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Rattlesnake Cliffs

  How to get there: Leave Middlebury heading south on Route 7. Turn left (heading east) on Route 53 which runs around northern tip of Lake Dunmore, then down east side of lake. Shortly after entrance to Branbury Beach State Park, turn left into parking area at trailhead to Silver Lake Trail. This is a steep one.

essay by Benji Perin '01

 "Get naked," says Piper Platte. That’s how I was first introduced to the area around Lake Dunmore. It was an overcast night, and the light from the changing rooms at Branbury Beach State Park lit Piper’s dimpled cheeks. I was, for better or worse, accompanied by twenty or so other Middlebury students, and led by Piper, we prepared for a "polar bear" splash in the freezing lake by stripping down to our birthday suits.

  Today, many polar-bear adventures and one year later, I’m returning to Lake Dunmore with hiking partners Dani and Rob. Since it’s mid-January and the lake is frozen, we drive past Branbury Beach and park in a paved lot about a quarter mile beyond the state park. Notebooks in hand, we start up the path towards our destination, Rattlesnake Cliffs.

The short beginning section of this trail, which starts at the edge of the parking lot, soon merges with a service road that bounces truck-driving foresters all the way up to Silver Lake. Glad to be on foot, I notice the rutted road winding beneath tall conifers, which shade the forest floor and leave it soft with waxy needles, both brown and black with age.

Just a little ways up the trail, we pass beneath a huge pipe that’s large enough to crawl through. Called a penstock, it climbs the ridge that looks down on Lake Dunmore, and feeds a generating station below with the pressure of falling water from Silver Lake. From the other side of Dunmore, you can see the scar of brush and scrub that separates the forest and accompanies the pipe all the way up to where Silver Lake lies nestled behind the high ridge.

Past the penstock, again in the moist shadows of conifers, we come upon the tall wooden sign that calls attention to the Falls of Llana. According to the plaque, in 1850 General Wool and some of his old cronies visited these falls. Story has it that the general decided the old name wasn’t good enough, so he named it after himself. In Spanish. Despite any controversy there ever was or wasn’t about the name of these falls, they’re certainly worth seeing for yourself. The path goes past the sign to a rocky overlook, then traverses down the hill just behind the vista point, away from the water. I took the less steep of the two trail options in an effort to save some skin, though Rob and Dani successfully scampered down the other path. Either way, once you get to the steep ravine at the base of the hill, walk up it towards the sound of falling water. You’ll find rock walls three stories high, which protect an inviting pool fed by whitewater falls easily big enough to throw a large General Wool from their heights.

Like Branbury Beach, I have fond memories of my first introduction to these falls. It was on a ledge overlooking the rocky chute below the swimming hole that I spent the evening of my 20th birthday, last April. It’s the best place to sit in the area, with a wide view of Dunmore and soft sand for tush protection. My girlfriend, Laura, set up some candles in the sand, and together we ate fruit tortes from Otter Creek Bakery. In the dim light, we excitedly planned a drive across the country together, read some Frost, and listened to the fiery rush of water down the chute.

  Rob and Dani, on the other hand, have brought no tasty treats or candles, so the three of us amble back to the main trail and hike a few more minutes to the first intersection. At this point, you can continue up the dirt road to Silver Lake, or cross the creek via a small footbridge to join a network of narrow footpaths. We choose the bridge, and start up the trail towards Rattlesnake Cliffs, which leads us past a quiet campground along the banks of Sucker Brook, the stream that feeds the Falls of Llana.

  After twenty minutes of moderate hiking from the parking lot--excluding the falls spur--we arrive at an intersection where we continue straight (not turning right) towards the 1.5 miles of uphill climb before the cliffs. At one point, we cross Sucker Brook again on a two-and-a half-foot wide bridge, railed on one side. Last spring I nearly fell five feet into the creek bed here, trying to cross the logs on a bike. I wouldn’t recommend it--not because of the potential fall, but because I found out later that it’s illegal, by penalty of fine, to ride on this trail. If you’re feeling adventurous, however, you can leave the path behind and follow the brook through the forest to where the trail crosses it again, farther up the mountainside.

  Past the bridge the trail rises steeply; it was at this point, eight months ago, that I turned my bike around. Today, it forces Dani, Rob, and me to take off all but our last layers. Higher still, the trail narrows and switches back several times through a young deciduous forest. Walking through this section is a little unnerving during winter, when patchy snow covers the ground and broken crowns hang violently from the tops of trees – silent reminders of the ice storm two years ago. The bareness, silence, and mysterious ability to see far into this place full of hiding places, gives me a new appreciation for my hiking companions.

 

 

  We cross the creek again, and higher on the mountainside we see a series of deer tracks on the snow-covered trail; this is the spot where you would regain the path if you had decided to enjoy the company of the creek from the bridge below. Next, we traverse a steep hill and come to a wooden staircase, staggered neatly in opposing diagonals.

Past the curiously constructed stairs, we walk by the Aunt Jenny Trail, an alternate route back down to the campground just above the Falls of Llana.

Arriving at another junction, we take the well-marked left fork that leads to the cliffs, and in a quarter-mile we find ourselves at the top of an impressively dangerous drop that affords a magnificent view out to the west. We sit on the rock steps above the cliffs, which are so steep that you can hardly see their face by leaning over the edge. Quietly, we admire the expansive view of Lake Dunmore, the farmland of the Champlain Valley, and the Adirondacks. For the first time, I see the full shape of Lake Dunmore, just as the Peregrine Falcons who nest in the cliff’s nooks and ledges have seen it for centuries. I never realized that there was so much more to the lake than you can see from Branbury Beach.

  After taking in more of the Adirondacks and the blanket of Champlain Valley farmland, my eyes return to Dunmore. I follow the road around its banks, past the crew team’s boathouse, to where I know the Kampersville squirrel sits beneath the trees. My eyes ride along the lake’s eastern shore, past summer homes and boat-docks, to Branbury Beach State Park. From the freshly paved road--or from where I know the road to be--I mentally re-walk the grass, past the dank changing rooms, and over to the picnic tables at the edge of the water. The narrow, sandy beach that knew me naked more than a year ago curves north at its edges, like a lens or a crescent moon.