? In any case this trail moved parallel to Long Pond Road at first, then moved east and wriggled back and forth until it came to what I believe had been a local dump.Whether it was the dump that I had earlier associated with the Long Pond trail head I can't say. The only materials to have survived were those made of metal, or glass, or ceramics of some kind. The only recognizable label I found on any, was on the bottle cap of a large, quart-sized green glass bottle of "Cliquot Club". There were metal buckets, large and small, brown glass bottles, spotted ceramic bowls, and some unrecognizable tools or apparatus as well. I spent a few minutes picking through this debris, looking for something of interest, but that was essentially the end of my hike.

The trail - or what I assumed was the trail, was still moving in northeasterly direction at that point. I might have been 15 seconds - or fifteen minutes from the Long Pond Road 'Six Ponds' sign, but I couldn't be sure.

I turned back at 11:37. By 11:55, navigating by skillet and tea kettle, I was back at the 'T'. Not pausing at all now it took me only about ten minutes more to reach the parking lot on Ship Pond Road. Before I got in my car I noted that the same trail (and the Emery Preserve) continue south, entering the woods again just on the other side of Ship Pond Road.

A little post-hike web research revealed that the Plymouth "Wishbone" Trail, will be an interconnected series of trails (approximately 15 miles long) beginning near the headquarters of the Myles Standish State Forest, and branching in two directions. The northern branch will head up the north side of Halfway Pond Road, following the Eel River for a while, passing through the Russell Pond area and ending up in downtown Plymouth. The southern 'bone' of the Wishbone trail may pass through the 'Six Pond' area, over Long Pond road into the Emery Preserve, eventually ending up at the ocean in Ellisville State Park. The Wishbone trail is a great idea, and one that I would hope to hike in its entirety in the near future - provided of course that the trails are marked and maps made available.

Ellisville Harbor State Park

Ellisville Harbor parking lot: 12:40 p.m. I’ve never been ‘here’ before. I’ve been by here a hundred, maybe a thousand times. It’s human nature. If I had been on vacation I certainly would have stopped, looked, maybe even gotten out of my car and explored this historic site. But because I live close by, I just drive on by. Until today. I’m making a point of walking all of Plymouth’s parks and conservation lands this year. I started in late December with a few visits to the Eel River Preserve off Long Pond Road, then had a wonderful afternoon tramping through fresh-fallen snow on New Years’ Day on the Gramp’s Loop trail off Mast Road. But then this recently concluded roller coaster of a winter interceded, with snow falling almost every week, ice everywhere, frost heaves and tortured trees. It was all I could do to make it out of my driveway, much less find time for a leisurely stroll through the woods. I couldn’t wait any longer though. I needed to get away. I needed to get out. I needed to replenish. Not that I expected Ellisville Harbor to do all of that – but I thought it would be a step in the right direction. Right away I am disappointed. It’s too close to the road, and to Cedarville. On a gray Wednesday afternoon there are five cars in the small lot – most with people sitting in them, eating their lunch. I don’t begrudge them the view or the time off, but I was hoping to be alone. I was hoping to be able to get out of my car, take a few steps down a path, turn a corner, and be completely alone. Instead there is society to deal with: mostly workers taking a break, but a dog walker and a couple, arm in arm, that I see heading into the woods. Through the trees bordering the lot I see a rusted old piece of farm equipment: I suppose it has been left as a reminder of the history of the family farm that once thrived here, but on this misty afternoon it simply looks like junk. I get out, and move to a display where there is history of the site, and a rather vague map. Stop critiquing, I tell myself. Just shut up and walk. The path is wide, graveled, easy to follow. Too easy, I think. Shut up and start walking. To the right of the path the old salt pond is visible through the still bare trees, a hundred yards or so below, and beyond that steel gray water. My sense is that things should be greener, warmer, brighter by this time of year, but that the repeated blows this past winter rained down on us, have taken a toll. The forecast was for sun, and temperatures well above 50. Instead it is overcast, misty, and a strong, cold wind cuts right through my jean jacket. Stop whining, I tell myself. But in the woods and farther below in the pond, geese, grackle, and smaller, unseen birds, seem to squawk in agreement. I look around for something aesthetically pleasing. I try taking a few pictures with the small digital camera I take everywhere I go – looking down the hill through the trees, toward the water. But the pond and ocean - which the brain easily discerns through the gaps, don’t stand out in the lens of my camera. I walk on and the path remains too wide, too easy to follow, too public. To the left there are dry, dead meadows with clusters of crumbling trees. I notice a dog walker has taken that direction. I guess that these so-called meadows must be minefields of uncollected droppings. In the midst of a clearing a rusted wellhead surfaces like some strange religious totem. Ahead a few tall cypress punctuate overgrown rhododendron bushes. It doesn’t feel natural. It doesn’t feel alive. The trees are not in bud. Almost every limb is dotted with one or two brown stragglers: shriveled leaves that have refused to let go, even after so many limb-bending bouts with ice and snow. Instead of finding myself deep in dark woods, closer to silence, and alone – as I would have hoped, the path winds back toward an unpaved public street – Gracie’s Road, and passes over the driveway of a shingled, nondescript home used – I think, by State Park employees during the warmer months. With little additional effort I come to the point where the path angles sharply to the right, abutting a private home, narrows, then descends downhill before ending at a twisted, suspect staircase to the beach. On the beach at first I sense only the disarray. It’s a lost and found of ocean items. But as I walk slowly over the sand and stone and wind-scalded seaweed, gazing down at each arrangement of cast away ocean plunder, I find I am pleasantly distracted by the subtle varieties of seaweed, stone, and trash available, and impressed by the casual indifference with which the beach has been decorated. The rockweed’s pods have as much variety and color as gemstones: in places they are pink, in others gray, black cherry, or blue-green. A scroll of serpent green kelp is tangled and twisted, half-submerged in the sand like wet knee socks discarded by a skinny dipper. A thick ribbon of – what I take to be gray polyester insulation, has somehow been looped like a holiday bow in and out of a mound of green weed. Brown and white and green and amber, even pale pink, coin-sized stones are clustered together at a rise in the sand, licked by the foaming tide, forming an accidental Apian Way that stretches the length of the beach, leading the eye toward the distant stack of the power station at the canal. A jogger suddenly streaks by behind me – and I jerk back to attention. I maneuver back up the Escher-like staircase back to the pathway and, this time, meander purposefully into the dead brown meadow. In its midst, at a distance, I notice a cluster of short, wire-limbed trees, their highest branches pleading with the gray sky. I move into their midst and find that they are all dead: the last bits of clinging bark slipping from their ivory limbs like sleeves that have lost all elastic. I empathize with these trees. It has been a long winter. My unused limbs seem to have lost their elastic as well. It would not surprise me if my skin sloughed to the ground, leaving me with just the husk. At least the calendar tells me its spring.

Gramp's Loop, January 1, 2009

Our home is a short walk from several large bodies of water, including Long and Halfway Ponds, but the presence of private homes and access by dirt road only, deters casual investigation. Of late however I have been hearing – and reading, stories of wondrous things going on in those woods, along those ponds. Did you know that for over a half century people from all over the world have come to a woodland camp along Halfway Pond to learn ancient dances? Just that little piece of information stirred my imagination and, thereafter, on many occasions while I was working in my yard I could swear I heard lutes, flutes, and tambourines. There are also quite a few new parcels of land in this area that have recently been acquired by conservation groups, and which will now remain forever wild and – relatively, undisturbed. And among these is the Halfway Pond Conservation Area – administered by the Wildlands Trust, which encompasses over 400 acres of land between Long Pond and the Myles Standish State Forest. When it snowed on this past New Year’s Eve – a nice fluffy, eight or nine inches, I thought that the conditions were perfect to take my first hike in this area: the snow not deep enough to require special equipment or meticulous planning, but deep enough to deter others. On the first day of 2009, after packing a light lunch, my ten year old son Patrick and I set out for one of the trailheads in this area, located off Long Pond Road, a few miles down Mast Road. Fortunately Mast Road – which is unpaved for its entire length, had been recently plowed. My old ’86 Camry is not meant for off-road adventures, but plowed, hard-packed snow is no problem for any front-wheel drive car. So we made our way down Mast Road, going slowly both because of the conditions and because we had never been to the trailhead parking area and didn’t want to pass it by. We found it easily enough -about two miles down on the right, but were disappointed to see that it had not been plowed at all. I know that the town has other priorities, but if it wants people to appreciate – and use, its new conservation areas, it needs to keep them open year-round. Undaunted, we unloaded our backpacks and a light toboggan (in case we found the perfect hill), and trudged into the new-fallen snow. I knew immediately that I had been right about the snowfall. There were no signs of anyone else, and the shin-deep snow was still light enough to push easily before me. The trail we had chosen begins just off Mast Road. It is called ‘Gramps Loop’, and the Wildlands Trust map that is available online shows it to be a relatively uniform circle. The entrance seems obvious too: a path leads slightly uphill from the parking area, to a large wooden display where you would expect to find a detailed map of the trails and other important information. Unfortunately the display was empty, as was a box to the side which is intended to contain individual trail maps. Never mind, I thought: the online map is straightforward enough: its lines suggesting a simple loop that a youngster would have no problem following. The online information also suggests Gramps Loop be followed in a clockwise fashion, so we did just that – or so we thought. Two things put us at ease right away. First, the excitement of being alone in a quiet wood that seemed to have been decorated just for us. Though the woods were, at the start, mainly comprised of Plymouth’s ubiquitous dwarf pines, under a fresh coat of snow each pine cone was an ornament, and many boughs were gracefully bent over under the weight of the fresh-fallen snow, as if bowing before a partner about to dance. Secondly – and more importantly, the trail was easy to follow: even under its fresh white blanket there was a clear, clean furrow to follow, and every so often what the eye perceived as the trail was confirmed by the emblem – attached to the trees, of the Wildlands Trust. It became clear after a short time though, that the trail was not the geometrically uniform circle depicted on the map: it wavered, in and out, dipped up and down. But no matter, the silence was delicious, the scenery wonderful. At times the dip in the path was sufficient for a try at a toboggan ride. I asked Patrick to whisper, not to yell or blurt out his questions or comments, hoping that we might encounter wildlife. We came across the tracks of deer at many points, and they seemed to be following a more direct path, crossing and re-crossing our winding trail. At one point a large game bird – a pheasant I guessed, burst out of its resting place and flew away from us. On we trudged, and after thirty or forty minutes or so, I began to wonder, not worry, about the progress we were making. We didn’t seem to be turning in the direction I expected, though the path was just as clear to the eye as it had been at the beginning. We trudged on. Stopping only to listen, to ‘snap’ a few pictures, or to examine more the tracks we encountered. At one point the deer tracks – if that’s what they were, moved up against a larger, full pine, and multiplied as if - perhaps in the midst of the New Year’s Eve storm, one or two deer had taken shelter for a time in the lee of this large pine. We examined those tracks closely, and though they had the width of a foot, at the bottom of each track was what appeared to be the dimple of a hoof. Shortly thereafter, using the toboggan as a seat, we enjoyed a lunch of peanut butter and jelly and – not surprisingly, bottled water that had turned to a refreshing frozen slush. I had no idea where we were – in terms of Gramp’s Loop, but I was happy that we were far enough away from the everyday to experience almost total silence. Almost, as I said, because somewhere far off I could hear a faint, high whistling. A bird? I remembered years back, to a hike I had taken in the White Mountains, where the only sound to be heard for miles was an odd, almost vocalized squeak. I had first taken it for some kind of wildlife but eventually determined it was just the sound of wood on wood, of a fallen branch, jostled by the wind, rubbing against another tree. Perhaps this whistle was of similar origin? We packed up our trash, licked our fingers, replaced our woolen mittens and moved on. I thought we must be near the end of the loop – and perceived a change in the light, a short ways ahead. There was a lovely bushy pine tree with a wonderful shape, covered in snow – not your typical dwarf, and passing that tree suddenly we found ourselves witin a small but impressive stand of white pines. White Pines are the tallest trees in the Eastern United States, sometimes measuring up to 150 feet tall or more. The White Pines along Gramp’s Loop seemed to be approaching 100 feet. It is at this spot that an Eagle Scout wisely chose to build a wooden bench and, brushing off the snow, we sat down for a minute and soaked in the atmosphere. It was here too that – while I didn’t tell Patrick, I started to sense something was wrong. From what I could glean from the information on the Wildlands Trust site, we were either making horrible time, or going in the wrong direction. Patrick of course, sensed something, and when he spoke it was often to question exactly where we were, exactly how far we had to go, and whether we were on the right trail. I was confident we were still on Gramp’s Loop, though I hadn’t seen a marker for a long while, but I was not at all sure how far we had come, or how far we had to go. So I decided to push a little harder. The path, at least, was still very easy to follow at this point. About 15 minutes later after a steady, gradual uphill, I spied what I thought must be the trailhead and waited, smiling, for Patrick to catch up to me. But it wasn’t the trailhead at all. Rather it was a juncture of a path that led straight down to the shore of Halfway Pond. If you came up that path – perhaps after canoeing to that spot on the shore, you’d be facing a nicely carved sign that said, simply “Loop”, with arrows pointing in both directions. Getting out my online map, I confirmed that somehow we had gone the other way around the loop: counter-clockwise. In short order we descended down to a wetland area – clearly marked on the map, and then uphill and to the right, only a short way to go according to the map. But just as I thought we were near the end, the trail opened up into a glade of sorts, and the clear furrow of the path was gone. I scanned the glade, side to side, but could not detect the trail. Straight ahead I could make out Halfway Pond, which meant we were still west of the trailhead, so I knew the approximate direction we should take. We bushwhacked from there, keeping the pond to our right, and angling southwest (I thought) sure to either find the path again, or run into Mast Road. It was the latter, as it turned out, and once on the snow-covered road we simply walked until we came to the car - just a minute or two. I was surprised, I have to say, at how poorly the trail was marked. Given the twists and turns in the trail, I was also disappointed that the map offered by the Wildlands Trust online, was so vague. Nowhere does the trail information include estimates of the time it should take to finish the loop. No information is available at the trailhead to suggest that care should be taken at the outset, to make sure that you are headed in the direction you think you are. And – either there are far too few trail markers, or they were covered in snow. I suggest that they consider using paint blazes - as many trails do, swaths of unnatural colors: they are easily applied and visible from a great distance. I am not suggesting that there is an inordinate amount of danger in taking Gramp’s Loop, or any other path in the area. But if the trails are to be open year-round, better maps, better trail markings, and more extensive descriptions of the trails themselves should be made available. All in all, Gramp’s Loop is a wonderful walk (and I look forward to repeating our walk in the Spring – and the 400 acres of the Halfway Pond Conservation Area add immeasurably to the pleasure of living in Plymouth.

The Eel River Preserve

I suppose I’m now old enough to join the mall walkers and – Lord knows, I could use the exercise. But walking the mall, or treadin the mill, or exercise of any kind for that matter sets my teeth to grinding, my mind to wandering and – before you know it, I’m on my ass, laptop warming my thighs, thinking but sinking into the couch again. To put it bluntly, pure exercise bores me to tears. So I thought, why not take a walk. Not exercise in disguise, no: but perhaps exercise by accident. Why not take a real walk, where I had not walked before, maybe even make it an irregular event (consistency to be avoided at all costs). And, of course, why not share those walks by writing down a mixture of my impressions, the history of the places I’m hoofin it by, and whatever comes into my head at the moment. It’s true – I think we can all admit, that we tend to ignore, or are indifferent to, what we see every day. We rush past the little oddities of architecture, the alluring dirt roads, the historic markers half hidden in the brush, telling ourselves that we’ll come back one day - when we have the time, when the weather is right, when the stars are aligned: in other words – never. So I mean to correct that right here and right now. I mean to act on the whims, the hints of possible adventure, to actually take the turn and rumble up the dirt roads, and discover for myself at the very least how little I know about this town, and to share that ignorance with you – whether you like it or not. December 26, 2008. There was a letter to the editor in the Old Colony the other day, a beautiful letter describing Ashley Holmes, and the bogs that his family owned for generations along the Eel River in Plymouth. In the 25 years I have lived in Plymouth I have probably driven past those bogs – which once bordered both sides of Long Pond Road, a thousand times. In all that time I had never stopped, but had always taken note of how well tended the bogs were – how they were a quilt of changing color, and how obvious it was that special care beyond what was needed to produce the necessary yield of cranberries in the Fall, had been given to them. The letter revealed that Mr. Holmes had sold those bogs and other properties to the Wildlands Trust, and that they had become part of what is now called The Eel River Preserve. The day after Christmas I took the long way to the Plymouth Library, intending to drive past the Preserve’s trailhead, before researching the history of the area. As I passed the location of the bogs I could see right away that they had begun to return to their natural state: a process that will probably take decades. Small pine trees had begun to burst forth in the untended bog, and the water level was too low to protect the vines against frost, let alone ice and snow. Ice and Algae in the Eel River Past the bogs, around the bend on the left heading north on Long Pond Road – just off Boot Pond Road, a small depression in the land beneath a hillock of trees has been turned into the Preserver’s official trailhead: complete with a parking area, a covered bench, and a single picnic table. I made a note to remember to turn in there on my way back from the library – though I couldn’t see a connection between that site and the old Holmes bogs. I spent about ninety minutes in the special history collection at the Library and, to be honest, I didn’t find what I was looking for. It’s going to take me far longer, I am sure, to figure out how to efficiently research the history of the areas I consider for these walks, than it will be to actually walk these areas. So I returned to the trailhead with little more than a map of the site – taken off the web, and the understanding that many of the names of the nearby landmarks, ponds, and such, were older, and more obscure than I imagined. The trailhead parking lot was still covered in ice and snow, but far less than a few days before. The trailhead, I discovered, was right there – at the edge of the hillock, hiding in the shadow of the trees, the trail itself angling up alongside Boot Pond Road. They have made a good start. The signs are still freshly painted. A banner boasting of the Community Preservation Act still flaps in the wind. The trail is easy to follow – though it appears that few have taken advantage of the open invitation. The trail begin with a small climb within sight of the homes on Boot Pond Road – to your right, and ambles for about a hundred yards or so, then angles sharply to the left and downhill to the edge of the old bogs. To be frank, it is not a particularly appealing setting – not here, not yet. No matter how well tended a bog is, it is still a kind of ongoing construction site. The edges of the woods are scalloped in several places from years of digging and dumping (sand for the bog, materials dredged out of the bog to keep the vines free). The old bog itself is a kind of attractive nuisance now, and the river which allegedly flows through the site is choked from an abundance of algae due, I suppose, from decades of fertilization and the infiltration of septage from nearby homes. The trail – heading west toward Myles Standish, is at first wide and easily traveled. It is also pocked with an overabundance of metal posts that mark the good intentions of the various conservation groups that played a role in acquiring the land. There are – for example, several posts that dispense plastic bags for cleaning up after dogs. And there are markers that demarcate the border of what is now official wetland – meaning that certain activities are not allowed under any circumstances. Still, like the decades that it will take for bogs to return to a natural state, it will take at least as many years for people to begin to see this property differently. There is – be aware, plenty of evidence of those dogs running free: step lightly. There are, as well, unnecessary impediments to walkers. In too many places the homes along Boot Pond Road intrude, and the sounds of cars along Long Pond Road are prominent for at least the first quarter hour, as you make your way toward the State Forest, away from Long Pond Road. If you stick to the northern edge of the former bog – perhaps intending as I did to come back along the southern edge, you will also find that you have to traipse a bit too closely to the water’s edge. At one point a patch of briars and narrow branches completely obstructs the path and you can continue only if you drop to your knees and crawl through a thorny opening. There are several opportunities to cross to the other side though – walking over the concrete and steel remnants of the gates that were used to artificially raise the water level for various bog sections (which could then be harvested one by one). Given the condition of the paths this winter, I would suggest that you take the first opportunity to do so, and continue as far as you can along the southern edge of the Bog. This was an unplanned walk, and I didn’t have sufficient time to explore beyond the first few kidney-shaped bogs. After a little more than a half hour, I crossed over and came back on the other side of the bogs, noting only the extensive algae growth that gave an unnatural luster to the otherwise sluggish Eel River water. I’ll go back again, perhaps this winter, and explore the remainder of the Preserve: I might begin from the far end, on Hoyt’s Pond. It took ten thousand years to make this town. Consider taking an hour or so each week, to see what still remains.