Waterworks Property Trails
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How to get there: Take Route 7 north to junction with Route 17 (New Haven Junction), turn right on 17 and follow it to Route 116--before you would start the steep ascent up to Bristol village. Turn left on 116, follow it north about a mile to intersection with Plank Road. Turn left on Plank Road (now heading west) and follow it about 2-3 miles to a small parking area on right hand side as road rounds a sharp bend. Trail leads first to old (retired) Vergennes Reservoir, and then up into wooded cleft between two ridges. Watershed/Waterworks is a recent project of local environmentalists, with a charter that emphasizes use of this tract of land for environmental educational purposes. |
Today I'm thinking about containers. I'm with a group of friends, all packed into a bouncing car. Our car is our container. Our motion--or lack thereof--is determined by the walls that surround us. Soon we will spill out to fill another space, and--unlike the familiar car--at first we will not know its edges. We'll have to trace them with our feet.
The space we're visiting is the Waterworks in Bristol; the property once provided the water supply for the entire city of Vergennes. Two dams clog the Norton Brook's natural path here, creating a reservoir of 17 acres that has quenched thousands of thirsty lips. Today the watershed is a 664-acre plot, preserved as natural forest and wetlands. The Waterworks property was established in hopes of encouraging conservation education as an interactive piece of local teaching agendas; elementary and high school students will use the area as a resource to study the ecological diversity that exists within a local community. The land is also open to public recreation; here hikers, bikers and cross-country skiers find an growing number of varied and accessible trails.
Eight of us arrive to fill this area, which just a few years ago had
been designated to be drained. Like molecules we scatter and disperse into
the parking lot, but soon find ourselves channeled down the path that extends
to the right of the lot. The lane is lined with pines, and bordered by open
fields to the left and dense forest to the right. The width and trajectory
of the path encourage a swift pace. If my friends and I are bits of energy
bouncing against the walls of this designated space, the feel of the space
itself is certainly not limitin; despite its deeded borders, it feels as
if this land has plenty of veins down which we can travel, and many spaces
in which we can rest.
Soon the first vein opens up to the first signs of wetlands. The path
follows a land bridge that divides a quiet marsh; on the right side, low-lying
grasses escape the water by tangling around the trunks of topless pines.
The dead pines give the marsh a sort of Neolithic feeling, and my eyes search
the taller marsh grasses to my left for grazing brontosauri. But it is undeniable
that this land is marked by the activities of present-day man.
Corduroy roads cover muddy patches in the lane, making springtime traversing
possible. We stand on these rows of logs, lulled by the space provided.
No longer squeezed forward by the path, this area begs for still consideration.
We begin to search for boundaries; some friends test the the strength of
ice by bouncing pebbles and then toes. Some eyes rest on the curve of a
large dam two hundred yards way.
As we make our way towards this dam, it is increasingly obvious that this land has evolved with the presence of humans, and has been shaped according to their needs. Two large piles of board lumber indicate recent logging and milling. Just past the piles, we scramble up the dam with its unnaturally steep and uniform slope. The reservoir is on the other side. As I am considering more thoughts about containers, it occurs to me that this is the purest example of one that I will find today. The water in the lake is being contained; its banks and dam are its limits.
But this container is no half-priced piece of Tupperware; as soon as I see the water's strong, frozen belly I think, "Don't tell me this isn't natural." The water fits into the seams of the landscape---is contained by it--with the comfort of an old marriage. Tall conifers, standing on their slope like sentinels, border one side of the reservoir; golden marsh grass tickles the far end, 150 yards away. The area where I stand is designed for feet like mine. Several picnic tables surround a tempting fire pit to my left. To my right stands the remnant of the old water pumping station; a small brick building sits above the surface of the reservoir, 20ft from shore and reachable by a steel bridge. Its windows are shattered, and feet stomping on its metal floor echo across the lake.
But just as the swollen stream found its niche in the landscape to become
a lake, all of our determined feet slow at this same place. The whole group
smiles at the fire pit, and our impetus is cloaked in thoughts of flickering
flames. All of us would like to stay and sit around the fire, mingling its
smoke and our breath with the grand open space of this reservoir.
Necessity demands that some of us move on, though, so reluctantly four of us move away from the quiet glimmer of our friends' infant fire. All of us were "supposed" to finish our hike here, just as the Norton brook was "supposed" to flow through this cleft of land unchallenged. In both cases, though, the final result is more lovely than the initial intention. As I move I think of my friends, whose energy of motion is now burning blue on the fiery, wet logs. I am happy that they've settled in such a brilliant place.
Keeping the reservoir on our right, the four of us now shuffle through a quiet pine forest. The canopy begins to extend, and soon we reach an impressively tall stand of pines. There are few understory trees, so the pines appear like skinny giants rearing up against the darkening sky.
The open canopy allows the first drops of rain and sleet to reach our skin. Not once an annoyance, this rain tickles us like the buzz from a first cigarette. It would seem that red cheeks and green moss are the only distinct colors in the whole of this forest, but we discover one other jewel: past the stand, in the valley to the left of the trail, lies a small pond. It looks just like an opal dropped upon the sagging winter earth.
Maybe a beaver encouraged it to spread out into the palm of this valley.
The pond appears thoroughly established, as if today is surely not the first
day it has worn its frozen gown of purples and greens. If daylight were
not at such a premium I think we might stay here and sink into the beds
of leaves that surround it. This is another place where water's linear course
has been altered to sit quietly, encircled by thick earth. Such spaces tempt
us to slow in the same way as the water. Today, though, we need to walk
on.
By now a pattern has been established: the stream valley runs on our
left, and the hillside on our right. The pines on the hill are beginning
to allow some birches to join in their watch. At one point the stream comes
very close to the trail in a dramatic S-shape; here the canopy is low, and
we all rock on our heels and crouch to spy into the visiting stream. Only
ice shards and mossy rocks interrupt its smooth curve. In these small, confined
spaces we all stand close together, our energy joined tightly like the quick
roll of water over rock.
Past this meander, the trail slopes up a bit. Soon my
friends are scattered everywhere. The trail itself is comfortable for hiking
two-or-three-abreast. There is a 15-ft border on either side that distinguishes
the trail from the forest.; again, the pines are tall, and with all this
linear space our pace becomes quick. Occasionally we slow to wonder over
the rotten world provided by a fallen pine, or we kick at orange fungi,
which appears so bright and alien in this ancient brown forest.
We flow down a small decline, the trail leading directly towards an enormous pine tree; at this point the trail splits to the right and we choose to remain going straight. Soon after, we are reassured in our decision by coming upon a small cairn--one much like several we had seen earlier, on the lip of the reservoir. This cairn, and the trail itself, are the only obvious signs of human intervention since the reservoir.
But the forest surrounding us on either side is mostly coniferous, and
soon we notice that it, too, is being carefully maintained. Undergrowth
has been cut and left to lie on the forest floor--evidence of a sustainable
forestry program. The consequent forest is very open. It appears like so
many other area forests after the '98 ice storm, except that here limbs
are not shattered; they've been sawn. I think back to the reservoir, and
how humans' selfish manipulation of nature nevertheless created a rich,
liquid wonder. Here, though, human's unselfish "aid" appears silly.
We undress trees as if they don't know how to undress themselves.
Our group approaches a switch in the stream, so that now it is on our right.
The stream-crossing seems ready for a small footbridge, but for now only
the foundation exists. Each side is bordered by logs whose cross-sections
hang close, like beads. The footing is wet, and demands some attention on
our part so as not to dress ourselves in winter mud.
The trail-makers must have recognized the wet nature of this area, because every 20 ft the trail is sliced horizontally by yet another water bar. These ditches appear as gashes in the forest floor, but their necessity is understandable. It is a trend now, on this trail, that water is maintained with the same diligence as the trail itself. Water, it seems, is like us; its motion is determined by the quality of its path. Linear paths--both natural and manipulated--encourage swift feet and swift water.
One might think that, with all the apparent maintenance, we musst be following the correct path. Soon enough, though, we find out that we aren't! After a slow ascent, our bold path dwindles to no path at all. All of us cluster at the end, now bordered on three sides by forest; our motion is stopped, just like that of the Norton Brook as it runs into the reservoir held up behind the dam. My gaze sweeps the boundaries and, seeing no other path, comes to rest on the most beautiful image it can find. The valley to the right is no longer a skinny stream valley; from here I see that it is as wide as the reservoir, and full of young poplars. The rain and the gray trunks of the poplars interrupt this valley like mist. The whole forest is soft, and I don't worry whether or not we make it to the car before dark.
This place begs to be explored again. I know there is a trail, somewhere, whose cyclical nature would carry us all the way back to where we began. But this trail--that has stopped us cold now, with its dam of trees--does not feel limiting. It has let us bounce, and pause and turn back on ourselves. All of my outward motion has fostered inward observation; we walk quietly back to the place where our friends sit still by the silent reservoir. I think about our pace, and feel the flux of this varied space; its trails and waterways have taught us about the nature of limits, while simultaneously proving that limits do not necessarily breed restriction. This place--filled as it is with metaphorical and actual containers--has released us all.
