I decided to take advantage of another gorgeous day of sunshine and green leaves, and walk a stretch of the Rail Trail I hadn't walked before. This stretch runs from just past the little frame building housing Kennebec Jewelry and Repair...with its sign out front, "Gem panning here," which I do not get at all -- it's not like they have a stream tumbling down from the mother lode at their doorstep...north toward Hallowell. Across the street from the opening in the fence where you access the trail is the big, ugly frame building that houses the KV Health Club (KV stands for Kennebec Valley). Farmingdale has a surfeit of these buildings. They would look pre-fab if they weren't so big, although maybe they make big pre-fabricated buildings. They are incredibly functional looking: plain walls, roof, windows, door, the end. Aesthetics are for sissies.
But the trail. It's lovely. Actually much nicer than the stretch running south from Hallowell that I walked in the early spring (Note of April 19). Admittedly, then it was pre-leaf season, but even so there are many more large trees along the Farmingdale stretch, and they are often on both sides of the trail, and close at hand, which is not the case at the Hallowell end. Indeed, a couple of times I could hear myself thinking, "Lions and tigers and bears, oh no!"
The breeze in the trees made that water-like sound I love so much, though since the leaves are beginning to dry out, the sound wasn't so much soft as brittle, more like a small waterfall than a rushing river. Quite a few birch trees to be seen in amongst the maples, the oaks, their distinctive white bark marking them as special. In one case there were two growing close together, with one contorted somewhat like a stretched out S, the other standing perfectly straight. I could just hear the conversation over the years -- "Please, come away with me. Let's explore over this way." "I'm not going anywhere." "If you won't come with me, I'm going alone." "Suit yourself; I'm staying right here." "Ach! You know I can't live without you."
There were another two farther along, the trunks close together lower down, but then they began to grow apart. In adulthood their upper branches had suddenly reached out to each other, as they realized they needed each other after all.
Yes, I can make up a story about anything. In fact, when my siblings and I were kids I used to keep them and myself entertained on the long hauls between Texas and Indiana where we had moved after my mother married my stepfather, by telling them stories based on whatever they pointed at out the window. (old barn -- "Once upon a time a brother and sister lived in an old barn...")
At one point the rail trail made a right-angle turn and crossed the track. Big excitement. Of course, as I mentioned last spring, trains no longer travel along this track, so there was no danger involved in crossing the track. But why the change? As soon as I was over there I thought I knew: I was now directly above the river, and closer to it than I'd been anywhere else along the trail. It was too bad that the tide was out, so what lay below me were exposed mud flats, rather than flowing water. But the current was moving northward, which meant the tide was coming in. If I'd had a few hours to kill I could have stayed there, and watched the water reassert itself.
Another nice aspect of this stretch of the trail is the absence of traffic noise. It quickly disappeared, once I was on the trail, from a combination of the thick stands of trees on the road side, the gradual descent of the trail to a lower level than the road, with an embankment serving as a noise damper, and a widening distance between the road and the trail. A combination of factors that increased the peacefulness of the walk dramatically. Altogether a perfect way to spend an hour on a perfect day.
Showing posts with label rail trail. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rail trail. Show all posts
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Streams
When I was walking the rail trail in Hallowell the other day I crossed the most wonderful stream. A footbridge takes you over it, and I found myself pausing for a good five minutes, leaning on the wooden railing, mesmerized by what I was seeing and hearing.
The stream drops down in a zig-zag through a shallow, heavily wooded ravine. Every now and then it turns into a tiny, miniature waterfall, as it drops down slightly to the next level. And it makes a wonderful sound, the kind of steady, rushing-water sound that could lull you to sleep. There are large rocks and even out-and-out boulders, both in the stream and lying about on the sloping land to either side. Indeed, there is a fat wall of obviously finished granite blocks, marching to the edge of the stream on one side, then con-tinuing a very short way on the other. I was thinking this must be the remains of an old bridge, but conferring with Hallowell's historian, who very conven-iently is one of my little library's Board members, I learned that it's actually the remains of a dam.
Sam also informed me that this is Vaughan Stream, once part of the Vaughan estate, the Vaughans being one of the oldest and wealthiest Hallowell families. But in the 1830s, with the demise of the Second Bank of the United States, the Vaughans lost a good deal of their investments, and were forced to sell much of the land along the stream. A number of businesses were built along it, including a sandpaper plant just above the dam. No doubt the stream is much more pleasant now, shaded by the tall trees on its banks, than in its industrial heyday.
Streams are to be found everywhere in this area. And by this area I mean not only the Augusta area, but the state of Maine – for that matter, the region of New England. Water, water, everywhere. I was ill a few weeks ago, and when I finally began feeling somewhat better I decided a short walk through my neighborhood would get my sluggish blood flowing. I passed numerous narrow wooded areas through which water was inevitably flowing. I would walk to the side of the road and peer down at where a narrow trickle of water was wending its way over, under and around mossy rocks, fallen branches, small granite boulders, past banks pale brown with old autumn leaves. The water would be coming from beneath the road on which I stood, so then I would walk to the other side of the road to see whence it came. Sometimes there it was, twisting and turning its way to the pipe under the road that would enable it to continue its quietly gurgling trip down to the Kennebec River. They'd obviously interrupted the stream by bringing in rocks and earth, piling it up, with a pipe running through for the stream, then paving the top.
But sometimes the steam wasn't to be seen on the other side, just somebody's yard. So where was that water coming from? Or as in the case of the creek directly across the street from my house, that wends through a little woods beside the handsome white-with-black-shutters house on the corner, where does it go? It certainly doesn't continue on the other side of the road, because there's my house, my yard. The secret life of water...
So here we are, surrounded by water, taking it for granted, not even noticing that it is with us in all sorts of unexpected nooks and crannies, often not knowing where it's coming from or where it's going. And in many parts of the world – in many parts of this country – water is a rare commodity. If there is a stream, even a river, it may be dry during the dry season. In other parts of the world, what water there is may be badly polluted (we've been working hard in this country for the past thirty years to make that less the case here). And those in the know tell us that water people can safely use for drinking, cooking and bathing is going to become increasingly rare, thanks to both global warming and the aforementioned pollution.
I was thinking what a shame we couldn't bottle some of the trickles and creeks and streams with which New England abounds, send the water where it's needed. On the other hand...would I want to drink that stuff?
The stream drops down in a zig-zag through a shallow, heavily wooded ravine. Every now and then it turns into a tiny, miniature waterfall, as it drops down slightly to the next level. And it makes a wonderful sound, the kind of steady, rushing-water sound that could lull you to sleep. There are large rocks and even out-and-out boulders, both in the stream and lying about on the sloping land to either side. Indeed, there is a fat wall of obviously finished granite blocks, marching to the edge of the stream on one side, then con-tinuing a very short way on the other. I was thinking this must be the remains of an old bridge, but conferring with Hallowell's historian, who very conven-iently is one of my little library's Board members, I learned that it's actually the remains of a dam.
Sam also informed me that this is Vaughan Stream, once part of the Vaughan estate, the Vaughans being one of the oldest and wealthiest Hallowell families. But in the 1830s, with the demise of the Second Bank of the United States, the Vaughans lost a good deal of their investments, and were forced to sell much of the land along the stream. A number of businesses were built along it, including a sandpaper plant just above the dam. No doubt the stream is much more pleasant now, shaded by the tall trees on its banks, than in its industrial heyday.
Streams are to be found everywhere in this area. And by this area I mean not only the Augusta area, but the state of Maine – for that matter, the region of New England. Water, water, everywhere. I was ill a few weeks ago, and when I finally began feeling somewhat better I decided a short walk through my neighborhood would get my sluggish blood flowing. I passed numerous narrow wooded areas through which water was inevitably flowing. I would walk to the side of the road and peer down at where a narrow trickle of water was wending its way over, under and around mossy rocks, fallen branches, small granite boulders, past banks pale brown with old autumn leaves. The water would be coming from beneath the road on which I stood, so then I would walk to the other side of the road to see whence it came. Sometimes there it was, twisting and turning its way to the pipe under the road that would enable it to continue its quietly gurgling trip down to the Kennebec River. They'd obviously interrupted the stream by bringing in rocks and earth, piling it up, with a pipe running through for the stream, then paving the top.
But sometimes the steam wasn't to be seen on the other side, just somebody's yard. So where was that water coming from? Or as in the case of the creek directly across the street from my house, that wends through a little woods beside the handsome white-with-black-shutters house on the corner, where does it go? It certainly doesn't continue on the other side of the road, because there's my house, my yard. The secret life of water...
So here we are, surrounded by water, taking it for granted, not even noticing that it is with us in all sorts of unexpected nooks and crannies, often not knowing where it's coming from or where it's going. And in many parts of the world – in many parts of this country – water is a rare commodity. If there is a stream, even a river, it may be dry during the dry season. In other parts of the world, what water there is may be badly polluted (we've been working hard in this country for the past thirty years to make that less the case here). And those in the know tell us that water people can safely use for drinking, cooking and bathing is going to become increasingly rare, thanks to both global warming and the aforementioned pollution.
I was thinking what a shame we couldn't bottle some of the trickles and creeks and streams with which New England abounds, send the water where it's needed. On the other hand...would I want to drink that stuff?
Sunday, April 19, 2009
The rail trail
This morning I walked a mile on the Rail Trail, then the mile back to my car. The Rail Trail is a very pleasant paved walk running from Augusta through Hallowell and Farmingdale to Gardiner. It follows, funnily enough, the old railroad track, which in turn follows the Kennebec River.
The railroad no longer runs along this stretch of track, though there has been some talk of extending the Downeaster line, which runs between Portland and Boston, north to Brunswick, and diehard train fans cherish a hope that eventually train service as far north as Augusta could resume. Last May there was a special chartered train trip between Rockland, on the coast, and Augusta, with the train stopping for a couple of hours in Hallowell, so people could sight-see and attend the annual meeting of the Maine Rail Group (a "non-profit group working to enhance rail service in Maine"), one of the sponsors of the trip. The old Hallowell depot was located just across the street from the library, and while the depot building is no longer there, the platform is, and that's where the train stopped. I was able to run out with the library's digital camera and take a few pictures of the 50s era train, as it huffed and clanged in place.
But back to the trail that runs beside the rail. The trail is much used, by joggers, bicyclists, women pushing baby carriages, couples walking their dog, individual strollers like myself. This morning traffic on the trail was moderate; several times I was quite alone, which was especially pleasant. Just me, the wide, blue river down below – easily seen because our deciduous trees are still without leaves (yes, on April 19th – this is Maine, don't forget – though green buds are beginning to bulge and split), steep, granite-slab-littered embankments reaching up on the other side to the backs of houses that line Route 201, the road that runs through the four communities, and that I follow every day to and from work.
Indeed, the sound of traffic was the only thing that kept the experience from being perfect. Just can't escape the eternal hum of the combustion engine (will electric cars be quieter? Hybrids?) I think about my friend Linda, and her lovely home in Connecticut, just off the Wilbur Cross Highway. You can't see the road, thanks to all the trees (in New England trees hide a multitude of sins), but you can hear it, at all hours of the day and night. Same thing on the Rail Trail, though there is the occasional moment of silence, when there doesn't happen to be any traffic going in either direction.
This morning I wanted to walk a part of the Trail that I'd never been able to see from the road. At the southern end of Hallowell the path disappears under 201 and cannot be seen again for quite some time, until you get to about the middle of Farmingdale, when all of a sudden the trail is running right beside the road. So I was exploring, venturing into unknown territory, something I always enjoy doing (I often turn down a street or road I've never been down, just to see where it goes).
I walked a different stretch of the trail a year or so ago, starting at the northern end of Hallowell and walking about a mile into Augusta. Then I had especially enjoyed a little wooded area high on a bluff above the river. I had stood and looked down through the trees at a couple of motor boats whizzing up the river, then back again.
I had thought that the Rail Trail was specific to this area, but have learned there are rail trails all over the country. There's even (of course) an organization, the Rails-to-Trails Conservancy, dedicated to supporting and publicizing these walking (biking, jogging) paths. And the organization has (of course) a web site: www.railstotrails.org/index.html. Walking does everybody good, and walking where there is beauty to be seen and peace to be enjoyed is an absolute positive. So...more power to them.
The railroad no longer runs along this stretch of track, though there has been some talk of extending the Downeaster line, which runs between Portland and Boston, north to Brunswick, and diehard train fans cherish a hope that eventually train service as far north as Augusta could resume. Last May there was a special chartered train trip between Rockland, on the coast, and Augusta, with the train stopping for a couple of hours in Hallowell, so people could sight-see and attend the annual meeting of the Maine Rail Group (a "non-profit group working to enhance rail service in Maine"), one of the sponsors of the trip. The old Hallowell depot was located just across the street from the library, and while the depot building is no longer there, the platform is, and that's where the train stopped. I was able to run out with the library's digital camera and take a few pictures of the 50s era train, as it huffed and clanged in place.
But back to the trail that runs beside the rail. The trail is much used, by joggers, bicyclists, women pushing baby carriages, couples walking their dog, individual strollers like myself. This morning traffic on the trail was moderate; several times I was quite alone, which was especially pleasant. Just me, the wide, blue river down below – easily seen because our deciduous trees are still without leaves (yes, on April 19th – this is Maine, don't forget – though green buds are beginning to bulge and split), steep, granite-slab-littered embankments reaching up on the other side to the backs of houses that line Route 201, the road that runs through the four communities, and that I follow every day to and from work.
Indeed, the sound of traffic was the only thing that kept the experience from being perfect. Just can't escape the eternal hum of the combustion engine (will electric cars be quieter? Hybrids?) I think about my friend Linda, and her lovely home in Connecticut, just off the Wilbur Cross Highway. You can't see the road, thanks to all the trees (in New England trees hide a multitude of sins), but you can hear it, at all hours of the day and night. Same thing on the Rail Trail, though there is the occasional moment of silence, when there doesn't happen to be any traffic going in either direction.
This morning I wanted to walk a part of the Trail that I'd never been able to see from the road. At the southern end of Hallowell the path disappears under 201 and cannot be seen again for quite some time, until you get to about the middle of Farmingdale, when all of a sudden the trail is running right beside the road. So I was exploring, venturing into unknown territory, something I always enjoy doing (I often turn down a street or road I've never been down, just to see where it goes).
I walked a different stretch of the trail a year or so ago, starting at the northern end of Hallowell and walking about a mile into Augusta. Then I had especially enjoyed a little wooded area high on a bluff above the river. I had stood and looked down through the trees at a couple of motor boats whizzing up the river, then back again.
I had thought that the Rail Trail was specific to this area, but have learned there are rail trails all over the country. There's even (of course) an organization, the Rails-to-Trails Conservancy, dedicated to supporting and publicizing these walking (biking, jogging) paths. And the organization has (of course) a web site: www.railstotrails.org/index.html. Walking does everybody good, and walking where there is beauty to be seen and peace to be enjoyed is an absolute positive. So...more power to them.
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