Hampshire: Hill Country

The year’s last outing, a quick overnighter, sees us going westward to the rolling hill country of the Pioneer Valley. Ever since my day trip out here in October with Lindsey, I’ve wanted to show Jane the Quabbin, and to spend more time exploring its wooded shorelines. The western part of the state is something special, in that it feels quite identifiably Massachusetts (for the sphere of Boston’s hardscrabble, lobster-loving, history-worshipping influence is long), but also represents something entirely different as well. A touch more Appalachia, a pinch less recognizably New England. You have to get off the Pike to really see the place for its many forms of beauty: the shuttered mill towns with their hardware stores, bus depots, and job marts; the village greens surrounded by steepled churches, old colonial houses, and ancient headstones; the rivers and streams climbing ever and onward into the escarpment. The beautiful, forested landscape. It’s a sort of place one can imagine growing up and growing old in - perhaps without accomplishing much, and without seeing wider horizons, but dying happy, none the wiser.

We leave Boston in the early hours of the morning, cruising down the Pike as dawn colors begin to reflect across the ponds in the central part of the state. Pulling off in Ware, we reach the Enfield Lookout, on the southern shore of the Quabbin, just the sun begins to crest the hills to the east. Where a few months earlier the treeline here had been lined by bright-gold birches, tawny oaks, and fiery maples, the view on this winter morning is one of barren branches, punctuated by glowing, silver birch bark. As the sun rises, Jane and I pace around the lookout, looking for compositions. At the western end of the picnic area, I find a much cleaner shot of Mount Lizzie than I got in October, poking up out of the water to the east. Jane and I track our way across the heather and down a steep path through the trees, where we emerge at the water’s edge. We set up for a selfie here (the aluminum tripod legs nearly freeze my fingers off) before climbing back to the car.

Continuing our tour around the Quabbin, I take Jane to the hilltop observation tower and Winsor Dam before we head into Belchertown for coffee and breakfast. In the late morning, we drive up the western shore of the reservoir and stop in New Salem, a tiny New England village with a classic green ringed by a town hall, a little library, a cemetery, a firehouse, and a few churches. We take a little path past the firehouse to a picnic area, where we get a lovely view of the the islands at the Quabbin’s northwestern corner. In the afternoon, we drive down toward Deerfield in the Connecticut River Valley, first stopping just across the river in Sunderland to visit the Buttonball Tree, an unbelievably old and massive American sycamore - the largest east of the Mississippi. At Lindsey’s suggestion, we wind up checking out the liveliest thing happening in South Deerfield - the post-Christmas sale at the Yankee Candle Village, a gargantuan complex of home goods, holiday toys, and flammable material. Tired from a long day of driving and winter hiking, I find myself staring dazedly at a band of flannel-wearing animatronic rednecks singing Christmas carols while Jane careens giddily from store section to store section. She somehow winds up buying nothing before we check in and pass out at the motel next door. We spend the evening watching TV and relaxing; the most notable news of the night comes to my email shortly after 9 PM - I receive an invitation to schedule my first dose of the COVID-19 vaccine for New Year’s Day.

The next morning, we drive a short distance east to the river and climb to the top of nearby Mt. Sugarloaf. The switchback footpath to the summit is narrow and icy, but we make it up shortly after dawn, and are greeted by a commanding southward view across the valley - the Connecticut River curving away toward ridged peaks of the Mount Holyoke range. Jane and I take some photos together on the mountaintop before walking down along the access road; after breakfast in Greenfield, it’s a long drive back to the Boston via Route 2, completing a circuit of the state and our last little road trip of 2020.

Saugus: First Snow

Snowfall is a special treat, one which we experienced all too rarely in Maryland. We had our first big snowstorm of the year this past week, and it was quite amusing for this ex-Baltimorean to watch the mighty Boston machinery handle the situation on my brief daily walk into the Longwood Medical Area: walkways and roads carefully salted days in advance, fleets of bulldozers pushing two feet of snow into neat mountains along the sidewalk, trucks collecting the stuff by the ton and whisking it away to who-knows-where. Quite a contrast to my old home, where the combined driving prowess and weather-preparedness of Baltimore meant that any more than an inch of rain would cause a citywide pile-up of disaster-movie proportions.

Two days after the storm, Jane and I head back up to the Breakheart Reservation to test out our new showshoes - a pandemic purchase among many, as it were. The snowy woods, too, are something special. Although much of Breakheart is linked by paved trails, we break away into the woodland paths surrounding Silver Lake, and go for a few hours without seeing another person. I find myself standing quietly, in awe, beside the frozen lake, breathing in the fresh, cold air and listening for sounds in the wind. The tapping of a distant woodpecker. The soft thump of snow falling from treetops. The wingbeats of geese in flight - so late now to be so far north. The landscape feels more personal now that we can see clear across the lake and through the trees, passing through the woods without the foliage to conceal us, or insect hums and birdsong to accompany us. The world has gone to ground. It’s restful. It’s pulled in close. It’s waiting for something - whatever comes next.

We slosh our way through the forest, high-stepping our way back to the car, and back to the rest of a quiet, pre-holiday weekend in the city.

Massachusetts: Season's End

After the fiery heights of peak autumn, the season is fading away gradually here in Boston, with a long tail of misty mornings, bronzed and barren treetops, and winnowing light from late sunrises. Along my various rambles, I watch as the city settles into a mood that feels strangely familiar, evoking, as it does, long-past memories from many Novembers ago. I’m trying to bring those memories forward, to merge them with the present, to feel grounded and safe, to say, “This is where I am. I know this place.” “This is where Jane and I did so-and-so on such-and-such day.” “This is where I felt such-and-such and learned this-and-that".” But, try as I might, those memories and feelings barely have a chance to surface before I turn my head - and they’re lost again.

It happens often now. Truth be told, I’m not just turning here and there - I’m spinning. The pandemic is still raging. I’ve got my head down in a spiritual sense, pouring myself into my work and my immediate surroundings and not much else (thank goodness I find my work meaningful and fruitful and fulfilling). So much has changed, is changing, that I find myself struggling to recall the boy that made semiannual trips to Boston over a decade ago, or to tell people where exactly I’m from, or where precisely I’m going. Moments of genuine connection are rare and always precious; they make me silent and grateful. I can tell that Jane is a bit perplexed by all this, concerned when I ask her to leave me alone for a night (at the opposite end of our little one-bedroom apartment), or to let me wander into the city on my own. It occurs to me that I’m searching for something that no one else can provide for me, or find or craft or discover in my stead. A sense of belonging. A still frame, with my heart at its center. A place or a thing or a feeling to call home.

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Mild weather has given us the opportunity to explore or re-visit a variety of locations throughout the state as the season draws to a close. In order, the photographs here are from:

November 8, 2020: A morning ramble around the dike and marshlands at the Great Meadows National Wildlife Refuge section in Concord. I nearly leave my tripod behind, in a muddy bank along the Concord River. We stroll through the local woods and visit the graves of Thoreau and Emerson, catching the last of fall’s vibrant colors.

November 21, 2020: A brief stroll around the Harold B. Clark Town Forest - a small pondside woodland near Foxborough. Afterward we make some purchases and returns at the nearby Bass Pro Shops Outdoor World. Our foldeable canoe has arrived in the mail - too late to be comfortably used this season.

November 28, 2020: A few shots taken just a block away from our apartment building, in a marvelous grove of beech trees which has fast become my favorite spot in the city. The majestic, curving trunks and leaf-laden boughs create a lovely space to get lost in during the warmer months, and even now, they retain the aura of a special place.

November 29, 2020: A sunset walk at the Cutler Park Reservation in Needham. A popular place for a post-Thanksgiving Sunday outing, as evidenced by the crowded parking lot. We amble through marshes and pine groves along the middle reaches of the Charles River, and watch the swans float placidly on Kendrick Pond.

December 13, 2020: An attempted golden-hour visit to the Great Marsh in Essex and re-visit to Beverly’s West Beach. High tide and sunrise only coincide here once or twice a month, and unfortunately we’re greeted this morning by fog and rain. I try to make lemonade with some abstract long exposures of the ruined jetty in the mist.