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.