Chipman Hill (T.A.M.) 

j.gigot

How to get there: from the white Congregational Church in downtown Middlebury, walk a block north on Route 7 and then turn right (east) onto Seminary Street. After a few blocks you'll come to Springside Drive; turn left and follow it uphill till the road turns into a trail that describes several loops around the steep terrain of this prominent landform.

As route 7 winds down into the town of Middlebury, it curves along the base of Chipman Hill. Barely reaching an elevation of 760 ft, Chipman is humbled by the Green Mountains that run alongside of it, out in the distance to the east. Peter, Catherine, and I parked on High Street--after passing through a quiet, residential area--and entered Chipman Hill from its west side. At the trailhead, three industrial-sized men were loading logs into a wood chipper and a cloud of wood dust whirled into their flatbed truck. We said hello without much response and went along on our way.
There was no outlined trail, so we started on the paved road that wound up and around the side of the hill. This was my first time on Chipman Hill, which is funny considering how close it is to the college and how often I have passed it coming into and out of town. I heard of it often being used for biking trails, or for the "hard" cross-country workouts, or even for ecology labs, so as we walked I found myself comparing what was there to an image that had been already present in my mind.

Emerging roots had fractured the flat slabs of pavement over time, and the road appeared more and more weathered away as it inclined toward the summit. Splintered branches, shards of bark, and bundles of spruce needles were loosely scattered beneath us, so that every step crackled in a different tone and established a slightly rhythmic pattern. It felt as though the ice storm had taken its toll on the slender birches, maples, pines, beeches and spruces that live on Chipman. Many trees laid helpless out away from the trail, while others stood timidly alongside the edge, spray-painted at eye level with blue dots that marked a limited time left to stand here in Vermont.

After walking only a short way we found a wide footpath that veered left off of the road, so we followed that into a more forested area, sheltered by tall evergreens. Here the understory was quiet; decomposing brown and tan leaves, shuffled among wiry needles, carpeted the forest floor. Naked snags stood a bit impatiently, as if waiting for a blanket of snow to come and cover the mess fall had made.

I couldn't resist the feeling that a herd of bikers would soon come barreling down the small rise ahead, or a Spandex-clad runner would brush past my shoulder in his dash to the top. But the trail was wide but muddy, and the leaves were slippery and wet, so I guessed that traction would be a problem this time of year--which is why it was just the three of us walking on Chipman today. I closed my eyes and tried to envision the contrast of the full, rich, green ferns against the soft, white birch bark, or the smell of floating leaves on a clear but frigid fall day. I opened them again to the bleak winter landscape, and we continued on.

The trail meandered around the hill and then further up, until the Green Mountains were vaguely in sight between clusters of scraggly bushes. At this point the trail merged with another that went downward to the east, but we chose not to follow the signs leading to the gravel pit--as alluring as that sounded--and instead stayed with our same trail. We soon met up with the remnants of the road, and followed it up to the top of the hill. There are many trails on Chipman Hill, but each of them feeds out into one or another road from town, so getting lost here should never be a fear.

Powerlines hung loosely and were woven in and out of the crippled branches. A small, hidden structure--companion to a tall antenna--was hiding off to the right. Small piles of sawdust collected along the trail where chainsaws had pulled the plug on dying trees that had been deemed in danger of cluttering the road. Yet another trail turned off to the left and seemed to drop down the hillside facing the Green Mountains, but we stayed straight on, hoping to catch a glimpse of the pond that we had seen on the map.

I looked up and caught sight of a bird that flew by to catch its breath on the wavering limb of a maple tree; its underside was white and bushy, speckled with gray spots. A sparrow, maybe. I wasn't sure because it jetted off as quickly as it came in--it had a destination in mind. Looking up reminded me of how densely gray the sky had become. Chipman Hill was still soggy from the slushy rain the night before, and it looked as though more moisture was on its way.

The road began to descend. On the left, we came upon a simple gray rooftop that sheltered what looked like an underground house. Our three minds could not come up witth any sort of purpose or explanation for its presence, so we walked on and pretended we hadn't really seen it. The road curved down to another residential street, Springside Drive. We took a small path off to the right, leading us back in the direction of High Street; along this path there were some small stone blocks, infested with moss, that were arranged in specific rows. Peter counted them, but could not construe any sort of pattern in their arrangement. The foundation of a short-lived dwelling? They seemed as though they had just been left in the forest, forgotten. The path was narrow, but it led straight to the road we had entered on. Small jagged rocks and gnarled roots popped out sporadically, making me pay attention to my feet.

Once we connected back to the road, we followed it down to the car. Looking at the "Trail Around Middlebury" map, we tried to get a sense of where we had briefly walked--and tried to understand why we hadn't come across a pond. It was evident that the trails we had chosen not to follow had all roamed down the opposite side of Chipman Hill and met up with Washington Street; we were all interested to see exactly where they came out, so we decided to venture out that way.

We drove off Chipman Hill past the Swift House, took a left at Grand Union, went straight through the four-way stop and then out onto Washington Street Extension, past the animal hospital. Chipman Hill was back beyond my left shoulder now; it rested there casually, watching the start of Middlebury's lunchtime bustle like an old neighbor. Amidst a wide and open field we could see the trail meander down from Chipman Hill and out to the road. I first thought the small cluster of houses to our right marked the trail's end, but we looked at the map one more time and saw that the Trail Around Middlebury (or T.A.M.) does not stop here, but is transformed into the Mean and Battell Woods trails, which begin at the end of the cul-de-sac. From below Chipman Hill--having been to the top--it seemed as though this trail-rich landform was a natural interlude between distinct but congenial neighborhoods--as integral to the community as the stores, roads, schools, and churches that tie everyone in this town together.