Wright Park (T.A.M.)

How to get there: Walk or drive through the Pulp Mill Covered Bridge that crosses Otter Creek about a mile downstream (north) of the falls in downtown Middlebury. Turn left, following signs to town dump but then strike off to the right to find a parking area at the southern end of this park, which stretches north for a couple miles to Belden Dam. It offers a small network of wide, easy trails for walking, running, snow-shoeing or cross-country skiing, over a variety of terrain.

Just beyond the gate marking the entrance to the park, I am confronted with a choice. Do I follow the trail veering off to the left–which promises to follow the bank of the Otter Creek, but is soon blocked by a derelict picnic table? Do I head into the pines to the right, and risk tangling with barbed wire and pricker bushes? Or do I walk straight ahead, along a wide path of trampled grass? I choose the latter, rolling my way across shallow hills and hummocks of wild meadow. I imagine the trail as it must appear in the spring: a prairie of rippling green, each soggy footstep adding a new flavor to the thick stew of fresh smells hanging heavy in the air. In the summer and fall, the field must explode with wildflowers, bursts of color winking in and out as the breeze off the river skates its way across bobbing flower tops. But in the midst of a snowless winter, the scene resembles nothing so much as a stretch of desert grassland straight from the Southwest.

Somewhere down to the left, occasionally visible along valleys and between trees, the Otter Creek meanders. Its glassy surface reflects the chalky streaks of stratus clouds against a steel sky, and I pull my jacket closer around me. On the right, behind a fence of barbed wire, spruce and pines seem to push each other out of the way for a glimpse of the river. And I can’t blame them, for it is a desolate view behind them of rusting train tracks and shabby industrial relics.

A few intrepid spruces have ducked under the fence and ventured closer to the trail, littering the ground with a soft carpet of long, brown needles. The path continues this way for some time, like the seam of a tawny quilt winding around and across lumpy limbs tucked safely under a blanket of winter grass. Clusters of spruce and the occasional cedar punctuate the path, while thorny bushes lurk between the trees–long, spindly branches heavy with plump red berries. This must be a popular spot for birds, I think, though I have yet to see one.

I take another step and am startled by an explosion at my feet. Bursting up, in a desperate flutter of wings, a pheasant shoots out from beneath a bush to my left and wheels down towards the river. Moments later, I lose sight of it over a ridge and behind an island of golden-tufted straw; only then, catching my breath, do I realize how the easy motion of the trail had lulled me deeper and deeper into my own thoughts. I wonder now about what other animals might lie nearby, concealed from view.

Clearing my head and glancing around, I trace the course of a narrow stream which gurgles across the path just ahead. A quick leap gets me across, and I scramble up another of the countless lumps of hills. At the top, a yellow sign indicates a split in the trail but promises that the two ends will find each other eventually, completing a loop. I choose the trail to the left, eager for another clear view of the river.

The path rambles on as usual, but suddenly empties out onto a clear-cut swath of mowed grass. The clearing stretches all the way down to the river, but I can find no explanation for its presence. My first guess is that it may be a clearing made for power lines, but there are none in sight. Nor are there the usual markers that denote underground pipes or wires. If the hills were steeper, I’d guess it was a ski slope. Or maybe a fairway, if there were a golf course nearby. But in the absence of any such clues, I am baffled and cross hurriedly to the next trail marker.

Here, inexplicably, the trail undergoes another transformation. The spruce trees have clutched more closely together, turning grassland into forest, and the path is now thick with needles. And then–a few steps further, and just as abruptly–the spruces give way to pines. Taking a deep breath tinged with pitch and duff, I feel, for the first time, that I am in the Vermont woods. My boots scuff against the spines of rocks breaching from dark soil, and I must step over the slender trunks of dead-falls which occasionally lie across the trail. Does this transition mark the edge of a farmer’s efforts at clearing? How old are these trees? I look, I search, but the landscape offers no answers--or at least none that I can decipher.

Narrower now and deep in shade, the trail winds its way downhill towards the river. The stillness is startling. Although normally wide and slow here, today the Otter Creek is positively frozen; there is no movement, no current visible under the thin plates of ice. I look to the tops of the birches and pines on the opposite shore, but I can’t find so much as a quivering leaf. A twig snaps under my foot and its crack echoes through the trees.

The trail continues running parallel to the Otter Creek, and I look down from a low ridge to a narrow marsh on my right. A thin channel of white snakes its way between the dried husks of reeds. Dusky blue against the dusting of snow, a set of tracks weave in and out of the plant stems. It is not until the stream crosses the trail that I realize the ridge I was on had become a peninsula, a finger of land separating the marsh and the river. Stepping gingerly along a fallen log, not quite trusting the groaning of ice under my boot, I reach the opposite shore and catch sight of yet another surprise.

Looming up through the trees to my right is a wide slash of gray; it takes me a moment to recognize the feature as an exposed cliff face. I eagerly follow the trail closer, until I stand beneath an overhang. The rock is limestone, flaking at my touch and crumbling between my fingers. Minerals leached out by decades of groundwater have left stains of red and brown on the pale gray surface. Icicles grow from seeps emerging from cracks in the concave roof above my head. My boots crunch on piles of rock flakes. I think back to my freshman geology course, but can remember no more than that limestone is a sedimentary rock, formed over thousands of years from the accumulation of organic material on the sea-floor.

A brief scramble, and the trail reaches the top of the fifty or so foot cliff, looping back on itself so that the river is now to the right. Again the forest has transformed itself, this time taking on the most "traditionally" Vermont appearance of all: pines mixed in with white birch. This, of course, soon gives way as well to a stretch of swampy ground supporting mostly thorn bushes and spindly silver birches. The trees below the cliff must have better soil to grip their roots in, since their thick trunks send branches almost as high as the tallest birch perched topside.

A train rumbles by just before the trail again crosses the strange, mowed field. The clearing affords a view of the Otter Creek to the right, and more dingy buildings–and possibly a landfill–to the left. What remains lacking, however, are any more clues to the clearing’s intended purpose. But do I need to be able to explain the landscape to enjoy it? If I knew every species of plant, of tree, of bird that I saw today, if I could identify every type of rock, would that help me better enjoy the park? Instead, what happens if I relax and accept only what my eyes take in, only what is immediate and clear? Or, better yet, what if I strike some sort of middle ground, using my rudimentary understanding of ecology and geology and human development to piece together parts of a greater tale. It is like trying to read a novel in a foreign language after only a few months of language study: I may not understand all of the intricacies of the plot, but at least I can follow the basic story.

Below me, I can see where the other trail crosses. I continue on my path, however, knowing they will meet up soon enough. Indeed, after again passing through tangles of spruce, the trail regains itself and winds back across the rolling grassland to the entrance. I duck under the gate and head back to the car–done, for the day, with this trail. But the trail is not yet finished with me; my mind still swirls with questions: Was the grassland logged? Or farmed? Is the soil there simply too rocky to support trees? Have the forested sections merely rebounded faster, or were they allowed to remain wild? Who maintains the clearcut? What is it there for?

I do not have answers for all of these nagging questions yet, but I am enjoying pondering the story as it unfolds.

By Peter Morgan