Cone Mountain Pond

Dan Newton  

We’re driving down Route 49 on our way to a trail that is not on a map. It’s a unique route that begins on private lands, and then moves into the National Forest, eventually leading to a beautiful special pond: Cone Mountain Pond. The trail is off one of the several backcountry roads in the Sugar Run housing development: unmarked, no parking lot, obscured by evergreens growing thickly at the roadside’s edge. It’s been a while since I’ve been here, so I’m not sure exactly where it is… so I’m beginning to feel the silent angst of the lost guide [a tragic and sometimes weekly condition, caused by an overabundance of enthusiasm, adventure mongering, and the seductions of the many sylvan voices known to be wandering these parts of the world]. Generally, people seem to forgive me for this. Looking into the rearview mirror at the group: Lisa, Suzie, Dorothy; Mark and Roy, I see they’re geared up and talking excitedly in anticipation of the afternoon’s sojourn. I stop the bus.

Five faces look at me as if to ask, “What are you doing?”

“I must have past it,” I tell them, “because it’s not this far…”

To see more photos, click here.

Turning the bus around on the backcountry road proves to be more of a challenge than I care to endeavor; however, I manage, without incident; and, driving back over the same road we’d ascended, at once familiar, and at the same time, different, I immediately recognize the indistinct beginning of the trail and park the bus off the side of the road as best I can.

The trail, a favorite among local dog walkers, is usually fully packed-down from foot traffic, so snowshoes aren’t even necessary, but I recommend we begin with stabilizers, and carry the snowshoes for walking on the pond, because walking on a pond is one of the things to do when snowshoeing, simply because you can’t do it when you’re just hiking. This thought gives these wintertime tramping days significance in our wanderlust, a sense of pioneering and exploration, newness and beauty; and on a pond, you can look at the same trees and the same hillsides or mountains that you’ve seen many many times before, and seen them anew, from a different perspective, from the loon’s perspective, as it were.  I follow the group, who have already begun to ascend, into the woods, having doddled and tinkered with my many accoutrements of the trade, pawing through my bucket-pack, and then throwing it onto my shoulders and heading off. I am out of breath catching up to them. The trail rises quickly from the road. Although it is well trodden, the snow is soft, and so Lisa and I soon stop and take the stabilizers off and put the snowshoes on. It is clear and cold and the woods are in the wind. I tell them the little ravine of the pond outlet stream has a 300 year old spruce tree in it, “They’re a thinner tree than pine, for instance, so an old one can look not-so-old, especially if it’s growing out of the bottom of a little ravine.” As we approach the pond, we can find no such tree; and so, we’re wondering about my facts. At the pond, we can see the tips of Dickey and Welch for a moment, at the spot where the trail first comes up to the edge of the pond, but then they’re gone, eclipsed by the green-needled treetops, as the trail leads down to a rock, a popular site for eating lunch and swimming. No one has been on the pond; and so, it is a pure whiteness, a smooth surface of whiteness and cold; and, as the elected official, it is I who ventures out first, soon to tell them that it is completely frozen; and then, turning out into the great white expanse before me, it is as if I’m walking into oblivion on some lunar landscape, desolate, beautiful, lonely… I step forward, each step throwing a spray of snow, light and granular, like sand, the snow sound crunching; and the others follow, one by one, walking down the rock and onto the pond. Each on his or her own route tramps across the waters, feels the smallness of walking here, with the sky all around, and the trees far away, humbled and human. We convene in a place, just some place on the water, not a little nook, or a turn in the trail, a rock or a tree, but just… another spot, another step, in this white wilderness. The sky is big and bright blue and the trees are green-dark and shadowed on the distant shores. We wander around, roving, enjoying the juxtaposition of having been in the woods for an hour, and then popping out onto the surface of the pond, instantly distant from the trees and rocks on shore, standing now in another world, a detached observer, looking back at where we’ve been, at where we’re used to seeing ourselves be. The perspective is delightful and we find it hard to stop smiling. We take pictures of each other. We look at the green trees and the tracks we’ve made, and all the whiteness of the blue-topped day.

Returning to the rock, by way of the pond, we walk past it, choosing another exit off the water, where the balsam branches form a tight canopy, like an arched doorway, and there’s a little tread-way in the contours of the pillowed shoreline. We duck under the branches and step back into the woods, leaving the wide-open sunshine and snow-bright of the smooth white pond behind, returning to our trodden ways alongside a not quite frozen stream in a little brook-bed ravine, past an old growth tree somewhere in the woods, and, mixed in with the tramping clomps of our snowshoes, I hear the sound of loons.

Tritown/Yellow Jacket Loop

Dan Newton

I’m furiously cleaning out the Subaru in preparation for today’s winter hike, and the seats are almost clean except for the most stubborn of the crumbs that burrow into the seams like small boring insects. I took out the plastic horses, army men, dolphins and assorted seas creatures, futuristic galactic fighters, food wrappers, crumpled drawings and homework assignments, books, plastic lunch containers, lunch boxes, water bottles, sneakers, a boot and a child seat, because only two people had registered for today’s hike; so we don’t need to crank up the bus and burn the big gas on a few people; but then, ten minutes to start time, walk-in hikers start appearing in pairs, proliferating like snowshoe hares, talking and laughing, popping up here and there, anxious to go a-tramping; so I jet next door to where the bus, the good old Recreation Department bus, stands still ensconced in the latest storm’s drifts, and I fire it up. Moments later, after sweeping a crust of snow off the windshield, defrost blasting a stultifying dry wind in my face, I’m gunning it out of the drift, teeth clenched, and swinging it back and up and around to the Cottage, turning in and adroitly turning around and parking near the exit. Didn’t hit a thing. I hop out. 

Everyone else hops in.

To see more photos, click here.

Seconds pass, and then we’re on our way, a cacophony of voices echoing over the bus sounds, west on Route 49, headed for the Smart Brook parking area, at which we arrive, and disembark from the lot around 1:24 PM. 

I’m concerned about the time. It’s an easy hike, but the mileage is high; so, as we stream out of the parking lot along the road, I look back and count my sheep, a Shepard in a hurry, with a large and happy group, thirteen of us, and I’m moving much too fast, exhaling the cold air in burst and puffs, high stepping up the steep parts and shuffling along on a well-worn foot-bed, even though it snowed just a day and a half ago. The steep hill at the beginning, just inside the woods, slows a few down, so some of us stop at the hairpin turn that swings right at the top of the rise, the others walk on to the Smarts Brook/Tri-Town junction. And soon we’re all together there, stepping over a surprising wet spot right at the entrance of the Tri-Town Trail. This spreads the group out again, but the leaders soon stop, and the tail of our long group retracts back toward them, and then we’re talking, and looking around at the clumps of snow still caked on the balsam boughs, and I’m bounding off again, thinking we’re going to have to make good time, to be back at the Cottage by 4 PM. 

Voices from the back of the line stop my incessant talking [about white ash trees and lung lichen], again, and I’m stopping, shuffling with the people, realizing I’m going too fast, being concerned with the time. After a short break, being sure I don’t start going again just as the back of the line catches up with the front, we tramp forward, and before long I’m too far ahead, in mid-story about something seemingly important and probably meaningless, when the sylvan voices stop my progress once again. I’m tramping back along the line, passing those in the middle, and apologizing to those at the back, now walking with them, talking. I tell them about the height of land, and then how after that it’s all down hill back to Smart Brook.  Claire says, “I just need to stop. Every so often. Not for long. But just to stop.” At the clearing, which I had somewhat erroneously referred to as the “height of land,” I show them the trail to Atwood Pond, and then beyond the intersection, we’re in the trees and going up.

Claire stops me again. 

“Seems I forgot about this one more hill,” I say.

“There’s always one more hill.”

I talk about this notion as proverb for a while, trying to be profound and symbolic, and we’re marching off to where the height of land rises up to where, through the knobby branches of the trees, we see Bald Knob twisted and domed with snow and rock right in front of the same knobby shape of Jennings Peak; and then the smooth long ridgeline to Sandwich Dome. It’s a surprise woodland view, seen only in the winter months. 

After a picture at the junction with the Smarts Brook Trail, we cross the bridge over the brook, and I’m feeling good about the time, figuring we’re almost halfway there, and we begin descending the gradual brook-side terrain. Here the trees are like green hallways, bent in with snow, vibrant and sweet smelling. I’m talking up the fabulous ice formations to Claire and the group as we hoof on the trodden snow, and there are several small rivulets and drain-offs that we easily negotiate.

After the short steep section at the beginning of the Pine Flats Trail, we amble beneath the red and whites, talking about the amount of needles in the white pine packet [5] and the red pine packet [3]; and then, trotting toward me it’s Tucker, the chocolate lab from the Rec. Department, followed shortly after that by his little friend Coby, and Rachel of course. I thank her profusely for the sharing of the bus, pointing out that a day like today couldn’t have happened without the spirit of cooperation she’s shown in working with the Rey Center, and she graciously accepts our thanks as we bow to her and praise her, placing laurel wreaths on her head and chanting Latin songs of worship; and then we’re carefully stepping down into the little ravine on the other side, and are walking now down into the gorge. The water, always oozing out of the weakened rock walls, bubbles out and freezes, jutting down in frozen waves and arctic shoots, blue ice bulges and frigid ripples. Textures and color blend with the rock, usually not even visible, but after the big rains, the ice is new, reforming, encasing the granite walls in splendid fashion.  Lisa’s taking pictures of Gary, the mild mannered geriatric psychiatrist, who has inexplicably descended from the trail down a precipitous slope to the gorge, and he looks small below us next to the stalactite-like icicles pointing gothically down to the rushing water below.

“Nice ice…” I say, because I always like to say that.

Cheryl and Tina and Sally are looking over the edge. and Chuck and Anna are explaining to me that someone’s gone over the edge; and up front, Mark and Dorothy and Suzie have gone ahead, and Claire and Ed stand somewhat amazed. Gary climbs back up the precipitous incline, like Catwoman, among the general oohs and ahhs, cheers and guffaws; and before long, we are done, at the end of the trail, climbing back into the bus, all happy, all walk weary, all thirteen of us.

Dan Newton

Everyone is happy because the snow is draped between rocks and tufts on the ground and clumped in the trees. It fell from the sky just a day or so ago, and the wind has been calm, the air cold. The brooks are clogged with rock-topped white windblown puffs and drifts, and the ice along the edges is cracked-white and thin; and yet, the water flows in the brooks and rills, creating a dark juxtaposition to the whiteness all around. We’re tramping up the Old Waterville Road, having parked at the turn-around beside the Six Mile Bridge. It’s warm today. The hillside to our right as we ascend is steep and long under the evergreens, and I’m explaining how it’s a great “extreme snowshoe run,” to come down off Pine Flats when there’s a lot of snow, and today, we have a lot of snow. So I’m looking for adventure, for a story about the great snowy descent from Pine Flats to Route 49! There are about eight in the group today… absolutely none of them has any interest in doing this.
“It’s like running downhill— in slow motion,” I tell them, very enthusiastically.

Marilyn looks at me as if I’m a bit loony. Dan suggests the dangers of catching a shoe on a snowbound branch, and I agree with him that this is a factor, which is why the abundance of snow is necessary… Chris and Beth shake their heads dubiously, mumbling words like… kidding? And crazy…

After visiting the first of the nearby stone foundations, the one with a small field and an apple tree, we’re cutting through the woods to rejoin the Old Waterville Road, and there are several conversations going, just about everyone is talking about something different, and we’re sinking in about 6 inches or so, thick-stepped and clumpy. It’s the holiday season; so, after rejoining the Old Road for a while, we are soon merrily wandering off it again, into the old cemetery, reading the discernable headstones, and talking about Moses Foss, Waterville’s first settler, since two of his relatives are resting here. We let the history soak in… and soon, Moses is there with us, and we’re  tramping into the woods behind the headstones. We see some open areas in behind the evergreens, and find a bunch of “patch cuts,” probably from the recent logging along Smart’s Brook, connected by skidder trails. We find ourselves going up and up and up, following the elusive figure of Moses Foss, unseen, exuberant and determined. Turning back to Suzie, Dick and Betty, and the others, no one seems to be struggling, and the trees are young and thin, and we can see Dickey and Welch through their naked fingers stretched over our heads. In the valley, there is fog. We can see Campton Mountain above its gray and white cloudwebs.

Marilyn puts a hand on her hip and squints suspiciously at me. “So, where are we?”

“We’re in the foothills of Bald Knob. Moses’ backyard.”

“You know what’s great about this,” says Dan, slicing the air with his hand, “is that we’d never be here, if we weren’t on snowshoes. You know what I’m saying?”

We all agree, taking in the limited but unique and somehow special view of this day: unknown ridgelines, distant peaks and the v-shape contours of the Mad River Valley. Looking up the slope through the trees, the summit of Bald Knob doesn’t seem so far away, and I’m wondering and watching, and checking my watch; and then, I say to myself… maybe some other time… but not today…
Descending is somewhat steep at first, and we’re winding through little red maples and beech growing along the edges of the clear-cuts, and before long we’re at the bottom of the foothills on a logging road. We follow it. The rills are purling everywhere, like springtime in Narnia, and we’re stepping over the little waterways, which lead us inexorably toward a little ravine with a small brook running between the green trees, and there’s a flat floodplain alongside, nice for tramping; and so, it is with a watery symphony that we’re angling back through the woods toward the Old Waterville Road… but this water is… big for a brook, a brook with no name… and I’m wondering where on Old Waterville Road do we encounter this kind of brook?

“When we went over the bridge,” says Beth.

“But that was at the very beginning,” says Chris.

Everyone looks at me.

Where’s Moses when I need him?

Marilyn taps her snowshoe.

…we’re going to connect to the yellow jacket trail…

“We’ll keep heading this way,” I tell them, vaguely, and we tramp and step somewhat desultorily for about ten minutes, and then I see it. I still remember its thin white corridor in the evergreens, just ahead, and the feeling of stepping from the relative unknown lands over which we’d been tramping for a couple of hours, to suddenly familiar ground; and how, even now, the vision of its ordered, patterned whiteness, amidst the beautiful chaos of green, is in front of me, leading me somewhere I want to go, toward a certain longed for place.

The trail brings us past the entrance to Pine Flats, and the snow is so sweetly deep that I want to just run up there and slow-motion-run down that hillside, sliding a few inches with each step, slowing my legs as I’m picking up speed… but I don’t; after all, I’m the guide, I tell myself, I can’t just leave them!

Once we’re back on the Old Road, however, heading down to Route 49, I peer over the side and see it’s steep and open along a little contoured spine among the pines.

“How ‘bout this?”

Chris says, “This? Not me.” She looks over the edge and laughs, “You’re crazy, but go ahead. We’ll meet you at the bus.”

Dan steps up to the edge and says, “I think I can do this. On that little ridge there.”

“It’s not that steep” I tell him… if you stay on the top of the contour…

The others have already past us heading down the old roadbed, so we start slide-stepping straight down along the spine, keeping a cadence to the steps, slowing the walking movement of our feet as we gather speed, sliding, sliding, and one step is like a frozen tele-turn, too steep to change the lead, so we’re holding that step as the snow slides away and the poles are dragging for balance and we’re going down and down and step-dropping down; and suddenly, we’re right up against some thick evergreens where we have to stop, bend and duck under a low-branched hemlock awning alongside Route 49; and, bursting out into the open, like falling from the sky, we land clomping and tramping in the deep open snow, shuffling to a stop, and looking back up at our tracks emerging from the steep-treed hillside, and we’re wide-smiling and proud as cars drive by, perhaps looking at us in awe, or with envy [or perhaps incredulity at our foolishness], and we’re trudging in the plowdrift, and I’m saying that there’s a distinct chance that no one has ever done that before.

…except me…

In Sept. 1914 a party consisting of C.W. Blood, H.B. Goodrich, P.R. Jenks, F.N. Crawford and E.H. Lorenz camped at Hawthorne Fall to prospect a trail from Lafayette over Garfield to S. Twin. Rain limited operations , but the section of Garfield to S.Twin was thoroughly examined and some trail work done. In August 1915 Blood, Jenks and Lorenz went in again, with N.L. Goodrich and G. Blaney. The section from Garfield Pond to S. Twin was blazed to the foot of S. beginning of the rise up S. Twin, and some clearing was done. The section from Garfield Pond to timber line on Lafayette was prospected, through very difficult country. Later in August Jenks went in again with axe-men, and finished clearing the section from Garfield to the rise up S. Twin. The latter bit is to be done this fall, completing the the Garfield - S. Twin section.

The trail up Garfield from Gale River has been re-opened by the U.S. Forest Service. It is not provided with signs. For information, apply to Mr. Kimball, the Ranger in charge of the district.

N.L. Goodrich
17 Sept. ‘15

The above trail is now cleared from the summit of South Twin to Garfield Pond.

Feb. 19, 1916
C.W. Blood

Trail cleared from Garfield Pond to Lafayette in August 196, party consisting of C.W. Blood, G. Blaney and N.L. Goodrich.

Sep. 6. 1916
N.L.G.